In a towering edifice, where windows kissed the sky as if pleading for a hidden secret, silver light shimmered through the room like a river of stars spilled across the walls.
Amidst that profound silence, a man—his voice gentle yet carrying the weight of years of trials and survival—recounted a story to a young girl no more than ten years old.
The girl sat cross-legged before him, clad in a simple white dress that enveloped her like the wings of a docile dove. Her eyes, gleaming like ice, widened with each word, reflecting a sparkle that danced with the light, as if they were mirrors to another sky. Her white hair cascaded over her shoulders like a strand of light born from the heart of the moon.
The narrator smiled serenely, fixing his gaze upon her for a moment, then began his tale in a voice warm enough to soothe a child's heart… and deep enough to stir a man:
The Tale Begins
"The night was still; a quietude akin to bated breath before fate casts its final die. In that stillness, a young man walked alone, the earth receding from him in deference… or dread.
He bore no name given at birth, but one he carved upon the world. He knew he was forged for a singular purpose: battle—¬not as chaos, but as destiny woven into his being like shadows bound to feet. Yet his heart was not wholly shrouded in darkness; within it flickered a faint light, a small ember he kept alive for what was yet to come."
The child's breath caught, as though fearing to miss a single word.
"And elsewhere," the narrator continued, "a maiden from a lineage that dwelled above the clouds. But soaring heights offer no sanctuary when the world crumbles.
In a single night, everything vanished: warmth, safety—¬even tears. She was condemned to the executioner's block, a punishment designed to erase the final trace of a name the world wished forgotten.
And as the sword ascended… it did not descend.
A hand caught it before it cleaved the air.
It was that young man—the stranger with silent eyes. Eyes that held neither fear nor mercy… but a resolute declaration:
'She shall not be touched.'
To the astonishment of all present, he gathered her into his arms and spirited her away from a world that sought her end."
The child covered her mouth, eyes gleaming as though witnessing the scene unfold before her.
The narrator smiled faintly and continued:
"Years flowed by. He grew mightier than fate itself had foreseen, and she became serene enough to vanquish the remnants of her fears.
She never forgot the hand that lifted her from the precipice of oblivion.
And one day, after the young man had ascended to the pinnacle he built with his bare hands, he turned to her and asked:
'Will you remain with me… not as one saved, but as a companion of destiny?'
Through tears, she answered, her voice brimming with trust and joy:
'Yes.'"
A gentle silence settled. The little girl raised her hand, as if to touch the words hanging in the air.
"I felt relief," she said softly. "Happy that they found a beautiful ending."
The narrator placed his hand atop her head, eyes gleaming with wisdom carved from sorrow and triumph.
"No one knows what fate conceals, my little one. But as long as we hold onto hope… and do not judge it too quickly… we shall discover happy endings. Fate tests us, but it does not forsake those who believe."
Lloyd's Journey Begins
That night, resembling the fringes of a dream, Lloyd pressed onward toward the green light—¬salvation or curse, he did not know. Only that it was the single remaining thread of destiny.
The ground was moist, scarred by the night, as though the forest remembered every soul that had passed… and every soul that had not returned. Towering trees leaned inward like silent sentinels.
This was his inaugural journey into the forest—¬a journey measured not by steps but by fortitude.
Nights passed—nights beyond counting. Sounds shifted between distant howls, mourning winds, whispers that echoed his name.
On the fifth night, he reached the river: a mirror-like expanse. Not water, but a glassy surface reflecting not his face as it was, but as it might become… or what he dreaded becoming.
In that reflection, he saw it: the Guardian Dragon.
Not a full form—only an eye glowing beneath the surface, a green flame in hollow shape. It spoke with a voice felt, not heard:
"The path is not granted… the path is seized. And the light is not an invitation, but a promise that demands blood and truth."
Lloyd trembled but did not falter. He immersed his hand into the water—¬a pact he did not yet understand—¬and continued.
The Proving Grounds
Beyond the river, the world itself transformed. Night lost meaning. Time lost meaning.
The Gate of Fire appeared first. Not flames that seared flesh, but flames of memory—¬anger, betrayal, unworthiness.
He crossed without turning back. Hours passed—¬endless hours—¬until he emerged with faint embers in his eyes.
Then came the Gate of Shadow.
Absolute darkness.
There, his shadow manifested—¬not the body's shadow, but fear itself. A specter whispering that the light was a lie, the path a grave.
The more he fled, the closer it came… until he grasped truth:
A shadow cannot be defeated.
It can only be acknowledged.
When he accepted it silently, the darkness shattered into sparks. A narrow fissure appeared—the only exit.
He stepped through without hesitation.
The trials ended.
Exhausted, he collapsed into sleep for a few hours.
When he awoke, he found himself before the unmistakable green path—¬a trail woven by the dragon's claw, alive, each spark a star wandering the earth.
"It seems I must follow this line," he murmured.
Then sighed. "Well… let's see what fate holds."
A Week of Trials
The path consumed a full week. Hunger, thirst, disembodied voices calling his name… yet he never stopped.
The deeper he ventured, the heavier the night became, as though the forest sealed its doors behind him.
Finally, he arrived before a boundary between realms—¬a grand gateway formed of shifting hues and pulsing earth.
There was no guardian, no voice. Only silence thick with fate.
He reached toward the light, feeling cold and warmth at once, as if destiny clasped his hand.
"The path is not granted… the path is seized."
So he stepped forward—
and crossed the green light.
The world changed.
This was the genesis of true destiny.
The dawn of the Fourth Legacy.
The Thunder Dragon
Lloyd pressed onward. His footsteps left brief shimmers behind.
A faint voice rose among the trees:
"You who carry the blood's legacy… have you withstood the fire? Will you prove your mettle in this next challenge?"
Lloyd halted, eyes sharp.
"I have one question," he replied. "Why have I not been slain already? It would be effortless."
Silence.
Then:
"This is an order. But even so, we must determine if you are worthy. Naturally, you shall acquire new abilities—Legacies—as your Ki develops."
"H-huh…"
The ground trembled. A colossal gate rose, symbols glowing white, then green, then yellow.
Before it, a gigantic dragon stood, electricity swirling around it.
Lloyd stared in awe.
"Wait… don't you think this is unfair?" he muttered.
The dragon soared skyward—then was struck by thunder. In a flash of radiance, it took human form.
The Thunder Dragon smiled coldly.
"If you wish to pass… you must slay me."
Lloyd froze—heart pounding—yet did not retreat.
The gate cracked open. Shadows blocked the light. Winds carried distant echoes—unfulfilled prophecy.
Lloyd gripped his sword.
"Even if you are my final adversary," he whispered, "I shall face you."
He stepped forward.
And everything extinguished—
light, sound, even the green path—
leaving the scene devoured by mystery.
꧂ End of Chapter ꧂