The sky burned with mana-fueled fire as a lone figure stood against an abomination of shadows. A mage, clad in robes shimmering with ethereal energy, raised his staff high. The air crackled as torrents of flame spiraled towards the monstrous beast—a creature of darkness with too many limbs and a mouth that stretched wider than its face should allow.
Beside the mage, a swordmaster moved like a phantom, his blade humming with raw energy. Every strike sent shockwaves through the ruined battlefield, severing limbs that regrew in the blink of an eye. The beast roared, its voice a blend of agony and hunger, shaking the very fabric of reality.
And then, the world shifted. A gate cracked open.
The battle vanished.
Far away, in the quiet mountain village of Mjull, a boy woke with a gasp.
The wind howled through the valley, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine. Morning mist clung to the rooftops of Mjull, the small mountain village that had been Icariel's entire world. The sky, still painted in hues of violet and deep blue, held the last remnants of night. A sense of quiet hung in the air, broken only by the occasional crow of a rooster.
Icariel sat on the edge of a wooden rooftop, staring down at the village below. He pulled his worn cloak tighter around his shoulders, his dark hair ruffled by the chill. His black eyes reflected the weak morning light—deep pools of thought and apprehension. A piece of stale bread rested in his hand, his breakfast, though he barely had the appetite for it.
[You should eat.]
The voice, deep and ancient, resonated in his mind like the whisper of a forgotten god.
"I don't feel like it," Icariel murmured.
[Survival requires strength. Strength requires sustenance.]
A sigh escaped him, his breath turning to mist in the cold air. He took a reluctant bite, chewing slowly as his gaze swept over the village. Mjull was small—twenty or so wooden houses, a few scattered farms, and a single path leading down the mountain. Life here was quiet, peaceful, but also stagnant. No one in Mjull became anything more than a farmer or a hunter.
And yet, he had always been different.
At sixteen, he was already taller than most men in the village, lean but strong from years of climbing rocky cliffs and running through dense forests. Others his age struggled with heavy sacks of grain, while he carried them with ease. But it wasn't strength that set him apart—it was the voice, the constant whisper of wisdom that had guided him since he could remember anything. No one else heard it. No one else had it.
[Fear is wisdom, Icariel. But fear without control is death.]
Icariel exhaled, resting his chin on his knees. "Yeah… this voice. I think it's been with me since I was born. It speaks rarely, and the only thing it does is comfort me and give me advice. Nothing else. I've asked for its origins, but it never tells me anything other than what's needed. But from the way he talks… I know for sure he doesn't remember anything about himself."
He hesitated before continuing, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know why, but I have this thought of dying. And that terrifies me completely. I don't understand why some people aren't afraid of death—like Finn's father. He rushes to protect Finn when Finn is in danger or the other humans living in Mjull, even when facing bears beyond his hunting skill. I don't understand. I don't want to understand. Those people are different from me. I just want to live."
That fear—his greatest flaw and his greatest strength—gripped him now as he stared down the mountain path. He had never left Mjull. Never stepped beyond the safety of the trees and fields he knew. Yet a part of him itched for more. The books he had read, the stories of swordmasters, mages, and superhumans—they all spoke of a world beyond this valley. A world filled with monsters and wonders alike.
He shook his head. "What good is wanting more if it means dying?"
A pause. Then, quieter, more deliberate than before:
[What good is fearing death if it means never living?]
Icariel stiffened. The voice had never spoken so directly before. It was always advice, warnings, gentle nudges toward survival. But this… this felt like a challenge.
A shout from below broke his thoughts.
"Icariel! Stop brooding and come down here!"
He glanced down to see Finn, one of the few people in Mjull who could tolerate his company. Finn was short, stocky, with a mop of brown hair and a perpetually dirty face. He waved his arms frantically.
"There's something in the forest! Father says it might be a beast, but he swears it's not one we've seen before."
Icariel tensed. Beasts weren't unusual in the mountains—wolves, boars, even the occasional bear. But something new? That was rare. And rare meant unknown. And unknown meant dangerous.
He hesitated. His instincts screamed at him to ignore it, to stay where it was safe.
But the voice whispered otherwise.
[Go.]
They moved. The cold morning air stung against Icariel's face as he sprinted through the narrow village paths, following Finn toward the dense forest beyond. As they moved, he veered toward a wooden rack near the hunter's lodge, grabbing a sturdy axe, its handle worn from years of use. Finn, already a few steps ahead, snatched his short hunting bow and slung a quiver of arrows over his shoulder.
"You ever get tired of hunting the same beasts?" Finn called over his shoulder. "I sure do. Maybe this one'll be something worth bragging about."
Icariel tightened his grip on the axe. "Or something that kills us."
Finn barked a laugh. "Always the optimist."
Icariel had no desire for excitement or adventure. The only reason he participated in hunts was because of Mjull's single, unbreakable rule: "You must earn your food."
As they rushed through the towering trees, his thoughts churned. "Hunting is risky. But since we have Finn's father the most skilled hunter in the village, it calms me. We've never lost anyone. Never had a real problem."
Despite his fears, he felt a strange sense of gratitude. "Without this rule, I wouldn't have a roof to put my head. I don't have a father. No mother. No siblings. I don't even know where I came from. The people of Mjull took me in when I was just a baby, and as long as I contribute to the hunts, they give me food, a warm house, and company. For that, I'm grateful. But still… it's a risk."
Finn suddenly skidded to a stop, pointing ahead. "We should turn here! Look—father marked a tree. Three Xs—it's like saying turn right and run straight."
Icariel followed his gaze. Three X marks had been carved into the bark, a silent message from Finn's father. A simple yet effective system the hunters used to guide each other through the mountains—directional signs, warnings, even silent messages when words weren't an option.
As they were about to turn right, the voice in Icariel's mind spoke—hesitant, almost uncertain.
[…Turn left.]
Icariel's eyes widened. "Why?" he asked in his mind.
A beat of silence. Then, firmer:
[Left.]
It had never given him useless advice before. Never misled him.
"Finn," Icariel said, his voice firm. "I think we should go left this time."
Finn frowned. "Why? The mark clearly says to go right."
"Trust me. I have a hunch."
Finn sighed, shaking his head. "Again with your hunches? You're really weird, you know that? You always talk about these hunches of yours, and every time, you end up being right. Still…" He sighed again, then grinned. "They're dependable. Let's go left, then."
With that, they veered off the marked path, running in the opposite direction of the hunters' trail—straight into the unknown.
After running for a while, a deep, guttural growl echoed through the trees.
"We're getting closer to the others," Finn said breathlessly.
Icariel, however, felt a shiver crawl down his spine. "What is that sound?" It was unlike anything he had heard before—low, menacing, and terrifying.
"Come on, you scaredy-cat! Father is already there," Finn teased, dashing ahead.
But when they arrived at the clearing where the sound had come from—there was no one there.
Panic gripped Icariel. He turned in place, scanning the empty clearing. "Where… where is everyone?"
Finn, too, seemed uneasy. "This doesn't make sense."
Then, from the shadows of the trees, a massive figure emerged.
A bear—but not an ordinary one. Its crimson skin gleamed under the dappled sunlight, its enormous form scarred and wounded. Black, soulless eyes locked onto them, and the ground seemed to tremble beneath its slow, deliberate steps.
Pressure wrapped around them like a suffocating weight.
Finn loosed an arrow, but it barely scratched the creature's hide.
"That hunch of yours," Finn muttered, his voice shaking. "I guess it killed us this time."
Fear gripped Icariel, but before he could speak, the voice in his mind roared.
[DUCK. NOW.]
Without thinking, he grabbed Finn and threw both of them to the ground.
A massive tree trunk flew past their heads—smashing into the crimson bear and killing it on the spot.
Both boys lay frozen in stunned silence.
"...What?"
It was Galien—Finn's father. He had thrown a tree with his bare hands.
Unlike the short Finn, Galien was taller than Icariel, broad-shouldered and muscular. His short brown hair was slightly damp with sweat, and an X-shaped scar marked his left shoulder. He wore only a sleeveless top and black pants, his arms rippling with unnatural strength.
"Father!" Finn called out, relief flooding his voice.
Icariel muttered, "Galien…" his eyes shining with admiration for their savior.
"This new thing was really troublesome," he muttered, shaking his head. "I needed you guys to catch it unguarded so I could finish it off."
Finn blinked. "Wait… so you used us as bait?"
Galien grinned, ruffling Finn's hair. "Worked, didn't it?"
Rubbing his hands, Galien smirked. "To think you boys were the fastest to arrive after hearing the news… Even you, Icariel, the scaredy-cat!" he laughed.
"Father, stop mocking my friend!" Finn huffed.
"Shut up, Finn. You know I like him more than you."
"Fatherrr!" Finn whined, pretending to be angry.
But Icariel's mind was racing. "Finn had received the news from the adults, had the time to find him, and yet they still arrived before the other hunters? That didn't make sense."
And then another realization struck him like ice down his spine.
"Galien," he said slowly, "why did you leave three X-marks on the trees when you should have left two so we could turn left and not right?"
Galien frowned. "What do you mean? I only left two X-marks. Never three."
[End of Chapter 1]