Bury the Trauma
I experienced three lives, and thrice a death. First as a boy going through School life; nearing the end of high school… the second experience a temporal prison similar to a fucked up dnd campign. In that life I was in a dungeon infected with darkness that spread from the corpse of an old-god. 4 identities, a knight, a dark-mage, a barbarian and a mercenary. All four led to the same experience, that of suffering.
No matter what identity I was in, no matter what their advantages are, that dungeon remains relentless. Each bringing a different type of agony, being violated, getting tortured alive, and witnessing the birth of god – both new and ascended.
Only did I escape when I managed to complete their run – the archetypes conclusion as I like to call it. The knight going consumed by psychosis performed necromancy, the priest rejecting ascension and preserving his humanity, the barbarian wiping out the monster that prowl the night – regulating them to mere myths in the ensuing age, and the mercenary the last of the many sacrifices that took to create the god of fear and hunger; that contributes to humanities progression out of the dark-ages.
And my third life, to live out the modern age that I aided to build. However the demons of the past are still lingering, and even after humanity went past the divine horrors – by their desire to progress they themselves created man-made horrors and their accompanying evils.
And the plotting's of those insidious, looking to manipulate the naive man for their gains. A ghost consumed by a failed prophecy, wearing a yellow robe, creating a destructive army – that mirrored the axis powers, the corpse of an old-god propagating a bloody festival that traps the potential of those that won the death-battle, and a cult of a hateful deity hellbent on spreading as much suffering as possible.
And the ascension of another god, this time made by human hands. The more things change, the more it stays the same. 1942 is a time plague with global wars that mirrored my original world historical conflicts. With the sprinkling of cosmic, and eldritch, mayering.
I was happy at first, being reborn again in a slightly-modern era. However, the conflicts that fed the flame of suffering only made me salty. Humanity has a long way to go, the optimism that my contribution purges the mentality to rely on the divine has yet to fully take root. But that's on me.
My kin has no fault in failing my lofty expectations. I was foolish to think 3 centuries is enough to change the fabric of the world, when it's only a speck of contribution on top a dune of endless grain. After all, has the enlightened soul within me failed to teach myself of the endless pursuit of enlightenment? I'm still the same flawed boy as before, just alloyed with suffering and things that no man needs to know.
I was human, and that led me to arrogance to think I could change the world on my own. This pilgrimage of mine, was not meant to be a lonesome trek. And in my third life, I was fortunate enough to meet many people – kind and sadistic – that have strong ideals. However they are still sick with suffering.
That man, Tanaka? Holder of a latent soul, he has the most potential. I have done my hardest to keep him alive to flourish that latent potential. Thanks to that thug, Marcoh. He taught me many things that I cannot… I'm maybe human, but I'm beyond mortality. There's just things about humanity that I've… lost touch with. And the botanist, Olivia was her name. A shadowed soul, unfortunate enough to be born with a soul that likes to hide… she's one of the interesting bunch. A cripple that can kill a moonscorched is no ordinary mortal after all.
Ashamed that I couldn't see them anymore.
Sigh.
After my third life, I was granted a new one. This time not in the same world, so that makes my universe jumping escapades two, but in a different one. Still similar, in things broad. This place has a monster that was born out of darkness, Grimm the locals call them, are they natural adversaries of the inhabitants.
This world is also fractured. A clear hint of divine meddling. The map is incomplete, and Remnant – what the planet is called – has its continent shattered. Not similar to how supercontinents naturally splinter from days old, I mean, how is a dragon-shaped landmass natural? And the most solid proof.
Is the shattered moon that hangs above. A sad sight, a melancholy that was immediately replaced by a cruel laughter. If it was my home-world moon then I would be sad, but the scar that Trickster deity inflicted is too deep – feeling my heart with petty vindication.
However, even with all the divine handprints, I could not smell the same cosmic green hue. Meaning, the old-gods have not touched this realm. Even with the Grimm, I couldn't get the same vibe from the God of the depths crushing darkness. These creatures were not forsaken, nor are they the minions of the outcasted, they belong to something else – and it's old too.
Although, they fall the same by my hands nonetheless.
"Foolish beast, "
The werewolf-like hybrid pouch with its jaws wide open. It traveled the air with unusual speed, to any other creature that is, to me it's like a rock with small wings.
The cold barrel of my rifle rose in heat, as the bullet combusted out the cartridge. A resonating echo travels through the forest of green. The led bullet tearing the jaw of the dark-beast while still in the air.
The boy falls with a blunt thud. I watched it dissolve into nothing.
"That makes 5 of them, " I murmured, holstering the old rifle on my back, "They've been more frequent lately. Strange. no humans travel this far in the forest."
These things are attracted to negative emotions. From sorrow, hate, and to fear they come like flock of flies to feces whenever they sense it. These designs effectively made them human-killers, a predator to us of sorts. The Grimm ignores every other animal, which is strange because other beings have their own emotions, so by design these things are made to hunt humans.
I went my way towards a tree with claw marks. I glide my fingers on the wound of the tree, this claw mark is sharper as there's not much resistance on the surface texture – ruling out the Bear-grimm is in the area. Meaning, the type that I killed, the werewolves other kin is present – as I don't think a juvenile would do a lone-wolf, there must be a pack somewhere.
"That's not good."
Just 60 miles from here, is a village – a small one. From my observation, there's no permanent huntsman that shelters there, this settlement is more of a stop for these warriors. Now, if a whole pack of Grimm were to find their way there, they would reek havoc on the humans and demi-humans that live there.
They have little technology, aside from farming. The security they have is mere young-adults that were given dog-water weapons that will break after a couple swings. Maybe the frequency of huntsmen that stop by has made them lenient with the threats that lurk in the woods.
I adjusted my fur-hat.
"Time to go hunting."
My plant for a relaxing day is out of the equation as of now.
…..
….
…
..
.
This village sucks! Aside from the food, all other aspects are shit. Their technology, the defenses, and even the establishments all these things are expected from a backwater settlement.
"Why was I assigned here?" The blurry blue strand of hair flew back, as I blew upwards.
The headmaster assigned me here after reports of large quantities of grimm gathering from within the woods. Mainly beowolves, also in the paper, they mentioned an alpha so at least I understand my position here.
But damn! Is this place the raunchiest place I've been. The people here are bums, ignorant of the greater population – which I couldn't fault them but, my god, are their questions annoying to answer. What is it like to live in Vale? What is being a Huntsman like? Now I could answer these damn questions just fine, but the quantity of these obvious things being asked is what irritates me.
And not to mention the Faunus that lives here… tch, disgusting.
"Sir Elven," An elderly voice called out, "Sorry to keep you waiting, but the preparations are done."
"About damn time, have you included the dust?" I asked, readying my beloved long-sword, Shark-tooth.
"Yes sir, though you have to take note these are not refined, they're raw they can be." The brown-haired defacto chief caressed his chin, "... Being taken from the ore. So they're quite volatile."
"No pobs," I click my tongue. They couldn't even get this right, how troublesome, "I don't need them that much, besides for an explosion. So have you located where the pact is hiding?"
A woman steps in, she has black-hair and has a huge asset. Nice to see. She pointed up north with her hand.
"There Mr. Hunter, " she said, having a poker face, "The beowolves are seen by our scouts gathering near a cave."
Actually, I saw nothing where she pointed her finger at, only the thick foliage that covered the whole area. However, I could somewhat feel the negative aura gathering in the area.
"Alrighty then, I'll go now to make sure to keep my things safe. And no stealing," I barked, "I'll know," My aura flared.
"Before you go, Sir Elven, "the village chief halted my steps, "If you're fortunate enough to cross paths with the man of the woods, accept his aid. I believe he's a retired Huntsman living in the forest, he's the one keeping the Grimm at bay for the past mouths."
Man of the woods? What are these bums blabbering on?
…
…
It seems the townsfolk have found their help.
I observe from afar, concealed using skills from the time I was rogue. I purposefully hold back on using magic as I don't know the consequences of introducing this world to arcanic concepts. Magic thus exists a bit here, the grimm in fact has traces of it, however aside from them this world quantity is slowly burning out…
The huntsman is of blue-haired, carrying a sword – that with my eyes can discern a complex mechanism; not uncommon for this world warriors. However his… personality, reminds me of that Journalist and the knight.
"Proud, and thinks highly of himself…" The triple converging circle etched into my brain. To discern the truth, I could tell this huntsmen is not as heroic as these people think.
I ruffled my hat. Disturbing the bird besides me; flinching at my sudden movement.
The Grimm horde has accumulated into a large number. Two packs led by a single Alpha, from the aura that thing exude – from my observation – it's rather mature. Smarter than most, and as bloodthirsty as the bunch. A dangerous duo.
If this man is worth any cent, the moment he lays eyes on the pact he must retreat and call for reinforcement. No man could handle that much, even if they have that soul-like shield around them.
I stood up. Brushing the leaves off my shoulder.
Taking my rifle from the harness, I joined the bayonet once again.
Some things do change, as time passes by. But that only truly applies to the world as nature, not by humans that refuse to learn the past. Centuries pass as I watch society evolve, but strip the fancy paint and you'll see the same rotting wall.
The only true change I witness is the advent of Fear and hunger…