The void stretched endlessly around Song, a black expanse where light and sound were mere memories.
His body felt weightless, yet each step was heavy, as if he waded through a sea of shadows.
Beneath his feet, something crunched—dry, brittle, like the bones of forgotten souls.
The sound echoed in the silence, a chilling reminder of his isolation.
Where am I? he thought, his heart pounding.
His Tattoo of Dominion pulsed faintly, a lifeline in the darkness, its single stripe a stubborn spark of hope.
Far ahead, a lone ember flickered, a tiny beacon in the infinite black.
With no other guide, Song moved toward it, his steps cautious, his senses straining.
The crunching ground sent shivers through him, conjuring images of ancient graves, of lives lost to time.
Is this death? he wondered, fear clawing at his mind.
Or something worse?
The void was silent, its stillness oppressive.
Song glanced around, half-expecting eyes in the dark, but there was nothing—only the ember, growing brighter with each step.
The crunching stopped, the ground smoothing into a cold, featureless surface.
Relief washed over him, though the thought of walking on bones lingered, a ghost in his mind.
He focused on the ember, its light now a steady glow, and quickened his pace, driven by a need to escape the void's embrace.
As he drew closer, the ember revealed itself—a small campfire, its flames dancing weakly in the dark.
Beside it sat an old man, his silver hair a tangled mane, his beard short and ragged.
His clothes were tattered, like the rags of a slave, yet his presence was anything but weak.
An aura of ancient power radiated from him, a quiet strength that made Song's breath catch.
This was no ordinary man.
He was a warrior, a master, a figure carved from the annals of legend.
Song's heart raced, a mix of awe and caution.
Who is he? he thought.
And why is he here?
"Greetings, elder," Song said, bowing deeply, his voice trembling with respect.
The old man nodded, his eyes fixed on the fire.
He tossed a dry branch into the flames, the wood crackling as it burned.
Song hesitated, unsure if he was welcome, then sat beside the old man, his gaze drawn to the flickering light.
The fire's warmth was faint, yet it pushed back the void's chill, a small comfort in this strange place.
They sat in silence, the flames casting shadows that danced across the old man's weathered face.
Song's mind churned, questions piling up, but he held his tongue, sensing the weight of the moment.
Time slipped away, unmeasurable in the void.
The fire's dance grew hypnotic, its movements more than mere flames.
Song leaned closer, his eyes narrowing as he noticed something extraordinary.
The fire was alive.
Its flames wove shapes, fleeting images of people, each one a glimpse into a stranger's life.
A young girl played a flute, her melody haunting, her eyes bright with dreams.
A warrior practiced martial forms, his strikes a blur of precision, his face etched with determination.
The images shifted, each one vivid yet fleeting.
An old man meditated under a starry sky, his breath steady as the tides.
A child chased butterflies through a meadow, her laughter echoing.
A woman tended a garden, her hands gentle yet firm, coaxing life from the earth.
No two images were alike, each a unique fragment of existence, a story told in firelight.
Song's chest tightened, captivated by the flames' tales.
Who are these people? he wondered, his heart aching with a strange familiarity.
He tried to hold onto the images, to memorize their faces, but they dissolved like smoke, scattering into sparks that faded into the void.
The old man spoke, his voice low but resonant, each word carrying a weight that made Song's soul tremble.
"These are the ones who came before," he said, his eyes still on the fire.
"Geniuses, titans of their eras, warriors who shaped the world."
Song listened, transfixed, as the old man recounted their stories.
A swordsman who cleaved mountains with a single strike, his blade a legend.
A sage who tamed the heavens' wrath, her wisdom a beacon for generations.
A healer whose touch revived the dead, her compassion a light in dark times.
Each figure was a colossus, their achievements beyond mortal reach.
The fire showed their triumphs, their struggles, their moments of quiet humanity—a warrior weeping for a fallen friend, a sage laughing under the stars, a healer cradling a child.
Song's throat tightened, a mix of awe and envy stirring within.
They were like gods, he thought, his single stripe a bitter reminder of his own weakness.
Could I ever be like them?
His life flashed before him—chained in the slave pens, mocked by Grue's whip, tormented by Kael's cruelty.
The desert where he'd been found, half-dead, with no name or past.
Yet, through it all, a spark of defiance had burned, a refusal to surrender.
I want to be more, he thought, his fists clenching.
To break these chains, to rise above this fate.
The old man fell silent, his gaze turning to Song.
His eyes, sharp and ancient, studied him, peeling back layers Song didn't know he had.
The scrutiny was unnerving, like standing before a storm, yet Song held his ground, meeting the old man's stare.
The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken truths.
"Tell me," the old man said at last, his voice cutting through the void like a blade.
"Would you wish to be one of them?"
"A great warrior of your era?"
Song's breath caught, the question a weight on his soul.
He thought of the slave collar, its chokehold a constant reminder of his powerlessness.
The fox-beings' crimson eyes, the obsidian that had swallowed him.
The pain, the mockery, the endless struggle to survive.
Yet, beneath it all, that spark of defiance burned brighter than ever.
I want to be free, he thought.
To carve my own path, to stand tall.
"Yes," he said, his voice steady despite the fear.
"I want to be great."
The old man's eyes gleamed, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"Then listen closely," he said.
"The path is not what you expect."
"It is not paved with glory, but with sacrifice."
Song leaned forward, hanging on every word.
"What do I need to do?" he asked, his voice trembling with urgency.
The old man's smile faded, his gaze piercing.
"You must face the truth of your blood," he said.
"Your tattoo is no mere mark."
"It is a key, bound to the runes of this place."
Song's heart raced, his fingers brushing the single stripe.
A key? he thought, confusion swirling.
To what?
Before the old man could continue, the fire flared, its light blinding.
The void trembled, the ground shaking beneath Song's feet.
A voice—not the old man's—whispered in his mind, ancient and vast, its words echoing like thunder.
You are bound to the runes.
Awaken.
The flames surged, engulfing him in a torrent of heat.
His tattoo burned, a rune glowing brightly on its surface, identical to those in the palace hall.
Song gasped, the void collapsing around him, his mind teetering on the edge of revelation.
Who am I? he thought, his soul trembling with the weight of an unseen truth.
The fire roared, and the old man's figure began to fade, his voice a distant echo.
"Find the runes," he said.
"Find your truth."
Song reached out, desperate to hold onto the moment, but the void shattered, pulling him into the unknown.
To be continued…