Chapter 3: The First Awakening
Elara's hands tremble as she kneads black paste into my hair, fingers slick with bitter-smelling muck. 'Too bright,' her eyes scream, though she never says it. My white strands, unnatural as snow in summer, vanish under the dye, blending with her dark locks.
In the dim flicker of the hut, the oil lamp spitting shadows, it's like hiding a curse that burns too hot for this world.
'Demonic blood,' the villagers hiss when they think I can't hear. 'Spits in heaven's face.'
I don't cry. Never have. Not once. It spooks them Elara and Dren paste on smiles, muttering about blood not meant for mortals.
'Blood of the Demonic Sect,' they hope, like it makes me special.
I know better. I'm Kael Voss, carrying Joseph Hallo's ghost, a president who failed his family. 'Lila's smile, Flora's warmth, Michael's eyes gone.' The Concord's bomb haunts me, heavier than this mud-walled shack.
By my first year, I'm babbling crooked, half-formed words, but way too damn early. Elara's eyes spark with relief. Dren's with wariness, like I'm a blade they don't know how to hold.
'At least he's alive,' they think. 'At least he's ours.'
Years slip like sand through their calloused fingers. Three years gone in a blur of hunger and dust. I cling to Elara's side in the market, her thin frame swaying under my weight, straw hat shielding us from glares.
The market's a beast voices scream, fists fly, blood stains the dirt. A man's teeth scatter over a copper coin. Another's throat gets slit for a bruised peach. Families break, kids wail, and no one blinks.
'Humanity's just violence,' I think, watching a vendor kick a beggar's ribs. Normal. But Elara's soft hum, Dren's bruised knuckles they fight for me. Strangers by blood, the only ones who care.
'I'll fight for them,' I vow, a kid's stubborn promise scratched into my soul. My first.
Market days are chaos, a storm of noise and stink. Vendors squat behind crates, shouting over each other—herbs, grains, smoked meats, dull daggers, wild furs piled high. Carts creak. Roosters squawk. Kids chase a dog with a bone.
"Five copper for flame-lotus! Boil it twice, your qi flows like new!"
Another cackles, "Wheatcake! Blessed by the Laughing Monk's piss!"
I blink, strapped to Elara's back. 'Commerce and clowns. No power grid, just blades.'
Elara weaves through, steps careful, avoiding two men in gray uniforms, jade sashes gleaming. One grips a sheathed sword, the other a scroll tucked in his belt. Villagers bow or look away.
"Enforcers," Elara mutters. "Heavenly Path Sect. Don't meet their eyes."
'Local cops with swords,' I note, my kid's brain logging every detail.
Yesterday, a fight broke out two traders, one red, one black, screaming over rotten leafroot. Steel clashed, blood sprayed, and the crowd barely flinched.
"Fools fighting over spirit cabbage," someone muttered. A kid laughed as an arm bled. Enforcers dragged the loser off like trash.
'Strength is law,' I thought. 'Power walks. Weakness dies.'
Today, it's quieter, but the air's thick with tension. A woman shoves past Elara, muttering, "Cursed child." Her grip tightens, smile soft but strained.
"Ignore them, Kael," she whispers. I don't answer can't, not yet but my crimson eyes burn.
'They'll see,' I think. 'This world will bleed before it breaks me.'
Back home, Elara washes dye from her hands, the cracked bowl reeking of soaproot. Dren stumbles in, bloodied again, a few coppers and a bruised apple in his pocket.
"Enough for bread," he rasps, gap-toothed smile flickering.
Elara's eyes soften, but her voice is sharp.
"You're hurt again, Dren."
He shrugs, brushing my now-dark hair.
"Those eyes…" he mutters. "Crimson. Not ours."
Elara's jaw sets.
"He's Kael Voss. Our son."
Dren's scar twitches, fists clenching.
"Pitiful man I am. Weak qi, broken body. Let you… lie with strangers for coin. And this boy looks like that bastard, Torren. Demonic cult trash. Drunk, desperate, took you in that courtyard."
His voice breaks. Elara's eyes well, but she's steel.
"Torren's dead. Gutted by his brother, Kael. This boy's ours. Your sword, my heart."
Dren nods, a fierce grin creeping back.
"Those eyes'll burn brighter than that bastard's ever did."
'Torren, my real father?' I think, reeling. 'Gutted by his brother? For what?' Luke's voice echoes: Power, boy. I'll need it.
Dren starts taking me to the forest. Hunting. The bow's weight feels right, its tension a promise I can't name. We walk side by side, silent, connected.
'Never had this,' I think. Not in Eryndor, not with Michael's defiance or Lila's laugh. Just me and Dren, stalking shadows.
He teaches me stillness, the patience of waiting for a deer's breath to betray it. My small hands fumble the bow, but my eyes Joseph's eyes track every leaf, every twitch.
Dren grins, ruffling my hair.
"You're a natural, Kael."
I smirk, a kid's pride hiding a president's regret.
'If only I'd tracked the Concord like this.'
One morning, Dren wakes me before dawn, the sky a bruised gold.
"Deeper today," he says, voice low. "Animals are scarce."
I nod, grabbing my bow, my tiny frame buzzing with excitement.
'Something worthy,' I think, not knowing why. The forest's heavy, trees holding their breath. No birds, no rustle. Just silence, thick as fog.
We trek deeper, Dren's blade at his hip, my arrows rattling.
'Too quiet,' I think, gut twisting like it did when the Concord's bomb ticked.
That's when it comes.
A Daedon. A nightmare in flesh twelve feet of scarred muscle, tusks like swords, jaws to crush stone. Its eyes burn with hunger, its aura a fist choking the air. The earth trembles under its weight.
'Killing intent,' I think, my kid's body shaking, bow rattling like dry bones.
Dren's breath catches, scar twitching.
"Kael !" His shout's raw, terrified. He grabs my tunic, hurls me aside as the beast lunges, jaws snapping. Leaves scatter like frightened birds, dirt exploding under its charge.
Dren draws his blade, plants his feet, arms wide, chest exposed. Sword high, free hand curled like claws. Jaw of the Voss. His father's stance. His only stance.
The Daedon roars, tusks gleaming. Time slows.
Dren vanishes steel hisses, slicing the beast's leg. Scrape! No blood, just steel grinding on wood. Its hide's iron. Dren's form is perfect, but his qi's weak, shallow, broken. No eternal energy to sharpen his edge. He doesn't stop. Slash! Slash! Seven strikes, each ripping his muscles, blood spilling from his lips. His vision blurs, life burning out like a candle in wind.
'He knows,' I think, heart pounding like a war drum. 'He can't win.'
"Kael!" he roars, voice cracking like glass. "Run! I can't… hold it back!"
Blood streaks his face, eyes bleeding, body swaying on collapse's edge.
I stare. Dren giving everything for us, for me. Fighting with nothing, enduring with nothing, just to keep us alive.
'Like I failed to do.' Lila's smile, Flora's warmth, Michael's eyes they flash, searing my chest. The Concord's bomb ticks in my skull.
'Not again.' Something stirs, hot and black, like zyrite igniting.
I don't run. I charge.
"Wait, Father! Let me help!" My voice is high, a kid's, but steady as steel.
"Kael, no!" Dren staggers, trying to shield me, his battered frame a crumbling wall. The Daedon's upon us, one colossal leg raised, tusks gleaming to cleave him in two.
The world slows. Silence swallows the forest. Air freezes.
Bum. Bum.
My heartbeat thunders, shaking my bones. My vision darkens, shadows curling like smoke. The Daedon's fury stutters, its gaze shifting to me.
It hesitates.
A black tide pours from my small frame thick, suffocating, a murderous aura drowning five meters of forest in darkness.
'What the hell is this?' I think, hand moving on instinct. I grab an arrow no bow, no notch just hurl it bare-handed.
The air splits. The arrow screams past Dren's ear, tearing flesh, wind with fangs. It pierces the Daedon's skull, through bone, through brain, exploding out the other side, lost in the trees.
Silence. The beast collapses, dead before it hits the dirt.
I freeze, staring at my hand. My chest heaves, eyes wide.
'Did I do that? No… no man could. Not even Eryndor's best.'
The aura fades, darkness lifting. Dren crumples, overwhelmed by my awakening's weight. I rush to him, panic cutting through like a blade. I drag him under a tree, small hands shaking as I cradle him. Breath shallow, blood streaking his face.
'Stay alive,' I think, kid's voice choking. 'You're all I've got.'
Hours pass. The forest quiet. Dren stirs, eyes fluttering.
"Kael…" he rasps, weak but alive. "What… was that?"
I shake my head, crimson eyes burning.
'I don't know,' I think. 'But it's power.'
Luke's voice echoes: Power, boy. I was too weak once, let the Concord burn my world. Not again.
'For Elara. For Dren. For Lila, Flora, Michael.' This world will bleed before it breaks Kael Voss.