The night had swallowed the city whole. Lanterns flickered along narrow, grimy streets, casting long, trembling shadows across cracked cobblestones. The scent of smoke and waste hung thick in the air, and the low murmur of drunken voices echoed through alleys. He moved silently, black hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, body hunched as he darted from shadow to shadow.
The sack in his hand thumped against his side, the stolen coins inside rattling with every step. His lungs burned, heart hammering in his chest, but he could not stop. Not yet. Not until he had vanished from the streets, vanished from the eyes of the guards and the merchants who had shouted after him. He was sixteen, lean, scarred, and unremarkable to the world, yet tonight, as always, he had to rely on the cunning that had kept him alive this long.
Turning sharply into an alley, he pressed his back against the cool stone wall, listening. Footsteps—hasty, panicked, clumsy—bounced off the narrow passage behind him. His breath came in ragged gasps, lungs craving air he could not spare. With a desperate glance over his shoulder, he bolted again, forcing his legs to carry him faster, though they ached from hunger and exhaustion.
The alley opened onto a forgotten street, cobbled and overgrown with weeds. No lanterns lit this way. The air smelled different here, earthy and damp, tinged with something metallic he could not place. His instincts screamed that this was a place people did not go, a place parents warned children to avoid. But the sound of pursuit pressed him forward, and the fear of capture outweighed the stories.
He reached the edge of the city, where the walls gave way to uneven terrain, rocks and sparse trees marking the boundary between civilization and the unknown. Beyond that lay the forest—the one everyone called cursed, the one whispered about in fearful tones. Legends spoke of people who entered and never returned, of creatures older than the city itself, and of the air carrying a weight that pressed against the soul.
He barely hesitated. His legs carried him past the boundary, chest heaving, heart racing. The sounds of pursuit faded behind him, replaced by the hum of the forest: the whisper of leaves, the distant snap of twigs, the wind brushing through branches. The air here was heavier, denser, as if the night itself watched him, and he felt a shiver trace along his spine.
The trees grew taller, twisted in unnatural shapes, shadows crawling like living things over roots and rocks. His stomach grumbled, a reminder of his weakness, but he ignored it. He needed to hide, and the deeper into this forest he went, the safer he would be from the city's eyes.
He stumbled over roots and uneven ground, the sack clutched tightly to his side, and finally came upon a clearing. The ground here was flat, marked by jagged stones and patches of blackened earth. At the center of the clearing was a depression—a crater, if he had to call it something. Its edges were jagged, as though the earth itself had been split apart, and the shadows within seemed deeper, darker than the night around him.
He paused at the rim, chest heaving, legs trembling. Something about this place made his skin crawl. He could feel it in his bones—the air felt alive, heavy with history, as if the ground had absorbed the weight of countless years. The stories whispered in the city seemed pale in comparison. And yet, exhaustion pressed on him, and curiosity, as it always did, nudged him forward.
He descended into the crater, boots slipping against loose stones. The walls rose around him, jagged and close, forcing him to stoop as he went deeper. A faint wind brushed against his skin, carrying a scent of decay, of metal, and something else—something impossible to name. And then, the floor flattened, revealing an entrance, partially concealed by overhanging rocks and darkness.
The cave—or whatever it was—invited him in. He hesitated, instincts screaming to turn back, but he had no choice. He needed shelter, and this place promised safety from the city. Taking a deep breath, he stepped inside.
The air was colder here, thick with the scent of earth and something older, something dead. The light from the entrance barely penetrated the darkness, and his eyes strained to see. He tripped over debris, stumbled against jagged rocks, and finally paused to catch his breath. That's when he noticed them.
Skeletons. Dozens of them littered across the cave floor, some piled against the walls, others strewn in positions that suggested they had fallen mid-motion. The bones were yellowed, cracked, and brittle with age, some adorned with rusted remnants of clothing, others bare to the ages. He swallowed hard, mouth dry, heart racing in a way that had nothing to do with the stolen sack in his hands.
This place had been abandoned for centuries—perhaps millennia. And yet, he was not alone.
A sudden shiver crawled down his spine as he turned to leave, realizing that the entrance had disappeared. The rocks that had framed it were still there, but a force, invisible and pressing, sealed it completely. Panic rose, sharp and bitter, but it was replaced almost immediately with a strange calm. There was no going back. He could only move forward, deeper into the cave.
The path wound downward, spiraling into darkness. The air grew heavier, almost viscous, pressing against his chest with every step. He could feel the weight of time here, the centuries of energy embedded in the stones, the lingering presence of those who had perished within this hollowed tomb. The skeletons became more numerous as he descended, arranged in patterns that suggested reverence—or warning. He could not tell which.
Then he saw it.
At the very end of the cavern, in a chamber circular and vast beyond the size he expected, light danced in a black and white swirl. It floated, suspended above the ground, neither source nor reflection, an orb of energy that radiated power so intense it made his knees weak. Around it, skeletons were arranged in a ring, as if they had knelt before it in life, or perhaps had been drawn to it in death. The air vibrated with unseen energy, humming in resonance with something deep within him.
He took a step forward. The light pulsed, sharp and sudden, and shot upward like a spear into his forehead. Pain lanced through him, blinding and exquisite, yet not entirely physical. His mind reeled as a voice—not spoken aloud, yet unmistakably present—reached into him, probing his thoughts, his memories, his intent.
Who are you? it asked. What drives you? What do you seek?
He recoiled instinctively, blinking, pressing his hands to his forehead, but the light would not release him. It tested him, judging, feeling, weighing every shred of his being against some criterion he could not name. And yet, as the seconds stretched into eternity, he realized something impossible: he met the criteria. The light pulsed again, and for the first time, it seemed to acknowledge him.
And then the voice changed. It was no longer the neutral, testing presence. It was urgent, desperate, and ancient. Words flooded his mind, not spoken aloud but searing directly into his consciousness:
"My name… Eryndor… this is… his life's greatest work… A pursuer of knowledge… let this… technique… be known and feared… When… strong enough… the world… shall witness… my creation… Do not… fail… choose… wisely… complete… what… I could not… Remember… nothing… is without… consequence…"
The fragmented message carried the weight of centuries, of life and death, triumph and despair. It flowed into him with impossible clarity and yet impossible gaps, echoing the heartbeat of the Primordial who had created this power. He understood more than he should, felt the urgency, pride, and hope of someone who had labored beyond mortality to leave a legacy. His mind burned under the intensity of the knowledge, the weight of responsibility, and the impossible potential now placed upon him.
The light pulsed one final time. His legs gave way, his vision blurred, and he collapsed onto the cold stone floor. Darkness claimed him, and the swirling black and white energy hovered above the skeletons, fading gradually, leaving behind only a mark. A perfect circular yin and yang symbol burned faintly on his forehead, imprinted like a seal of destiny.
The cave remained silent, holding its secrets, guarding the scripture that had chosen its heir. Outside, the forest whispered in the night, unaware that a human had stepped into the fate of Primordials and the legacy of millennia.
The Chaos Genesis Duality Scripture had found him.