Every single desperate soul in existence believed that in order to have power, one needs to succeed again and again.
But success is a shallow foundation built on luck and circumstance.
It's failure, accumulated and stacked like endless bodies in a mass grave, that forges the deepest roots into the unshakable bedrock of power.
Because only those who've descended into the abyss know precisely how far they can fall before they finally learn to fly.
"Hey, are you listening? Yes, you. Pay attention."
"I know all this about power with surety as all I had were countless failures. After all, I am Vakochev, and I set the very Scales of Existence. This... is my story. Existence, is my Story."
---
The Purple Stone Tribe was a small cluster of beings on the foot of a tall mountain.
It was busiest in the morning, and even busier at night when the dark came as everyone hoped to survive until dawn.
Currently, it was the early hours of morning.
Damian held a stone tool that dug into the earth, and he proceeded to plant a seed before covering it with the vibrant soil that pulsed with faint blue light.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and squinted against the rising sun.
His hair was dark as night, falling in unkempt strands across a face too young for the weariness it carried. His eyes were equally dark, holding depths that seemed to swallow light.
He wore rough-woven cloth wrapped around his torso and secured with cords of dried sinew, leaving his arms bare to the elements. His lower body was covered by hide treated with fat to resist moisture, belted at the waist with braided plant fiber. Simple foot wrappings protected his soles from the rocky terrain. Everything about his attire spoke of function over form, of survival over comfort.
He wasn't alone in planting seeds.
A few others worked the field nearby, young and old, each one pushing their own stone tools into the earth with the practiced rhythm of those who had done this countless times before.
An elderly woman with silver hair tied back in practical knots. A boy barely into his tenth summer, small hands moving with surprising efficiency. A broad-shouldered man whose leg had been mangled by something with too many teeth, now reduced to work that didn't require running.
They were all dressed in similar fashion. Rough cloth. Treated hide. The practical garments of those who had accepted their place in the hierarchy of survival.
These were the farming grounds of the Purple Stone Tribe, located closest to The Roaring Stone Mountain that was richest in the concentration of Mana nearby.
The mountain itself dominated the horizon, its peak shrouded in perpetual mist that glowed faintly purple at dawn and dusk. It moved, though not in ways the eye could easily perceive. Over seasons, its position shifted. Over generations, it wandered across the landscape like a beast too massive to notice the creatures living in its shadow.
Here, where the mountain's influence was strongest, plants grew at an unfathomably fast pace.
In a single day, one would be able to harvest what normal soil would take an entire season to produce.
Those who couldn't handle dangers handled farming.
And they left their protection to the Warriors, those whose bodies were much richer in Mana.
As he thought of Mana and Warriors, Damian raised his own hands.
He stared at them for a long moment.
Then he felt his body.
The sensation was familiar by now. The emptiness where something vital should have been. The hollowness that echoed with every heartbeat.
His body was dried of Mana, with any potential he once had being shattered and broken a long time ago before he came to the Purple Stone Tribe.
"Boy, are you listening?"
...!
Behind him, a gruff man with bronze skin lay back against a tall tree.
Uncle Adam.
His body was thick with muscle earned through decades of violence, though age had begun to soften some of his edges. His face was weathered like stone left too long in harsh wind, deep lines carved around eyes that had witnessed too much death to ever look truly peaceful again. A spear lay by his side, its stone head chipped from use but still wickedly sharp.
He had a serious look in those old warrior's eyes.
This was the one who had protected Damian from too many dangers as they ran from certain death. From a place that Damian did not even want to think about right now.
Every time he did, he could only picture the helplessness he felt.
His parents urging him to run.
Everything he knew burning to the ground.
The screams that had followed him into sleep for years afterward.
He shook his head at the memories and sighed before replying.
"Yeah, Old Man, I heard you. The Doctrines to survive The Age of Stone."
...!
The Age of Stone.
This was the era they lived in, or really, as it was proclaimed by the grand Neolithic Empires they were immeasurably far away from.
One either had power, or they were left to the rules of nature and may absolutely not survive for long. The strong devoured the weak. The cunning outlasted the foolish. And the powerful? The powerful shaped the very landscape of Stone according to their whims.
Adam squinted his eyes toward him.
"And what Doctrine was I just telling you now?"
What Doctrine?
Damian blinked.
He hadn't truly been listening. Adam had always made it a habit to teach all his Doctrines, accumulated wisdom from a lifetime of warfare and survival. There were at least twenty that Damian knew of, probably more that Adam had yet to share.
Which one could he be talking about now?
"Haha, it was Uncle Adam's Seventh Doctrine, Damian! He who has no weapon is he who has already dug his own grave!"
A strong feminine voice carried over from nearby.
A young woman who was planting her own seeds looked up from her work, her smile bright against the dirt smudged across her cheeks.
Elena.
Her hair was fiery crimson and tied back in a practical braid that still managed to look wild. Her features were bold rather than delicate- a strong jaw, high cheekbones, eyes that blazed with more energy than her body could contain.
She was built solid! As solid as they came.
Her gaze was filled with excitement that seemed perpetually uncontainable.
Among all those who had accepted him when he joined the Purple Stone Tribe with Adam, she had pestered and annoyed him the most. Far too interested in the novelty he represented and the stories of Uncle Adam.
Adam's expression shifted to something between fond and exasperated.
"Little Elena, you are listening in to discussions of men again. These Doctrines are for Warriors..."
...!
A defiant light sparked in Elena's eyes.
She came over with confident strides, her smile challenging everything Adam had just said.
"Oh? What part of Damian says Warrior? His scrawny body?"
She gestured at Damian with obvious disdain.
"I have more muscles than him, Uncle Adam. You can teach me the ways of the Warrior and how to utilize Mana. Let's leave this guy to farming. He will likely be chosen by a sturdy Tribeswoman in the future to take care of cooking and cleaning..."
She came over and thumped Damian's shoulder hard enough to make him stumble.
He couldn't help but shake his head as he looked at this girl.
She did not know the horrors a Warrior could inflict.
She did not understand what she was asking for so badly.
But he looked toward Adam, who ruffled the hair of Elena while she playfully fought against his massive hand.
"Being a man or woman doesn't matter much to being a Warrior, Uncle Adam."
Damian's voice came measured and calm.
"You can definitely take her to be your disciple and teach her all the Doctrines. She has the energy for it."
He paused, a slight smile forming.
"I can see her getting chubbier, even though she calls it muscle..."
...!
His words caused a heavy reaction.
Elena flared up like her hair had caught actual fire, swinging at him with genuine intent to cause pain.
"CHUBBIER?! I'll show you chubby, you dried-up...!"
Damian dodged smoothly.
His body moved with fluid grace that contradicted his supposed weakness, slipping past her strikes with efficiency of ingrained training.
While he may be scrawny, while his foundation was shattered and his Mana was gone, he never forgot the movements his father had taught him all those years ago.
The body remembered what the soul could not forget.
But as he evaded the fiery girl, dancing backward with a slight smile despite himself...
Adam's voice cut through their antics like a blade through flesh.
"Any man or woman can be a Warrior, yes."
The old soldier's tone had shifted to something heavier.
"But I would never wish the curse of a Warrior on any woman in these dangerous lands."
Elena stopped mid-swing.
Damian went still and listened calmly.
"The life of a Warrior is a grand one, but it has no worth."
Adam's eyes had grown distant, staring at something only he could see.
"Warriors live and die quicker than farmers. The Age of Stone, The Lands of Stone...are built on the blood of too many men and women who chose to be Warriors, and who remembers them?"
His hand found his spear, fingers tracing the worn shaft with unconscious familiarity.
"They gave their lives, but they leave behind families that cannot fend for themselves. Mothers are left with no protection. Daughters are forced into unsavory works. Sons grow up without knowing what strength looks like, or worse…they learn the wrong lessons about what strength means."
His voice grew quieter and heavier.
"While across the endless Lands of Stone... the blood of Warriors dries more and more. Forgotten. Meaningless. Just... red stains on rocks that don't care who bled on them."
...!
Adam had the tired look of an old warrior saying these words.
A man who had seen too much. Lost too much. Survived when others hadn't, and wasn't sure if survival was a blessing or a curse.
Damian and Elena were forced to stop and look at him.
Damian sighed.
Why did he have to go and say such heavy stuff right now?
The morning had been almost pleasant. The work had been simple. For a brief moment, Damian had almost felt like a normal person living a normal life.
But the Lands of Stone never let anyone forget what they truly were.
Damian sighed again and walked over to this old warrior.
He knew Adam had gone through too much. Those who had died to his spear were many, and the friends he had lost were even more so. The empire that had fallen. The prince he had failed to fully protect. The years of running and hiding and pretending that survival was enough.
Yet over all those years, Adam had continued to protect him.
When he had nothing left to protect himself with, Adam had been there.
He was about to console Uncle Adam when...
"Adam! Warrior Adam!"
A commotion erupted toward the distant cluster of huts that made up the tribe's center!
A Warrior ran toward them with heavy steps, her muscular frame shockingly covered in injuries and blood! Gashes across her arms. A wound on her side that she pressed with one hand while still forcing herself forward.
Her eyes were wild with fear that Warriors were never supposed to show.
She spoke toward them urgently, each word coming between desperate breaths.
"The Butcher of The Golden Tribe has appeared! Multiple are already dead!"
...!
The words instantly caused a feeling of dread to settle over everything.
Damian frowned.
The Butcher of The Golden Tribe.
Stories of this powerful Warrior had spread across the region like plague. A monster in human form who served the Golden Tribe's Chieftain as an instrument of terror. They said he had single-handedly destroyed the Warriors of three smaller tribes that refused tribute.
They said he bathed in the blood of those he killed. They said his body was so saturated with Mana that normal weapons couldn't even pierce his skin.
The more Damian remembered these stories, the more his frown deepened.
Why would their luck be so bad to have the Butcher here?
Uncle Adam had an equally grave face.
The Warrior in front of them almost pleaded, her voice cracking with desperation.
"Please... Warrior Adam. Multiple... have already died."
Her eyes held the terror of someone who had seen something they couldn't fight, and could only run from and hope someone stronger would handle.
"Is my Father okay? Is the Chieftain okay?!"
Elena's voice cut through, sharp with sudden fear that replaced all her earlier energy.
The Warrior had yet to reply.
But her cloudy expression, the way she couldn't meet Elena's eyes, caused the young woman's face to become ashen.
Without waiting for any of them, Elena began running toward the tribe.
Her fiery hair streamed behind her as she sprinted, all thoughts of farming and Doctrines forgotten in the face of what might be waiting.
And Damian looked toward Uncle Adam.
The old warrior remained looking at him.
As if... he was asking for permission.
As if after all these years of protecting the broken prince, he still wouldn't act without Damian's consent.
And Damian had a complex expression as he processed what that look meant.
Adam could fight the Butcher as he might even win.
But if he fought and lost... if he fought and died...
Damian would be alone in the Lands of Stone with no protection, no Mana, and no future.
But Elena's father and many others might be dying right now.
The Chieftain who had welcomed them and granted them shelter when they had nowhere else to go.
The tribe that had given them shelter when they were just strangers fleeing from shadows.
He made a choice.
He nodded.
The Lands of Stone were cruel, and lives were as cheap as fruits. Everything could change in but an instant, and Damian knew this far too well.
After all, he had been a Prince of a Neolithic Empire.
And now, with his body crippled and his foundation shattered, he was just a farmer.
Just... a farmer.
But he still went toward the commotion as Adam led the way, spear in hand, old muscles coiling with power that age hadn't fully stolen.
Lives were cheap, but they were still worth something!