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Far away, in a small village nestled at the foot of a towering mountain, the world was anything but silent. The village was a humble settlement, its wooden houses clustered together like a flock of birds seeking shelter. The mountain loomed above them, its jagged peaks often hidden by thick clouds, a constant reminder of the forbidden area that lay beyond. The villagers lived simple lives, their days filled with farming, crafting, and the occasional trade with nearby towns. Most were ordinary humans, though a few possessed the faint spark of cultivation, enough to protect their home from the dangers of the wild.
The village was surrounded by a shimmering barrier—a village formation that had been passed down through generations. It was their only defense against the unpredictable weather that
often spilled over from the forbidden area. Storms were common here, fierce and sudden, but the villagers had learned to endure them. They were resilient, their spirits as unyielding as the mountain itself.
But tonight, the storm that descended upon them was unlike anything they had ever seen.
The sky darkened in an instant, as if the sun had been swallowed whole. Thunder rumbled in the distance, a low growl that grew louder with each passing moment. The wind picked up, howling through the trees and rattling the windows of the houses. Lightning streaked across the sky, illuminating the village in brief, blinding flashes. The air was thick with tension, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
Inside one of the houses, a woman named Maya lay in bed, her face streaked with sweat and her hands gripping the sheets as she endured the pains of childbirth. Her husband, Prutos, paced outside the room, his heart pounding in time with the thunder. He was a man of few words, but his anxiety was written plainly on his face. The storm outside mirrored the storm within him—chaotic, unrelenting, and full of dread.
Prutos stepped onto the balcony, his robes soaked by the driving rain, and gazed out at the village. The village formation flickered with each thunderclap, its golden light straining against the storm's fury. The barrier had never been tested like this before, and Prutos couldn't shake the feeling that this storm was different. It felt alive, as if it had a purpose, a target.
The forbidden area beyond the mountain was known for its unpredictable weather, but this storm was something else entirely. The lightning was brighter, the thunder louder, and the wind carried an eerie howl that sent shivers down the spine. It was as if the storm had been born from the forbidden area itself, a manifestation of its ancient, untamed power.
Inside the house, Maya cried out as another contraction wracked her body. The midwife, an elderly woman with kind eyes and steady hands, murmured words of encouragement, but even she looked uneasy. The storm outside seemed to grow fiercer with each passing moment, as if it were feeding on the tension within the house.
Prutos returned to the room, his heart aching at the sight of his wife in pain. He knelt beside her, taking her hand in his. "You're strong, Maya," he said, his voice barely audible over the storm. "You can do this."
Maya nodded, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She had no strength to speak, but her eyes held a determination that Prutos had always admired. She was a fighter, and he knew she would endure.
Outside, the storm reached its peak. Lightning struck the mountain in rapid succession, each bolt illuminating the jagged peaks in stark relief. The thunder was deafening, a continuous roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of the earth. The village formation flickered again, and for a moment, Prutos feared it might fail. But it held, barely, as if the village itself were fighting to survive.
And then, as if the heavens had exhausted their fury, the storm began to subside. The rain lessened, the wind died down, and the thunder faded into a distant rumble. In the sudden calm, a new sound filled the air—a baby's cry, loud and clear.
Maya's face broke into a tired but radiant smile as she held her newborn son in her arms. Prutos stared at the child, his heart swelling with a mixture of relief and wonder. The baby's eyes were closed, his tiny fists clenched, and his skin glowed faintly, as if touched by the storm itself.
Unbeknownst to them, the child was no ordinary baby. He was Doran, reborn into a new life, his memories sealed deep within his soul. The storm had not been a random act of nature—it had been a herald, a sign of the cosmic forces at play. And as the villagers breathed a collective sigh of relief, the faintest glimmer of golden light flickered in the baby's chest, a silent promise of the destiny that awaited him.