Subsection: "Ink of Forgotten Fire"
Tashina's fingers trembled as she turned the next page of their father's journal. The firelight flickered across the ink, casting dancing shadows over the aged parchment. Each word they read seemed to throb with power—raw, ancient, and unsettling.
Hatku leaned closer, brow furrowed.
"There are whispers… of one who has never fallen in battle. Not once. Across centuries. Across realms. Their face unknown. Their form disputed. Some say it is a beast. Others, a celestial cast out by the gods themselves. But all agree—should this being rise, the Universal Gods will tremble."
Tashina's breath caught in her throat. "A being that never lost?"
Hatku didn't answer. His eyes were locked on the words as though they held the key to every truth he had ever chased. The silence stretched between them, thick and electric.
The next passage glowed faintly beneath the firelight, as though it had been written with more than ink—something deeper.
"They say this one was born before the battles began. Before the gods twisted fate into blood and glory. Before power decided who lived and who vanished. It—no, they—carry no known crest, no divine marking. Their presence alone silences power."
Tashina whispered, "A being that can end it all…"
The journal creaked slightly as she turned the page. The edges of the parchment were brittle. Hatku's heart beat faster with every sentence. He felt as if he were unearthing a buried weapon—one not made of steel, but of hope.
"Some call it myth. Others, a warning. But I have seen traces. I have followed stories. Burnt villages where nothing but the gods were meant to burn. Footprints too large for man, too graceful for beasts. A silence so deep it muted storms. Something is out there."
Hatku exhaled slowly. "This is more than legend."
Tashina nodded, though her face was pale. "And Father believed it."
Subsection: "Childhood Echoes"
A memory returned—unbidden, but sharp.
Hatku was young—no older than six. The world had still felt wide, full of color. Small hands stained with ink, he'd crept down the corridor of their old home, drawn by the soft scratching of charcoal on parchment.
Peeking around the corner of their father's study, he saw it: a man known to crush entire legions now hunched quietly over maps, murmuring to himself.
"Not this realm… skip the Sunspire… align with the Verdant Chain," his father whispered. "It must be there…"
There were no blades drawn that night. No armor polished. Only maps, strange coordinates, and a look in his father's eyes Hatku didn't understand until now.
Back then, he thought his father was strategizing—preparing for another impossible fight.
But now…
Now he saw it clearly.
"He wasn't mapping battles," Hatku said aloud, the weight of it settling over him like a cloak. "He was trying to find something."
Tashina looked at him, eyes glinting with memory. "You think it's this being?"
Hatku nodded. "He wasn't chasing enemies. He was chasing freedom."
And perhaps—redemption.
Subsection: "Myth or Warning"
The final pages were hurried—scrawled in desperate lines, some smudged by time, others ripped at the edges as if torn during flight.
"I've come too close. The gods are watching. I feel them. The closer I get, the more they tighten their leash on this world. If anyone finds this—know this truth: the gods aren't divine. They are afraid."
"Afraid of what's coming. Of who might rise. The being who never bows."
The fire crackled, and a faint gust of wind made the journal pages tremble, as if something unseen had passed through the room.
Tashina gripped her cloak tighter.
The last line was underlined—not once, but three times. The ink had bled through the page.
*"I have only heard of such a being as a child… around campfires and old rebel songs. They called it—The Ultimate Being."
The room went silent.
Even the fire seemed to hush, its flames dimming as if reverent.
Tashina finally broke the silence, her voice barely more than a breath. "You think it's real?"
Hatku stared at the dying fire. His jaw tightened, the shadows on his face carved with thought and memory.
"I think… Father did."
And that was enough to change everything.