Kor Loren had always been different, and in his village, that difference meant isolation. At 15, he had grown used to the whispers and sidelong glances. His black hair made him stand out among the villagers, whose golden locks shimmered in the sunlight like fields of wheat. The others called it a blessing, a gift from the Lords themselves. But Kor's hair was as dark as night, a stark contrast that had earned him the label cursed.
He didn't remember much of his parents — they had disappeared when he was just a child, ten years ago. Their absence left him alone, tending to the family's paddy fields, scraping together enough to survive. Day after day, Kor toiled under the sun, his hands calloused from years of work, his muscles lean and strong from the weight of burdens he should never have had to bear.
The fields were his life now. They stretched for miles, an endless sea of green, the one thing that connected him to a past he could barely recall. He had no time for dreams, no space in his heart for hope. The villagers gave him nothing but scorn, and the Lords above seemed far away, uninterested in the fate of a boy whose only crime was being different.
When he walked through the village, he could feel their eyes on him. The elders would mutter prayers as he passed, and children kept their distance. Some threw stones, while others just stared, their eyes wide with fear or curiosity. To them, Kor was a reminder that the world was not always kind, that not every life followed the pattern of prosperity they so cherished. He was the boy whose parents had vanished without a trace, and whose hair marked him as an outcast.
But Kor did not care for their whispers. He had learned to endure. The fields were his home now, the only constant in a life filled with questions and loss. He had no friends, but he had the strength of his hands, the rhythm of the harvest, and the quiet resolve to keep going, no matter how many times the world tried to push him down.
Still, somewhere deep inside, a spark remained — a quiet defiance, buried beneath years of solitude. He had questions. Where had his parents gone? Why had they left him behind? And why, of all the children in the village, had he been born with this curse?
These were the questions Kor carried with him every day as he worked the land. One day, he would find answers. One day, he would understand.
And on that day, the world would know that he was not cursed. He was something else entirely.
...........
It was just another day in the paddy field for Kor Loren. The sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm golden light over the sprawling green sea of rice plants. Kor's hands were stained with dirt, his body drenched in sweat, but he worked tirelessly as always, his mind wandering as he tried to drown out the ever-present whispers of the village. It was in these fields that Kor found some semblance of peace.
But then, something unusual caught his eye.
At the edge of the field, half-buried in the mud, something gleamed — a small, deep red gem. It was unlike anything Kor had ever seen, as red as blood and shimmering faintly under the fading sunlight. Without a second thought, Kor knelt down and picked it up. It felt cool to the touch, yet there was something about it that made the air around him seem heavier, quieter.
Kor pocketed the gem, brushing off the moment as nothing more than an odd find. It didn't seem to affect him in any way, and by the time he had finished his work, he had already half-forgotten about it.
But the village had not.
That night, as Kor slept, the village began to stir. Those who had whispered about him, those who had spoken ill of his black hair or cursed his presence, found themselves gripped by terrible nightmares. Faces twisted in fear, their dreams filled with darkness and dread. One by one, they woke screaming, drenched in cold sweat, their minds haunted by horrors they could not explain.
By morning, the rumors had spread like wildfire. Kor was already an outcast, but now the villagers were convinced that he was more than cursed — he was dangerous. They whispered of dark magic, of evil spirits, of punishment from the Lords themselves. The nightmares continued each night, plaguing those who had spoken ill of him. And the villagers, always superstitious, pointed their fingers at Kor.
"He brought it upon us," they muttered. "That cursed boy. It's him. It has to be him."
Kor noticed the change immediately. Where once they had merely avoided him, the villagers now eyed him with open hostility. Fear danced behind their eyes, their words sharper than ever before. It didn't take long for their whispers to grow into demands. Something had to be done. The boy had to go.
One night, as Kor returned to his home from the fields, a small group of villagers confronted him. Their faces were pale, their hands shaking as they held torches and sticks, though none dared come too close.
"Leave," one of them spat. "You've brought a curse upon us all. The Lords are punishing us because of you!"
"I haven't done anything," Kor replied, his voice steady though his heart pounded in his chest. "This isn't me."
But the villagers would not listen. Fear had consumed them, and fear needed a scapegoat. Kor had always been different, always been other, and now they had all the reason they needed to cast him out.
With no choice left, Kor gathered what little he could and left the only home he had ever known. The fields that had sustained him, the land that had connected him to his lost parents, all of it was left behind. The red gem still sat in his pocket, quiet and unassuming, yet Kor couldn't help but feel that it was at the heart of everything.
As he walked away from the village, his mind raced. He wasn't cursed. He wasn't to blame for what was happening. But if the gem was truly connected to the nightmares, then what was it? And why had it come to him?
Kor clenched his fist around the gem. Whatever it was, whatever it meant, his life would never be the same again. The world had cast him out, and now, he would have to find his way alone.
But for the first time in years, Kor felt something stirring inside him. A sense of purpose, of destiny, though he couldn't yet see where it would lead.