They speak of fate as if it is a road drawn in sand clear, predictable, eroded only by time. Fools. Fate is not a line; it is a knot. And I, Jantaka, have followed its tangled threads across lifetimes, through ash and echo, through the dreams of kings and the deaths of stars. He came to me not as a question, but as a fracture a boy of blood and bone, bearing the weight of gods in his marrow. I warned him. The Spirit Realm does not give it trades. But he looked at me as if the sky itself had whispered his name. So I wove him in. Not out of mercy. Out of curiosity. Out of hunger. And perhaps… out of hope.
Long before his name echoed across empires, long before his blade carved myths into the bones of time, he walked among roots and ghosts. He had no name in the Spirit Realm. Only a presence a weight in the air, like thunder held in a man's chest. Cloaked in silence and dusk-colored cloth, he moved through the liminal spaces where tree roots curled like sleeping serpents and breath clung to fog. His eyes, sharp as obsidian, carried questions the living dared not ask. Not yet a legend, not yet a god just a seeker haunted by strength he did not understand, and whispers that refused to leave him alone.
They call him Sawerigading now. Hero of the waves. Warrior born of divine blood. But in the beginning, he was just a man chasing answers.
The elders warned him. The crossing into Waliala, the Spirit Realm, was not a path for the living. It was a fracture between breath and silence, where even the gods tread lightly. But Sawerigading had heard the whispers. Felt the pull. So he journeyed deep into the sacred jungle where the veil thinned and time bent like smoke.
There, at the edge of the unseen, he offered his name, his breath, and a sliver of blood to the spirits. The earth did not answer with words, but with a pulse, ancient and unrelenting. And then he was no longer alone.
He stepped through.
Waliala was not a place. It was a memory kept alive by wind and stone. A marketplace of lost souls, gods forgotten by time, and echoes that fed on longing. And in its shadows, I found him. Or perhaps he found me.
I had wandered far, a curious spirit bound by nothing but time. When he arrived, I watched. Not because he was powerful. But because he asked nothing of me. He only listened. That was new.
But as is always the case with men and spirits, a deal was struck.
He did not wish for power. He wished for understanding. For purpose. For the source of that storm in his blood.
And I, Jantaka, ancient as ruin and whisper, offered him a pact.
Not of servitude.
Of balance.
And thus the bond was forged. Not with chains, but with breath, bone, and promise.
This is where the tale begins. Not with war. Not with prophecy. But with a question:
Do you believe in fate?
Because he did.
And that belief would echo through every generation after him. Even into the boy who bears his marrow now…
"In the Book of Ashes, Your Name Was Inked. Do You Believe That Was a Chance? "
Well, I was just a flesh and bones, seeking for a purpose, then the moment I stepped in, its the first time I felt his presence, he had no name in the Spirit Realm. Only a presence, a weight in the air, like thunder held in a man's chest. Cloaked in silence and dusk-colored cloth, he walked between the roots of ancient trees, where the veil thinned and time bent like smoke. His eyes, sharp as obsidian, carried questions the living dared not ask. Not yet a legend, not yet a god, just a seeker haunted by strength he did not understand, and whispers that refused to leave him alone.