The mountain slept beneath the night sky, wrapped in mist and silence.
A lone figure climbed toward its peak.
The old man's steps were uneven, each one leaving behind a dark stain on the stone path. His
robes were torn, soaked through with blood. Where his left arm should have been, there was
only a crude, fresh wound—blood still dripping, still warm. Countless shallow cuts covered
his body, and from beneath his brow, blood slid down his face, falling from a gash above his
eye.
Yet his expression remained grimly resolute.
In his right hand, he carried something that strange yet compelling thing.
At first glance, it looked like a simple stone—but the longer one stared, the harder it became
to accept. Pale light and deep darkness flowed across its surface, chasing each other
endlessly, as if two opposing wills were locked in silent conflict. The air around it trembled
faintly, and the old man's fingers quivered, as though the thing itself was burning into his flesh.
He clenched his teeth.
Pain spread through his arm, but he did not loosen his grip.
At last, he reached the summit.
The moon hung overhead, vast and cold, bathing the peak in silver light. The world below was swallowed by darkness, as though this mountain alone stood apart from fate.
The old man's breath came ragged as he whispered:
"They are coming… No matter how long it takes, they will come."
His voice trembled, heavy with regret.
"We must be ready. Forgive me… my fellow beings. This is the only path left."
He let his bloodstained pack fall to the ground. Slowly, he raised the strange object high above his head, extending his arm toward the heavens.
Moonlight touched it.
The stone seemed to awaken.
Its glow deepened, the pale and dark lights swirling more violently, as though responding to the call of the night sky itself.
The old man began to chant.
Unknown words slipped from his lips—soft at first, then steady. Each syllable vanished into the object, as if being devoured. When the final word faded, he lowered his hand.
The stone drifted downward.
It stopped just above the ground, hovering silently.
The mountain held its breath.
The old man straightened and began again.
This time, golden light surged from his right hand, wrapping his arm in a blazing aura. His eyes opened wide—his irises now glowing like molten gold.
"This… is the moment."
The heavens answered.
Clouds twisted violently, spiraling into massive vortex. Thunder roared without warning, rain pouring down as lightning split the sky apart.
His voice broke.
"I will bear it all… the sins, the consequences… everything."
Pain etched itself into his face. So did fury. And beneath it all—deep, unyielding sorrow.
"AAAAAH—!"
He struck.
His fist descended upon the floating stone.
For a single heartbeat, the world lost its colour.
Sound vanished. Time froze.
Then—
The mountain screamed.
A force beyond comprehension erupted outward, tearing through the peak. The stone split as
if cleaved by the will of the heavens themselves. Light burst forth—overwhelming,
absolute—devouring sky, earth, and sound alike.
The roar that followed drowned the world.
Light swallowed everything.
And the night was no more.
700 years later—
Fire devoured the night.
Flames climbed the wooden rooftops like living beasts, leaping from house to house as thick
smoke choked the sky. The once-quiet tribe was now a sea of chaos—screams echoed
through narrow paths, mingling with the crackling roar of burning timber. People ran in every
direction, clutching whatever they could carry, desperation etched into their faces.
Children cried.
Animals howled.
The air smelled of ash, blood, and fear.
Amidst the madness, an old woman stumbled through the burning streets, her back bent with
age yet her steps fueled by terror. In her arms, she clutched a small child—no more than one
or two years old—wrapped tightly in worn cloth. The infant whimpered softly, unaware of
the calamity unfolding around him.
"Hold on… just hold on…" the old woman whispered, coughing as smoke filled her lungs.
She shielded the child with her body as embers rained down from above. A burning beam
collapsed nearby, sending sparks scattering across the ground. She flinched, nearly losing her
footing, but forced herself onward.
Behind her, a scream was abruptly cut short.
She did not dare to look back.
As she ran, the world seemed to blur—firelight flickering wildly before her eyes. Her breath
grew shallow, her legs trembling. And then, as if her mind could no longer bear the horror of
the present, her thoughts were pulled backward—
Back to when the tribe had still been whole.
Back to the day before disaster struck.
The sun rose gently over the tribe, bathing it in warm golden light.
Nestled between dense forest and open plains, the settlement was modest yet lively. Wooden
houses stood in neat rows, smoke curling peacefully from their chimneys. Laughter echoed as
children ran through the dirt paths, chasing one another with carefree joy.
Beyond the tribe lay the vast forest.
Towering trees stretched endlessly, their canopies thick and ancient. Wild beasts roamed
within—some hunted for meat and fur, others feared and avoided. The tribals had long
learned to coexist with the forest, drawing their livelihood from it. Hunters ventured inside at
dawn and returned by dusk, carrying fresh game and hides that sustained the entire community.
It was a hard life.
But it was a peaceful one.
That morning, however, an unease lingered beneath the surface—subtle, unspoken, yet shared by many.
In an old wooden house at the heart of the tribe, several figures had gathered.
The room was dim, lit only by sunlight filtering through narrow windows. Time had worn the wooden beams smooth, and the air smelled faintly of herbs and old parchment.
Three elders sat together, their faces lined with age and experience. Beside them were two
elderly women, both respected figures who carried the tribe's ancestral knowledge. Standing
near the walls were five warriors—men in their prime, hardened by years of hunting and
combat against wild beasts.
Silence weighed heavily on the room.
At last, one of the elders spoke.
"Last night," he said slowly, his voice grave, "I was visited by a vision."
The atmosphere instantly grew tense.
All eyes turned toward him.
"A vision?" one of the warriors asked cautiously.
The elder nodded. His gaze was distant, as though the memory still lingered before his eyes.
"I saw a mountain split open," he continued. "Fire erupted from its heart, reaching the heavens. Beneath it, a garden, filled with flowers —were reduced to ash."
A chill spread through the room.
One of the elderly women inhaled sharply, her fingers tightening around the wooden staff she leaned on.
"Such visions are not to be dismissed," she said after a moment. "The ancestors warned us long ago—when the elders dream of destruction, it is often the whisper of fate."
The warriors exchanged uneasy glances.
Another elder spoke, his voice low. "Our Ruh tribe have survived by heeding such warnings before."
"Yes," the second old woman added, nodding slowly. "Our people have wandered for
generations. We settle, we prosper… and when the signs appear, we move again. This is
nothing new."
One of the warriors frowned. "But where would we go?" he asked. "This land provides us shelter and food. Beyond the forest, there is nothing but danger."
The old woman met his gaze calmly. "Danger exists everywhere. Staying when disaster approaches is no less dangerous."
The room fell silent once more.
Then the third elder cleared his throat.
"When I traveled to the market town yesterday," he said, "I heard something… troubling."
Everyone leaned in.
"There is talk of a treasure," he continued. "A great one. The kind that draws cultivators like moths to a flame."
The reaction was immediate.
Faces paled. Breath hitched.
"A treasure… here?" one warrior muttered.
The elder nodded. "So the rumors say. Some claim it is an ancient inheritance. Others whisper of a relic tied to the heavens themselves."
One of the warriors clenched his fists. "If cultivators are involved, then bloodshed is inevitable."
"To them," another warrior added bitterly, "we mortals are nothing more than ants beneath their feet."
A heavy silence followed.
"Did the people in the market seem alarmed?" someone asked.
The elder shook his head. "No. In fact, many cultivators have already gathered there. It seems a powerful household has taken residence as well."
The second old woman sighed softly. "Then the town may remain untouched. Cultivators protect what benefits them."
Her gaze sharpened. "But tribals like ours—caught in between—will be trampled without a second thought."
The first old woman straightened. "That settles it. We prepare to leave."
One of the elders nodded slowly. "Better to move and survive than remain and perish."
Reluctantly, the warriors agreed.
Thus, the decision was made.
The tribe would migrate—once again.
As night fell, lanterns lit the tribe paths. Families gathered their belongings, packing what
little they owned. The mood was subdued but disciplined—this was not the first time they
had uprooted their lives.
The old woman—then still strong enough to walk without a cane—moved quietly among the
people, helping where she could. At her side toddled a small child, laughing as he chased
fireflies, unaware of the tension hanging over the adults.
She smiled faintly as she watched him.
"May the heavens be kind to you," she murmured.
Suddenly—
A thunderous explosion shattered the night.
The ground trembled violently. Lanterns swung wildly, some crashing to the ground and extinguishing. Screams erupted as they stumbled and fell.
"What was that?!" someone shouted.
A second blast followed, closer this time.
The sky glowed faintly red beyond the forest.
Fear spread like wildfire.
"It's begun," the old women whispered, her voice hollow.
And then—
Chaos descended.
The flashback shattered.
The old woman gasped as she was yanked back into the present.
Flames roared around her once more.
The tribe was already lost.
She clutched the child tighter as a deafening roar echoed from beyond the burning houses—something massive moving, something far beyond mortal understanding.
The earth shook again.
She stumbled, nearly falling, but forced herself upright.
"Please… please…" she whispered, tears streaming down her face. "Just let the child live…"
But a disaster shows no compassion to anyone.
Author's Note: Zümrüt
Thank you for reading.
If you enjoyed this chapter, consider leaving a comment or adding the novel to your library.
The journey has only begun.
◆ This work is an original story by Zümrüt . Unauthorized reposting is prohibited.