On the other hand, in the midst of a desolate desert, stood an ancient Khanqah. The surroundings were engulfed in silence—broken only by the low, rhythmic sighing of the wind and the faint, ethereal hum of Dhikr.
In the center of a circle of dervishes, an old man sat in deep meditation. His beard was white, his eyes closed, yet his face glowed with an unseen, radiant light.
Suddenly—
His body shuddered. The air around him seemed to freeze. The chanting of Dhikr slowly faded into silence.
He opened his eyes…
A profound light burned within them—as if he had returned from witnessing an unseen realm.
In a voice that was trembling yet resolute, he spoke:
"I have… received a sign of a great benevolent power."
All the dervishes turned to look at him at once. In some eyes, there was wonder; in others, dread.
The old dervish looked toward the heavens and continued:
"He is coming… a power born perfect…
A soul within whom countless mysteries lie hidden."
His voice grew deeper, more resonant—
"He shall be our weapon in the coming war…
A soldier of light…
At whose very existence, the darkness shall tremble."
A sudden gust of wind swept through the chamber, as if an invisible entity were listening to his words.
Closing his eyes, the old man whispered:
"He will destroy all malevolent forces…
But remember—
The power that carries the light…
Casts the deepest of shadows."
News spread that a son had been born to Azgar, bearing the very mark foretold in the prophecy.
Azgar stood frozen.
His attendant asked, "Do you truly intend to hand him over to the occultists?"
Azgar replied, "If I give him away, I shall unleash such power by freeing the Ifrits that the world will bow before me."
The attendant said, with a trembling voice, "But my lord… he is your own blood… your legacy…"
Azgar suddenly roared—
"Silence!"
His voice made the walls shake.
"Power… that is the only truth in this world!
Blood, kinship—all are symbols of weakness!"
The attendant bowed his head, but whispered, "Yet… can a father truly sacrifice his own child's life like this…?"
Azgar paused.
His gaze shifted back to the infant—
The child was sleeping peacefully…
The mark on his hand emitting a soft, gentle glow…
For a brief moment—
A shadow of strange agony crossed Azgar's face.
He whispered slowly—
"I am… not merely a father…"
His voice grew heavy—
"I am the man… for whom the entire world shall tremble."
Suddenly, he turned around, stared into the darkness, and commanded—
"Prepare yourselves…
When the time comes—I alone shall decide…
Whether he lives… or if his death shall mark the dawn of my reign."
Just then—
The heavy doors of the palace began to shake on their own…
Slowly, they creaked open. (Episode 3)
In walked several dervishes. Dressed in white, their eyes held a profound sense of serenity—yet hidden beneath that peace was a strange, formidable power.
With their arrival, the darkness in the room seemed to recede…
The flickering torches steadied their flames.
An elderly dervish stepped forward.
His gaze was steady, his voice calm yet firm—
"This child is not a curse, my lord…
He is your blessing."
Azgar lifted his head.
The shadow of doubt still lingered in his eyes.
The dervish continued—
"The mark you fear… is a sign of light.
It is not a symbol of destruction—but of liberation."
Another dervish added—
"The occultists are tempting you…
But that path ends only in darkness.
If you sacrifice your own blood—
You will not gain power… rather, you will lose your own soul."
A heavy silence descended upon the chamber.
Azgar looked at the infant…
His tiny chest rose and fell with peaceful breaths.
Suddenly—
The child opened his eyes.
As he met the infant's blue gaze—
Azgar's heart trembled.
There was no fear in those eyes…
No greed…
Only a pure, pristine light.
After a long silence—
Azgar took a deep breath.
His voice was heavy, but resolute—
"No…"
He pulled the child to his chest—
"I will not… consign my child to the darkness."