The boy sprinted through the forest, his back illuminated by the singing flames that lit the moonlit night. Stumbling over roots and stones, the boy ran and ran as his breath came out in wisps of smoke. The branches of the soldier pines, swollen white underneath the winter snow, tugged at his tattered robes and stung his skin with red welts.
But as his eyes teared, it was his fear that formed a wall to the stinging pain across his arms and cheeks. Only thoughts of escape filled his mind. Run, run! He attempted to infuse qi into his legs, struggling to force the energy from his dantian. But soon the qi faded, and he could only despair for a moment before the fear came again, and he was pumping his legs to run faster, faster, faster.
"AHHHHHH!"
A tree trunk slammed into the boy's face, and a crunch echoed through the snowy forest. He collapsed onto his back, the wind knocked out his lungs. But it didn't matter as the blood and tears and snot covering his face covered any sense of pain.
When the boy recovered, he slowly rose and turned around. His swollen face, the blinding wind, the bone-chilling cold, and the shadows did not matter to him. He coughed, spitting blood, before cleaning his eyes using his robe's remains.
In watery haze, he saw the fire. The flames in the distance were burning his home, his family, turning everything into smoke that floated endlessly into the night. The manor seemed like a bright, glowing oven. A fiery red beam crashed down, and the roar of the flames reignited, resounding in the forest. The boy could do nothing.
He fell to the snow-covered ground, collapsing as the fires still reflected in his eyes. The longer they burned, the longer he could hear the echoes of his family. He could do nothing except to cry, to pound the earth. He could not even scream anymore.
And the fires continued to burn. The boy didn't know how much time passed as everything he had ever known disappeared into ash before his eyes.
But slowly, the boy's fists tightened. His tears began to burn rather than drip, to mirror the fire and pain and hatred of the burning house in the distance. And as the boy regained his thoughts, he could only think of one thing: revenge.
I am going to kill him. I am going to kill that man.
The boy felt the qi within his body condense, to turn a magnificent and glorious red inside his core as each breath filled with the heat of hate.
He could still picture the man now, in his mind. He had worn black robes, seemingly stolen from his family guard, and his spear had been simple steel. There had been no mana, aura, qi, or any energy. But there had been the blue iris flower, woven with iron mesh, hung upon the man's neck.
I am going to kill him.
He would get revenge. The boy raised his chin to the remains of the burning manor, the embers glistening in the distance. The burning red core inside him spoke to his rage. Whoever, whoever's done, he will die. I, descendant of Regressor Lin Xua, my father, Inheritor of the Seven Skies. He will die, die, di—
Blood splattered, the white snow staining in red.
The boy looked down. At first, he saw scarlet. Then the iron tip of a spear pierced through his heart. And soon his mind caught up with his pain. As more blood poured from his lips, he collapsed onto the ground.
Aurel put his foot on the fallen boy, tugging at his spear. It caught on the boy's spine. With a final tug, the spear came out of the body, followed by a violent gurgle of blood that spread a thin pool of scarlet around the boy. But in the moonlight, it seemed merely like water as it seeped into the ground. Aurel did not look at the blood or the boy, however.
Aurel's focus was placed elsewhere.
Is that enough, Will of the World? Aurel thought. He looked into the sky, toward the stars in the distance. What more must I do?
After a moment, a deep voice echoed. It was neither man nor woman, an androgynous voice that nevertheless filled nature with its weight. If Aurel had to place it, it sounded like the very depths of the Great Oceans.
Never enough, the Will of the World replied, echoing in Aurel's mind. More. But see. Freedom. Freedom. Power and Freedom. There was a pause. I give power. Then rest. Then, more.
What do you mean?
See.
With those words, Aurel felt the condensing of energy around his body. If he could see past the Veil, to the world of natural laws, he would have seen pure energy coalescing into him. To Aurel, he felt like he was at the center of a storm, torn and pulled with violent ripples. The spear within his hand clattered to the ground as energy and pain flooded his body. He did not scream. Instead, he bit his teeth until blood poured out of his mouth, and he clenched his fists so as to leave bloody marks across his palms. But he did not scream. And he remained wide awake, feeling each fibre of his body being reforged. Like a sword, he was being quenched. But the strongest swords were continuously beaten, folded into itself; Aurel's body was the same, twisting and cracking and breaking so as to be born anew.
And as it came, the energy left. Lying upon the ground, with no clothes upon his body, Aurel did not feel shame. He did not even notice the body of the boy still lying on the ground beside him, bleeding. He had only eyes for the night sky above him, and only focus for the feeling within his body.
Aurel reached out a hand to the sky. The branches of the winter pines scrawled like black lightning across the sky, but still he could see. He clenched his fist. With the feeling of power flowing through his veins, he finally let himself laugh. A deep laugh that echoed through the trees, even past the dying fires in the distance. His ribs still hurt, and he had to turn to his side on the cold, forest floor, holding his sides to stop.
As he stopped laughing, Aurel was finally able to look into the blank eyes of the boy. Your death will not be in vain, Aurel thought. As Aurel rose, he closed the boy's eyes. He prayed as well, touching the boy's core as his parents had taught him.
To break free of this world—that was all. Death was a mere price to pay for freedom. Aurel picked up his spear from the frozen ground.
The boy's death marked the beginning. He didn't quite know why this "Will of the World," as it had called itself, had chosen him. But perhaps it did not matter. Nothing mattered as long as he was able to free himself.
Aurel made for the trees, weaving through the forest as the burned manor continued disappearing behind him. He began to sing a song, the one that his parents had sung for him when he was a child.
The White Emperor kneels
To the Sorcerer of the Lake
Who serves the King of the Misty Halls;
The King of the Misty Halls is slain
By the Great Mage of Aeons
Who serves the Lily of Life;
The Lily of Life begs
The Swan that Smokes
Who serves the White Emperor.
And as he sang and walked, Aurel soon broke the tree line. To his left, in the open clearing, a town lay in perfect emptiness: Whiteriver town. There should have been farmers gathering their wares, light and song and ale from the inn, and joyful yells from the Solstice Winter Festival. Instead, it was empty.
He did not walk to the village, but instead to a small hill in the distance, opposite the town. A great black tree, the Maiden Tree as the Whiteriver town inhabitants had called it, was covered in snow, its branches thicker and longer than the pines in the surrounding forest. As Aurel walked up the hill, the silent tree seemed to greet him.
As he finally reached the top, Aurel propped his spear up on the tree before stripping his hands of their gloves. The wind stilled, and the cold dissipated for a moment. He walked to the other side.
Two stone graves, parallel as they faced the open forest, greeted him.
Aurel kneeled before the graves.
Closing his eyes, he felt the wind rushing between the leaves of the tree above him, rustling. He felt the soft, warming glow of the sun across his skin. He felt the flowery glow of the sunspire seeds floating in the wind.
But that was all his imagination. As he opened his eyes again, the soft glow of the moon returned, with the biting cold of the winter storm. Small snowflakes nipped his skin, painting everything around him in white specks.
Beautiful… Aurel took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the sharp, biting air of night. He did not let himself focus on the graves just yet. Instead, he filled his sight with the nature around them. He and the two graves sat on a hill that towered above the flatlands below them.
"Hah…" Aurel exhaled this time, watching his breath fog. He finally let himself look at the two graves.
Though he had forgotten the emotion, now that everything had become still, the sadness crept up to him. Aurel could only hang his head high. He did not cry as he gazed upon the graves of his parents. He clenched his eyes, not letting the liquid pool and blinked away any moisture that had come. Instead, Aurel bowed his head, kneeling before the two stone graves.
Mother and Father. I— Aurel stopped himself. He swallowed to calm his thoughts, clenching his fists tighter against his kneeling feet. He breathed.
Did you go into the heavens you spoke so much for? I—I can not believe. But I hope you were happy. That was enough for you. And for that, I am grateful.
I am going on the journey now. I'm not sure where I'm going. Perhaps in a grave, same as yours, when it all ends. But this path—it is mine, and mine alone. That is enough, and I know you will understand.
"Astalith…" Aurel ended with a gift of thanks, a final message to those beyond. He moved forward, his hands cupping the stones that formed a mound over their bodies. Everything was still. No longer did he feel the same waves within him threatening to crash; instead, Aurel was thankful, and his heart lightened.
Rising up, Aurel stepped to the Maiden tree. Her bark had stood time for a millennium, even as the Otherworlders had encroached on their home. When Old Gran told—had told her stories, the Maiden tree had been the beginning, the middle, and the end.
And so, as he had often done as a boy, Aurel moved to the base of the tree and lay down, resting his head against its roots. The earth beneath his skin was rough and comforting.
We did not deserve this. As Aurel let his arm droop to his eyes, closing them to the orange hues that had begun to break toward the day. He no longer questioned why. In his head, he could imagine the Otherworlder.
The Otherworlder who had massacred his village, his family. He could still see the village painted in blood. He still remembered the bile within his throat. But the Will of the World had found him them. The Will had led Aurel to the mansion and the Other. The fire had done its job.
The rage had passed. Now, Aurel felt as though he saw the light at the end of the tunnel. The path to hell or heaven, he did not know. But he knew that it was Otherworlders who had taken everything. The Otherworlders, they who called themselves regressors, reincarnators, transmigrators—they would all die.
Whether I die or live doing it—I will be free, mother and father.
In his head, Aurel felt the connection to the Will awaken.