The mountains stretched out in front of Edgar, their jagged peaks cutting into the storm-filled sky. The air was thick with the bite of winter, a harsh, unforgiving cold that wrapped around him like a cloak. His pale skin, already cold to the touch, seemed to freeze further with every step he took through the biting winds. The snow crunched underfoot, and his breath formed clouds in the air, vanishing as quickly as they appeared. Despite the fury of the storm, Edgar moved steadily, his black eyes scanning the distance as if searching for something beyond the horizon.
He had been traveling for hours, the weight of his thoughts far more oppressive than the cold. The prophecy that haunted him, the dark destiny that lurked at the edges of his mind, gnawed at him relentlessly. The deeper he ventured into the mountains, the more the storm seemed to reflect the chaos within him. The voice of the prophecy was growing louder, whispering of bloodshed and destruction, of a world that must be cleansed in the name of peace. His hands trembled, but not from the cold. The darkness inside him threatened to consume him, and yet, he clung to the flicker of light within—his humanity, his empathy, his desire for something better.
He paused for a moment, trying to steady himself, when he saw it: a flicker of warmth in the distance. A small cabin, smoke curling from the chimney, its windows glowing with the light of a fire. Without a second thought, he made his way toward it, the cold no longer biting at him as his focus narrowed on the warmth that awaited.
As he neared the door, he noticed something strange—a sense of familiarity. But there was no time for questions. His body ached from the cold, and his mind, exhausted from the ceaseless pull of his fate, yearned for a moment of respite. He pushed open the door, stepping inside without hesitation.
The warmth hit him immediately, the fire crackling in the hearth casting a golden glow across the small room. The air was thick with the scent of burning wood, and the heat felt almost foreign after the bitter cold of the mountains. Edgar stood still for a moment, allowing the warmth to seep into his bones, his breath visible in the sudden change of temperature. The fire danced before him, its flames swaying as if alive, flickering in a rhythm that almost seemed to match the beat of his troubled heart.
His gaze drifted around the room. The simple furnishings, the modest home, were an unexpected comfort, but Edgar's thoughts quickly returned to the storm outside. The warmth, the fire, even the quiet of the cabin, were fleeting distractions. What mattered was what lay ahead—what the prophecy demanded of him, and the darkness that seemed to follow him no matter where he went.
But for now, there was only the fire. And in its light, Edgar allowed himself a brief moment of peace.
The first light of morning streamed through the small window of the cabin, casting soft beams across the room. Edgar stirred, groggy from the strange dreams that clung to him like shadows. As his eyes fluttered open, he blinked at the unfamiliar ceiling for a moment, disoriented. His body ached, stiff from the cold that had seeped into his muscles the night before.
But something was different. His senses sharpened instantly.
There, at the foot of the bed, stood a man. He was in his thirties, tall with broad shoulders, his dark hair disheveled and his face weathered by the harsh conditions of the mountain life. His sharp blue eyes were fixed on Edgar, a quizzical expression on his face. His arms were crossed, and his posture was casual, yet somehow threatening.
Edgar's heart raced. The room was silent except for the crackling of the dying fire, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke.
"What are you doing in my bed?" the man asked, his voice low and steady, but laced with a sharp edge of suspicion.
Edgar blinked, his mind racing as his body tensed. Without thinking, his instincts kicked in. He was no longer just Edgar Magog, the prince of a cursed bloodline. In that instant, he believed himself to be something greater. His hand twitched toward the dagger at his side, but then his eyes narrowed as a different thought crossed his mind.
This man, with his casual stance, seemed... too human.
His blood boiled with the thoughts of power that had been whispering to him. If he was to survive, to embrace his destiny, he needed to become stronger. And if this man was a challenge, then Edgar was more than ready.
With the speed of a striking serpent, Edgar lunged forward, aiming a brutal punch at the man's chest. But the moment his fist made contact, the force was absorbed by something... impossibly strong. The man, without breaking a sweat, sidestepped and kicked Edgar with such power that the world around him seemed to blur.
Before Edgar even knew what had happened, he was thrown across the room, crashing against the far wall with a loud thud. His vision spun, his body ached as he lay on the floor, gasping for breath.
What…? he thought, struggling to push himself up. How could an ordinary human do that?
The man stood calmly, unbothered by the attack. He wiped his brow as if it had been nothing more than a minor inconvenience, his eyes watching Edgar closely.
"What the hell was that?" the man asked, his tone more amused than angry.
Edgar's mind spun, the room still spinning in his vision. Slowly, he got to his feet, his pride stung by the man's effortless victory. "I... I have power," he said through gritted teeth, straightening his back. "I'm not like others. I was sent here to be trained."
The man raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical, but his eyes seemed to scrutinize Edgar, weighing his words. Edgar could feel the lie slipping from his lips, but he pushed it aside.
"I've been chosen for something," Edgar continued, his voice becoming more confident. "I have powers—superhuman strength, speed. I was sent here to learn... to become more."
The man's eyes narrowed further, as if he could see through Edgar's carefully constructed façade. "Sent here by whom?" he asked, his voice calm, but with an edge that made Edgar pause.
"By… by the elders of my kingdom. They knew I was special," Edgar said, the words spilling out more easily now. He had to convince this man. He couldn't risk him seeing the truth. "I need to learn from you. You're... famous around here, right? The legend of the mountains? The man who fights monsters with his bare hands."
The man's expression shifted—he was no longer merely curious. His eyes glinted, as if he were trying to read Edgar's soul.
"You're lying," the man said bluntly. "I can see through you."
Edgar froze. His heart hammered in his chest, the weight of the man's words threatening to crush him. He didn't know what to say, the lies falling apart faster than he could weave them.
Suddenly, a voice, dark and insistent, crept into his mind, the whisper of the devil itself: He believes you. Let him. He is yours to command.
Edgar's eyes widened as the words echoed in his head. He glanced up at the man, who was still staring at him with a calculating gaze. Edgar had no choice but to trust the whisper. The power that surged through him was undeniable, and for a moment, the man before him seemed to flicker like a shadow in the firelight.
"Yes," Edgar said, his voice low but firm. "I was sent here... by forces beyond your understanding. I need to be trained. The monsters… I will fight them with you. Teach me, and together we will shape the future."
The man studied Edgar for a long moment, the silence stretching between them. Edgar's heart raced, unsure if the man had truly believed him or was merely humoring him.
Finally, the man nodded. "You have guts, I'll give you that. And it seems you have something else, too. You're not like most who wander these mountains."
Edgar stepped forward, feeling a strange mixture of victory and unease. "I'll learn," he said, his voice growing stronger. "I'll become stronger."
And so it began. Edgar Magog, prince of prophecy, would now live with the legend of the mountains—the man who fought monsters with his bare hands.
An Hour Later
The fire crackled softly in the background, the warmth from its glow doing little to ease the tension that still hung in the air.
Edgar, still recovering from the unexpected blow, rubbed his sore shoulder and watched the man before him closely.
His heart was racing, but his mind was sharp, calculating.
There was something powerful about this stranger. Something primal.
The mountain man, who had been silent for a moment, broke the stillness with a quiet chuckle.
"You've got guts, kid," he said, his voice gravelly but not unkind.
"But you still have much to learn. Not everyone gets up after a hit like that."
His eyes softened just a fraction, as if considering the weight of his words.
Edgar shifted uncomfortably, unsure of how to respond. He wasn't used to being dismissed so easily, especially not after a fight. He had the power—the blood ran through his veins—but he needed to learn how to harness it.
He needed to prove himself.
After a long pause, Edgar stood a little straighter, deciding to bridge the silence. "I don't know your name," he said, his tone steady but not without curiosity. "I never got the chance to ask."
The man tilted his head, as if surprised by the question. "Ah, you want to know my name? Shouldn't you already know?" He gave a short laugh, more out of habit than amusement.
"I'm called Brannon, though I doubt that means much to someone like you. I've lived in these mountains long enough that my name doesn't reach far, except for my reputation."
Edgar's eyes narrowed slightly, intrigued by Brannon's humble demeanor. "Brannon," he repeated, tasting the name on his tongue. It sounded as rugged as the mountains themselves.
"I'm Edgar," he said, offering a genuine smile, though his eyes betrayed the turmoil within. "Edgar Magog."
Brannon's gaze flickered briefly to the fire before returning to Edgar. "Magog, huh?" he mused. "That name's older than these mountains themselves. You sure you're the right one to carry it?"
Edgar felt a brief pang in his chest. The weight of his bloodline, the expectations, and the curse that came with it—all of it pressed down on him in that moment.
But he masked it with a smile, one that barely reached his eyes.
"I'll prove it to you," Edgar said firmly. "I'll prove it to everyone."
Brannon nodded slowly, a faint smile playing on his lips as if he found the determination in Edgar's voice amusing, but not entirely unwelcome.
"Alright, Edgar Magog," Brannon said, turning toward the door.
"I'm going to hunt. You're not going to learn much by sitting around here all day. When I come back, we'll see if you're really cut out for what you claim. I'll bring something to eat, and maybe we'll talk more then."
Edgar watched him, his eyes narrowing with newfound resolve. "You think I'm not ready?"
Brannon stopped in his tracks, his broad back facing Edgar as he put on his coat. "I think you've got potential," he said over his shoulder. "But potential doesn't mean much if you don't know how to use it. Stay here. Stay out of trouble. I'll be back before nightfall."
Without waiting for a reply, Brannon stepped out into the cold mountain air, leaving Edgar alone in the cabin, the fire slowly burning lower as the room filled with a strange silence.
Edgar stood there for a moment, the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him once more. This man—Brannon—was different from anyone he had met before. He was strong, ruthless, and unafraid. But he wasn't just a mountain hermit; there was wisdom in his eyes, something Edgar could learn from.
And that was exactly what Edgar intended to do.
He had his own destiny to fulfill, and if Brannon was going to teach him, Edgar would absorb every lesson he could.
Suddenly, the fire flared brighter, and Edgar froze, his heart skipping a beat.
The warmth turned searing, and then, from the depths of the blaze, a voice echoed—low, slithering, like a whisper in the dark.
"Edgar… you've done well."
Edgar's breath caught in his throat. His eyes darted to the fire, but he saw nothing except the flickering flames. "Who's there?" he asked, his voice a whisper of its own, as though speaking too loudly would make the presence vanish.
From the heart of the fire, a figure began to emerge—a dark, shifting shape, formed of smoke and flame. The figure's voice grew clearer, more tangible, as it spoke again.
"It is I. The one who's been guiding you from within. The one who planted the seeds in your heart, Edgar. The lies you told? They came from me."
Edgar took a step back, the hairs on his neck rising. "No… no, you've been lying to me. I didn't—"
"Did you truly think your words were your own?" the voice interrupted, smoother now, more convincing. "The truth is… you were sent here, not to learn from Brannon, but to become something greater. Something more powerful. And that power requires… sacrifice."
Edgar's gaze hardened, though doubt still flickered within him. He clenched his fists, trying to ignore the creeping unease in his chest. "What are you talking about now?"
The voice chuckled softly, like the wind in the mountains. "There is a boy… he is coming today to meet Brannon. A boy of the same age as you, full of potential, just like you once were. He is your equal, but he must not live. He will be taught by Brannon, and if you allow that, your lie will bis discovered by Brannom. You cannot let him reach here."
Edgar's breath quickened, his pulse racing. "Where is he? What do you want me to do?" The fire crackled ominously. "Go to the north, through the mountain pass. You will find him there, waiting, unaware of his fate. Kill him. Bury him. Make sure no trace of him remains. Only then will you truly begin to fulfill your dream, to reach paradise and meet the ruler."
Edgar stood frozen, torn between his instincts and the haunting pull of the voice. He didn't want to do it, didn't want to murder an innocent boy. But the whispers in his mind grew louder, more insistent. "You want power, don't you, Edgar? You want to prove yourself. This boy is standing in your way. He must die. Only then will you be the true heir of Magog."
The flames in the fire twisted as if in agreement, crackling louder.
Edgar's fists clenched tighter. He could feel the darkness within him stirring, urging him to obey.
"Do it, Edgar," the voice hissed. "You are the Prince of Darkness. This is your fate."
Edgar's eyes narrowed, his face a mixture of fear and determination. He knew what the voice wanted from him.
And deep down, part of him felt an unsettling sense of satisfaction at the thought of taking control. But another part of him—something human—resisted.
He took a step toward the door, his heart pounding in his chest. "I'll do it," he whispered, though even he could hear the uncertainty in his own voice.
Before he could leave, the voice echoed one last time, a mocking undertone laced in its words.
"Remember, Edgar… power is gained through sacrifice. And you must be willing to take it, i will be watching you from the shadows." With that, the figure vanished back into the fire, leaving Edgar standing at the threshold, his mind filled with a dark resolve.
The wind howled across the mountain pass, biting at Edgar's exposed skin as he trudged through the snow. His breath came out in jagged clouds, and his heart pounded not from the cold, but from the task ahead. The whispers from the fire echoed in his mind, urging him on, pushing him forward into the dark. He knew what had to be done.
As he neared the designated spot, the sound of footsteps reached his ears—soft, careful steps, as though someone was approaching with caution. Edgar's eyes narrowed. The boy was close.
Then he saw him.
A figure in the distance, walking alone, unaware of the fate that awaited him. The boy was about his age, perhaps a little younger, with a light step and an expression of hopeful curiosity on his face. His eyes were bright, unclouded by the weight of the world, so different from Edgar's own.
Edgar stopped, watching him approach. He could hear the boy's voice—calling out, though his words were too far away to make out.
"You're late," the boy said as he reached Edgar, his breath visible in the cold air. There was an innocence in his tone, something untainted. "I've been waiting for Brannon. He was supposed to meet me here."
Edgar's throat tightened as he looked at the boy. There was no joy in his heart, only emptiness.
The boy tilted his head, sensing something was off. "What's your name? Are you a friend of Brannon's?"
Edgar didn't respond right away. He didn't need to. The whispers in his head were louder now. The fire had given him everything he needed.
Without warning, Edgar grabbed the boy by the throat, his fingers digging into soft flesh. The boy's eyes widened in shock, his hands coming up instinctively to pry at Edgar's grip.
"W-what are you—" The boy gasped, struggling against Edgar's strength, but Edgar's grip tightened.
"No," Edgar muttered, his voice shaking with a mix of fury and sorrow. "You were supposed to be the one to die. I… I can't let you live."
The boy kicked and flailed, his feet scraping against the snow, but Edgar was relentless. His fingers curled tighter around the boy's throat, feeling the pulse beneath his skin slow and weaken.
For a brief moment, the boy's eyes locked with Edgar's—wide with disbelief, terror, and a glimmer of something that mirrored the conflict Edgar himself felt. But then it faded, replaced by nothing as the boy's body grew limp in Edgar's hands.
With one final, desperate gasp, the boy went still.
Edgar stood over him, his breath ragged, his heart pounding in his chest. He let the boy's body drop to the ground, his own hands trembling as he wiped away the blood that now stained his fingers. He couldn't bear to look at the boy's face, the innocence that had been in his eyes only moments ago now forever extinguished.
There was no going back.
As the boy's lifeless form lay in the snow, Edgar pulled the ground from beneath him, using the cold earth to bury the boy deep. His hands, caked in blood and dirt, dug the grave—every stroke of the shovel a reminder of the irreversible path he had chosen.
Once the grave was complete, Edgar stood over it, his chest heavy with a mix of rage and sorrow. The snowflakes continued to fall gently, as though the world was indifferent to the life that had just ended.
He looked down at the grave, his mind a swirling chaos of thoughts. His breath slowed, and he spoke, his voice low, almost a whisper against the wind.
"Death is a curse," he said, staring into the grave, the weight of his words pressing against him. "It comes for us all, without mercy. It takes and it never gives back." He paused, thinking of his own existence, of the legacy of his bloodline. "But perhaps… perhaps that is why the path I'm on is better. To be the last one. To rid the world of all the pain, the suffering, the death."
His hands clenched into fists at his sides. "If I am the last one standing, I will be the only one left to enter paradise. No more fighting. No more lies. Just peace. True peace. It is better to rule alone than to live with the burden of everyone else."
Edgar's eyes darkened, as if the very concept of humanity had soured in his mind. "To live forever... to be the only one who deserves paradise. This world is nothing, just a cage for fools. They will never understand. I will save them... even if it means destroying them."
He turned away, his figure a dark silhouette against the cold mountain landscape.
"Rest now, boy," he murmured. "You were never meant to be part of this world. Neither was I."
With that, he walked away from the grave, each step echoing the weight of his decision. The whispers of the fire still swirled in his mind, urging him to continue—to fulfill his destiny. And for the first time, Edgar Magog did not resist.