Night had fallen, enveloping the small clearing in a stifling darkness. The campfire crackled weakly, casting flickering shadows across the faces of Alaric's sleeping companions. Alaric lay on the ground, breathing deeply, but his mind was in turmoil. The weight of his actions, of his choices, seemed heavier than ever. Slowly, he drifted into sleep, but peace did not come. The nightmares quickly took over.
In the darkness of his mind, the faces of the men he had killed began to appear—blurry at first, then growing more defined. The soldier who had begged for his life, speaking of his upcoming marriage, stood before him, his eyes filled with fear. Behind him, other figures formed. Faces twisted in pain, their screams muffled by the silence of death.
"Why?" a voice murmured.
Alaric tried to turn away, to flee from these faces that haunted him, but they were everywhere, surrounding him like oppressive shadows. Their mutilated bodies stood before him, their accusing eyes burning with silent reproach.
"You were supposed to be our savior, not our executioner."
Blood flowed around him, bright red, covering his hands, arms, and sword. The more he tried to wash it away, the more the blood seemed to cling to him. His hands trembled, but it wasn't from fear—it was from rage, frustration, a deep anger he couldn't control.
In a swirl of pain and confusion, a different scene emerged, an older one. He was back in Eyoma, in his hometown. The sun-drenched streets seemed peaceful, almost idyllic. The laughter of children echoed in the distance, and the warm air smelled of spices and fresh earth. But this peace was a fragile illusion. Alaric knew it.
He saw himself, younger, sitting with his parents. Their modest home, built with care and love, stood at the center of the scene. His parents looked at him with infinite tenderness, but also with a gravity he hadn't understood at the time. Their last conversation came back to him, as vivid as if he were there once again.
"Alaric, my son, promise us one thing," his father had said, his face weary from years of work and responsibility. "Never seek vengeance. This world is cruel, and it will tempt you in every way possible. But forgiveness, as difficult as it is, is the only path that will spare your soul from destruction."
His mother, sitting beside him, had nodded, her eyes full of gentleness. "We've lost everything, my son, but revenge will bring nothing back. Find peace, even in defeat. Anger will only lead to your ruin."
These words, he had listened to them with respect at the time, without fully grasping their weight. Now, as he looked at his parents' faces in his dream, Alaric felt a wave of conflicting emotions wash over him.
"Forgiveness..." he murmured, remembering their loving faces. But something inside him rebelled against the idea.
"Forgiveness is a sign of weakness for those who have no means of vengeance," he thought bitterly, his jaw clenched. The memories of his people, of Kimuisi, crushed under the invaders, burned in his mind. Their cries, their pleas... The Mpaya had destroyed them, and he, Alaric, would show them that he was not weak. "I am a god, I cannot be powerless."
The dream shifted. His parents' faces faded, replaced by another vision: himself, standing on a stone throne, ruling the world. Around him, people bowed, prostrating themselves, their gazes lowered before his overwhelming power. Light radiated from him, a divine light, irresistible.
"I grow closer to the divine," he said to himself in his dream, a cold satisfaction filling his heart. "Let them all kneel. I will show them that only God deserves to be worshipped, and since God has been killed, the one who comes closest to him must be revered."
It was no longer the revenge of a mere man that he sought. It was something bigger, something more terrible. He wanted to rebuild Eyoma, to gather his people, and offer them a new destiny. But that destiny would be forged in fire and blood. Eyoma would rise again, and Alaric would be its absolute ruler.
The nightmare intensified. The faces of the men he had killed continued to haunt him, but now, they no longer accused him. They looked at him with a kind of reverent fear, like subjects bowing before their king.
He woke up with a start, his breath catching in his throat, his chest heaving. The campfire was almost out, the embers crackling faintly. Around him, everything was quiet. The others slept peacefully, unaware of the storm raging inside him.
He got up quietly, careful not to wake anyone, and walked away from the camp, seeking fresh air. His heart was still pounding, and he felt a cold sweat on his forehead. He leaned against a tree, his hand pressed to its trunk for support, his thoughts tangled in a whirlwind of emotions.
Forgiveness. That word still echoed in his mind, but he rejected it with fierce hatred. His parents might have accepted to turn the page, but he was different. He possessed a strength that few had. He had the power to shape the world in his image, to give Eyoma the greatness it deserved.
In a barely audible whisper, he let out, "I am a god... I cannot be weak."
The sky was still black, the stars silently watching over this broken world. Alaric clenched his fists, promising himself that he would never falter again. His nightmares were not warnings. They were visions of what he was meant to become. He wouldn't just seek revenge. He wouldn't merely save his friends or restore peace.
No, he would aim higher. He would become someone people feared and worshipped. Alaric knew his path would lead him to rebuild Eyoma, but this time, it would not be about forgiveness or justice. It would be a new era, one forged in his divine vision.
As he slowly made his way back to the camp, he glanced at his sleeping companions. They didn't understand yet. Kael, Lira, Kimpa Vita... They still thought he was the same man as before. But one day, they would see the truth. And then, they would be forced to choose: kneel before him, or be swept away like so many others.
For now, he would wait. Wait until the world was ready for his ascension.