《Autodidact's Insanity》


 The Faited and the forgotten

    Ever since I was given the privilege of forging memories and thoughts, I have been daunted by a few lingering questions.


    Was there ever truly a point if fate and destiny existed? And if so, what was it?


    Was it fate that led me down this cobblestone path¡ªcoincidences and unforeseen events colliding, shaping a journey I was always meant to follow? Or was it destiny¡ªmy own choices and desires, my will imposed upon an unchangeable world, only to arrive at the same destination regardless?


    If I was both fated and destined to walk this path, why was I cursed with awareness¡ªforced to observe and endure the harrowing horrors of this world? Why was I given the ability to form opinions and feelings, to fabricate meaning where none may exist? If I was fated to love someone but destined never to be with them, then what was the point of my feelings?


    Could I simply place the blame for my sins upon fate itself? If so, would I still be allowed into heaven? After all, I had no choice¡ªit was destined. Did heaven even exist? It was a lovely, deeply human concept¡ªfragile yet profound in its design, even as it brushed against the edges of something vast and inhuman. Heaven offered solace, a soft refuge from the unbearable weight of grief. It gave meaning to the hollow ache left behind when a loved one died, a balm for wounds that might otherwise never heal.


    The thought of eternal peace, of reunion, of something beyond this transient existence¡ªit was a beautiful idea.


    But the alternative was terrifying, a cold and unyielding void. The idea that someone, once vibrant and full of life, could simply cease to exist was a chasm too vast to comprehend. Just gone. Their laughter, their voice, their presence¡ªerased, as if they had never been at all.


    Perhaps heaven was born from humanity''s refusal to accept this finality, a desperate reaching for permanence in the face of an existence that often felt fleeting and fragile. Or maybe, just maybe, it was real. A glimmer of hope that death wasn¡¯t the end but a transformation, a doorway to somewhere better.


    And could it coexist with fate? If every thread of existence was already woven into the grand tapestry, if every choice and every path were predetermined, then what was the point? What purpose did sin and forgiveness serve if the outcome was already decided?


    With this natural flow of thoughts, a long-forgotten memory¡ªa story buried in time¡ªsurged back into his mind.


    There was once a boy named Elias, born under a blood-red sky. The village seer called him The Fated One, the child who would one day save them all. No one knew how, but fate had spoken, and fate never lied.


    Elias hated the title. He was not special¡ªjust another boy in a village of starving farmers. Yet, every whisper, every glance reminded him of the prophecy. His life was not his own. He was not allowed to leave, not allowed to dream of anything else. His destiny was to save them.


    Then came the day the prophecy was fulfilled.


    A great fire swept through the valley, and with it came invaders¡ªmerciless warriors who burned fields and cut down those who stood in their way. Panic spread, but Elias¡­ he did not run. He could not run. He knew what was coming. He had already seen it in his dreams.


    The invaders stormed the village square, where the last of the survivors huddled together. And there stood Elias, gripping a rusted sword with trembling hands. He did not want to fight, he didn''t want to hurt anyone. He wanted to run, to live¨C fall in love and experience every mundane joy that a normal person did. He wanted to be anything but the hero fate demanded him to be.


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    Yet, his body moved on its own. Because it was always meant to.


    Blow after blow, he fought, his sword striking true. The villagers saw him as fearless, but inside, he was numb. He was simply a piece of fate¡¯s design, a puppet fulfilling a script written long before he was born.


    One by one, the invaders fell, until the last of them drove a blade through Elias¡¯s chest. He collapsed, blood staining the earth beneath him, soaking the dirt with a deep crimson hue. The villagers wept, calling him a hero, swearing songs would be sung in his name.


    But as his vision faded, Elias had only one thought:


    ¡°Why was he fated to die here? Why did these people get to live, see the sunrise, and share a meal tomorrow?¡±


    Elias''s expression was grim¡ªfilled with anger, sorrow, and horror. But more than anything, he was scared. He was scared to die. And then¡­ he was gone.


    And the village, saved by a hero who never wanted to be one, forgot the weight of his question.


    With these thoughts flooding his mind, Kael finally reached his destination and stepped into the building. It was a beautiful corner cafeteria, adorned with cherished photographs of family and friends from past generations of owners. The windows, painted a deep royal green, cast magical reflections on the wooden furniture inside, creating an atmosphere as serene and inviting as a forest.


    It was not necessarily luxurious, but it was well-known and loved by the residents of Farkath. People often fancied the owner¡¯s homemade pastries¡ªtreasured delights crafted from a generational recipe.


    Today, the caf¨¦ was unusually crowded, forcing Kael to stand in line and wait for his turn to order. He didn¡¯t mind. The space was filled with a diverse mix of people¡ªteenagers, students, couples, and those in their late middle ages, all adding to the lively atmosphere.


    Behind the counter, a young woman in her early twenties¡ªaround the same age as Kael¡ªmoved with practiced ease. Her golden-blond hair fluttered each time the door swung open, and she wore a bright, welcoming smile. It was clear that the owner had trained her daughter well in the art of customer service.


    With swift efficiency, she took orders, barely pausing to glance at each customer before moving on to the next. Yet, despite the rapid pace, she never forgot a familiar face. She remembered the old priest who always ordered coffee on Sundays after church, the student who never asked for anything but hot chocolate, and the young man who thought she didn¡¯t notice the way he stole glances at her when he believed she wasn¡¯t looking.


    There was always a pattern to their visits, and she noticed them all. This was also the reason she immediately realised the man in front of her had never visited the cafeteria before. He was a young man with black hair cascading almost to his shoulders and styled in a middle part, his appearance was not meticulously groomed but it still exuded a sense of care and attention. He had a handsome, approachable appearance that made him stand out in a crowd. His features were well-balanced, with a strong jawline and eyes that, though kind, held a hint of coldness that drew people in. While not flawlessly perfect, his looks were enough to turn heads and leave a lasting impression.


    He wore a black coat draped over his shoulders and had a cane made out of dark wood neatly placed under his arm. In his deep green eyes, reminiscent of ancient emeralds, one could discern not only wisdom and curiosity but also profound traces of dejectedness, regret, and helplessness.


    She greeted him with a warm smile, her natural friendliness shining through as she leaned in slightly to take his order. It was the first time she¡¯d spoken to him, and there was a genuine warmth in her voice, a subtle invitation to connection.


    ¡°Lovely day today, isn¡¯t it? What would you like to orde¡ª¡±


    Her words trailed off as she noticed the young, handsome man in front of her raise his hand. His palm faced toward her, fingers pointing upward, and from its center, a faint yellow light began to glow.


    Without warning, a solid yellow rod materialized, shooting forth like a bullet. The rod had a flat, blunt front, like a piece of metal freshly sawed off. It struck her squarely between the eyebrows, passing effortlessly through her skull. The force of the impact tore through her brain, before exiting through the back of her head, leaving a streak of pinkish-gray matter splattered across the walls and paintings behind her. Just as suddenly as it had appeared, the rod vanished into thin air, only leaving a fine yellow like dust dancing in the air.


    The young woman crumpled to the floor with a dull thud, lifeless.


    Kael, his expression unchanging, removed the cane from under his arm. He turned and walked out of the cafeteria, leaving behind only the aftermath of his silent, inexplicable violence. Panicked voices and hurried footsteps echoed behind him. Though their words were indistinct, he knew exactly what they were searching for¡ªreason, understanding, some explanation for why this had happened to the young woman.

 The essence of the world

    Upon entering the old stone building, Kael was met with a lively, bustling atmosphere. The vast, open space stretched upward, its ceiling towering tens of meters above. Rows of market stalls lined the hall, each overflowing with goods as merchants called out to passersby. The air buzzed with overlapping voices¡ªsome engaged in casual conversation, others locked in heated bargaining. Children, brimming with energy, darted through the crowd without a care, forcing bystanders to step aside as they rushed past. Each wall of the open space was adorned with three massive stained-glass windows, their vibrant colors casting shifting patterns of light across the stone floor. The intricate artwork depicted scenes from a long-forgotten religion, the images arranged in a sequence that seemed to tell a story.


    The first window depicted a man standing alone in a barren field, his head bowed beneath a broken black halo. Cracks ran through it like fractured glass, with tiny fragments and black dust constantly shedding from its form. His face was carved with sorrow, and though his expression never changed, tears poured endlessly down his cheeks. In his trembling hands, he held a golden bag, its surface marred by long, deep scratches¡ªas if something inside had tried to claw its way out. Above him, the sky swirled with faceless figures, watching in silence.


    The second window showed the man kneeling before a great black tree, its roots writhing like serpents beneath the cracked earth. The golden bag lay open at its base, its contents spilled upon the ground¡ªsomething dark, writhing, and indistinct, seeping into the soil. His hands were outstretched in supplication, though no one could say whether he was offering or begging. His tears fell into the blackened roots, and the faceless figures had drawn closer, their forms stretching unnaturally.


    The third window revealed the tree bearing fruit, luminous and red, like swollen hearts dripping with thick, black veins. The man, his halo shedding more fragments with each passing moment, reached for one. Behind him, the faceless figures loomed, and for the first time, their mouths were visible¡ªgaping wide, screaming in soundless agony. His tears did not cease.


    In the fourth window, the man had taken a bite of the fruit. His body was splitting open down the middle, hollowed like a husk, yet he did not fall. From the gaping wound in his torso, golden light spilled forth, twisting and writhing until it took the shape of an inhuman figure with many hands. The faceless figures had now prostrated themselves before it. The man, his black halo still cracking and crumbling away, only continued to weep.


    The fifth window was the most disturbing. The tree had withered, its once-reaching branches now twisted into clawed hands. The many-handed figure had turned upon the kneeling masses, and they were burning¡ªflames of white and gold consuming them from the inside out. The man, still standing, remained untouched by the fire. His tears had become rivers, flowing into the open mouths of the dying, as if his sorrow was the only mercy left to give.


    Above his head, the black halo continued to crack, never stopping, never ceasing. Jagged fractures split across its surface, and with each moment, tiny fragments flaked away, dissolving into dust that rained down in an endless, silent cascade. Yet, despite its constant shattering, it never crumbled, never broke entirely¡ªnever lost its form. It simply cracked, over and over again, as if bound to an eternity of breaking without end.


    The final window showed the man with the black halo alone again, standing in the same barren field as before. The golden bag had returned to his hands, bound shut once more. The faceless figures had vanished, replaced by nameless gravestones stretching endlessly into the horizon. The sky above was empty. And still, the man wept.


    As Kael walked through the repurposed church, he arrived at a small stall displaying handcrafted jewelry made from a variety of materials. The vendor, an old man with deep wrinkles etched around his eyes, was carefully carving a delicate piece from bone. Noticing Kael¡¯s presence, the man offered a warm smile and a polite nod.


    Kael returned the gesture with a simple nod of his own before sliding a small paper ticket across the table. The old man glanced at it briefly before tucking it into the breast pocket of his shirt. Without a word, he retrieved a small cloth sack and handed it to Kael. He weighed it loosely in his palm, then turned and walked away.


    ¡ª


    Tossing the cloth sack onto the table, a few gold coins spilled out, rolling across the surface. Kael made his way to the bathroom, turning on the tap for the bathtub. He sat on the edge, absentmindedly holding his finger under the stream, waiting for the water to reach the right temperature.


    As he waited, he let his mind drift, his thoughts wandering to meaningless places, slipping between fragments of memory and idle speculation. The steady sound of flowing water filled the quiet space.


    Once the temperature was just right, he let the tub continue to fill before leaving the bathroom and heading toward the kitchen.


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    Reaching the kitchen, he grabbed a few simple ingredients, intending to throw together a quick meal to satisfy his hunger. As they hit the hot oil in the pan, a rich aroma filled the air, spreading through the kitchen in warm, inviting waves.


    As the meal sizzled and cooked, the warmth of the kitchen made the space feel momentarily comforting. He plated the food without much thought, eating in quiet solitude, letting the simple flavors ground him in the present. The rhythmic clinking of his utensils against the plate was the only sound accompanying him.


    Once finished, he set the dish aside, rinsing it briefly before stepping away. The distant sound of running water reminded him of the bath still filling.


    Returning to the bathroom, he turned off the tap, steam curling into the air, wrapping around him like a thin veil. Slowly, he shed his clothes and stepped into the tub, the heat sinking into his skin, easing the tension from his muscles. Leaning back, he closed his eyes and exhaled deeply, letting the warmth envelop him as his mind began to drift once more.


    After a long while, he opened his eyes and raised his hand above the water, summoning one of his motes in its true form. At his silent command, a faint, shimmering sensation stirred within him¡ªdeep, deeper than his abdomen, as if it resonated from the very core of his soul. The warmth unfurled, spreading from within, trailing up his spine, through his shoulders, and down his arm before finally pooling in his palm.


    Within his palm, golden sparks flickered into existence, swirling around an unseen center as if drawn by an invisible force. They spiraled inward, guided by a pull beyond understanding, converging into a single form. The sparks wove together, coalescing into a small sphere no larger than a pea.


    At first glance, the mote appeared to be woven together by thin threads, no thicker than a strand of hair. Yet, upon closer inspection, the true nature of those threads became elusive¡ªa puzzle beyond comprehension, as if they existed on the edge of perception, their substance shifting between reality and something far more unknowable. The mote cast ever-shifting shadows across his palm, their shapes twisting and morphing in ways that defied comprehension.


    Motes were the very essence of the earth, embodying the countless laws that governed this world¡ªmystical fragments of reality itself. Yet, among all living beings, only humans had the ability to wield them.


    Unlike beasts, who acted on instinct alone, humans possessed something more¡ªconsciousness, reason, and the capacity for will. They could reflect, dream, and impose their desires upon the world. It was this very spark of awareness, this defiance against the natural order, that allowed them to grasp the motes and shape their power. Beasts could bear strength, speed, and ferocity, but they could never command the laws themselves. That privilege belonged to humanity alone.


    If Kael were to summon the mote beyond its true form, it would take the shape of a golden rod, reaching two arm¡¯s lengths in perfect balance. Its surface held a muted glow, not from reflected light, but from something within, a quiet radiance that never flickered. Both ends were flat and smooth as if cut by an impossibly sharp edge, too precise, too seamless to be made by mortal hands.


    Faint patterns traced along its length, shifting subtly like whispers caught in metal, their meanings just out of reach. Though it felt weightless in his grip, there was a sense of density to it, as if it carried more than just its physical form. Not quite a weapon, nor just an ornament, but something in between¡ªan object shaped by the unseen forces that governed the world.


    Throwing it one last glance, Kael dismissed the golden rod, already willing his second and final mote into its true form. At his silent command, the familiar warmth flared to life, flowing through him like a slow-burning ember before pooling in his palm. Sparks flickered into existence, delicate and erratic, dancing in the air as they obeyed his will, weaving together as the mote slowly began to take shape.


    In his hand, a fractured obsidian shard took shape, a jagged sliver no larger than a fingernail, yet impossibly sharp. Its surface was riddled with fine cracks, shifting ever so subtly, as if it existed in multiple places at once, slipping between reality''s seams.


    Kael didn¡¯t dare to touch it directly, so he dismissed it and instead summoned it in its bound form. No physical object appeared in his hand, yet he felt its presence in his fingertips¡ªan acute awareness that went beyond mere touch. Every sensation became heightened, refined to near perfection.


    If his fingers brushed against his clothes, he could perceive each individual thread, how they intertwined, how they shifted with the slightest movement. If he rested his palm against the bathtub, he didn¡¯t just feel its smooth surface¡ªhe understood its density, the resistance it offered, the precise amount of pressure needed to crack it. Had he placed his hand upon his own chest, he would have known the rhythm of his heartbeat, the flow of his blood, the expansion of his lungs with each breath.


    After dismissing his second mote, Kael sank into deep thought once again. At a glance, these motes might not have seemed particularly special, but to Kael, they were invaluable. These were the two motes he had received upon awakening, and becoming a luminaire, his soulbound motes.


    Throughout the world, there were countless motes, each carrying unique abilities, each shaping the fate of those who wielded them. But the motes granted at one¡¯s awakening were different. They were not chosen, not earned, but bestowed¡ªan intrinsic part of one''s being, as if the world itself had whispered its decree into their soul.


    These motes were special for one simple reason. While all other motes remained unchanged from the moment they were obtained, these alone had the ability to evolve. As a Luminaire grew stronger, their soul bound motes grew with them, adapting, refining, and deepening in power alongside their wielder. They were more than mere tools; they were a reflection of one¡¯s very essence, mirroring their growth, struggles, and victories. Because of this, every Luminaire held their core motes closer than anything else, treasuring them as an irreplaceable part of themselves¡ªan extension of their soul, bound to them for life.

 Ripples Against the Current

    Kael stretched his arms slightly as he sat up in bed, his movements slow and unhurried. For a while, he remained still, staring at the empty wall before him, his mind deliberately blank¡ªholding off the tide of thoughts that threatened to rise.


    Eventually, he mustered the will to move, slipping out of bed and getting dressed with quiet efficiency. As he made his way to the kitchen, preparing to make breakfast, he finally allowed his thoughts to drift. Memories surfaced, uninvited yet familiar.


    From an early age, he had been orphaned, forced to survive on his own with no one to lean on. He could no longer recall his parents¡¯ faces¡ªonly the warmth of their love, a distant, fading sensation that felt more like a dream than a memory. But his younger sister remained a clear fact in his mind, a piece of his past that time hadn¡¯t erased.


    Once, they had faced the world together¡ªtwo lost children clinging to each other in the dark. But somewhere along the way, they had drifted apart. Not to death, not to tragedy¡ªjust to time, to distance, to the slow, indifferent pull of life.


    He didn¡¯t know where she was now, if she was safe, if she even remembered him. But that was the nature of the world. People lost each other, pulled apart by forces beyond their control. He had long since accepted that.


    With his life constantly on the line, Kael had been forced into all manner of unsavory work¡ªstealing, blackmailing, lying¡ªwhatever it took to survive. Morality had never been a luxury he could afford. And through this honorless work, he came to witness the ugliest sides of human nature.


    People were willing to kill, deceive, and betray even lifelong friends if it meant gaining an advantage. At first, Kael had been horrified by the depths of cruelty humans could sink to in pursuit of their own interests. But as the years passed, his perspective shifted. In a way, he had come to appreciate these experiences. They had given him a deeper understanding of people¡ªan insight most only gained after decades of life.


    And yet, no matter how ruthless they seemed, he couldn¡¯t bring himself to hate them. Because, at their core, they were no different from him. Just like him, they were only trying to survive, to carve out something better for themselves in an unforgiving world.


    and finally, after years of brutal survival, Kael awakened as a Luminaire. His newfound power and enhanced physique gave him the confidence to take on more dangerous work. Before he knew it, he had become a mercenary. He didn¡¯t care what the job was¡ªas long as there was a price on it, he would see it done. Stealing, killing, hunting¡ªit made no difference to him. Efficiency became his greatest weapon, and with it, he carved out a name for himself in the hidden world of mercenaries, earning enough to live comfortably.


    However, comfort was never truly his aim. Throughout his relentless struggle, survival had taught him one undeniable truth: control was the only currency that mattered. Life was like a river, and fate its unyielding current¡ªa force that bent forests, shattered stone, and drowned even the most defiant. Kael didn¡¯t know if he¡¯d ever reach shore. But still, he swam. Still, he clawed at the torrent, muscles screaming, lungs burning, carving temporary furrows into the unyielding flow. Let the river call it wasted breath; let it drag him deeper. When the edge came, he¡¯d meet it on his own terms¡ªeyes wide open, teeth bared, a lifetime of ripples etched into his skin like scars. And until then? He¡¯d thrash. Again. Again. Again.


    ¡°Life waits for no one huh.¡±


    Kael let out a soft, knowing smile, thinking about his past.


    The past had not been kind to him, but it had given him something else¡ªconfidence in the future. Few were as prepared as he was for the trials ahead.


    Yesterday after having collected the bounty on a young barista in a cafeteria, on his way home, a new mercenary job caught his eye.


    Throughout the city, numerous billboards displayed news, advertisements, and various offers. However, hidden among them were cryptic messages meant solely for mercenaries. At first glance, this might have seemed unnecessary, but the complexity of these postings served a purpose¡ªto ensure only the most qualified could decipher them.


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    Kael had spent quite a few years now as a mercenary, honing his ability to decipher. Most coded messages were easy enough for him to crack, but one in particular caught his attention. It was needlessly convoluted, its complexity bordering on absurd.


    At face value, it spoke of nothing more than a simple letter delivery to a close friend. Yet, as Kael stared at the message, gears turning in his mind, the true meaning gradually unraveled. It took him tens of minutes, longer than he cared to admit, but eventually, the pieces fell into place.


    ¡®No wonder they went to such lengths to encrypt this.¡¯


    His brows furrowed. Whoever had written this message wasn¡¯t just being cautious¡ªthey were desperate.


    It was, without a doubt, a special mission¡ªso much so that even Kael found himself momentarily surprised. The request came from the only noble family in Farkath, the Eirendaile. It was exceedingly rare for a noble house to seek the aid of a mercenary. Not only did they have their own trusted forces, but they also possessed the wealth to hire virtually anyone they desired.


    Across the world, noble families were direct descendants of powerful cultivators, with four of them tracing their lineage back to paragons¡ªthe highest-ranked cultivators in existence, standing at rank nine. Their names were known to all, yet their true nature remained a mystery to anyone outside their bloodlines.


    For a family of such stature to seek the aid of a mercenary was nearly unheard of. While Eirendaile was not among the paragons¡¯ bloodlines nor a bloodline spanning millions of years, its ancestor had been an exceptionally powerful rank five Luminaire¡ªand the very founder of Farkath. Within the city, his name was known by all, his legacy woven into its very foundation.


    That was precisely what made this so unusual. A family of such prominence had no shortage of trusted allies, nor any lack of wealth to secure the best. For them to resort to a mercenary meant only one thing.


    This mission was something they couldn¡¯t afford to be tied to.


    Sigh.


    Kael exhaled sharply and ripped the poster from the board, ensuring no one else would have the chance to take it.


    Deciphering the message had taken him tens of minutes, but making the final decision took only a moment. The treasures and rewards from a family that had endured for centuries were, without a doubt, exceptional. The opportunity was simply too big to ignore.


    ¡ª


    A faint sizzle snapped him from his thoughts.


    Kael blinked, realizing his hand had been hovering over the pan for longer than necessary. The scent of frying eggs filled the small kitchen, blending with the lingering cold of the morning. He exhaled slowly, shaking off the remnants of yesterday. That was done. The decision had been made. Now, all that remained was to see it through.


    There were still a few weeks before his mission began, and Kael intended to make the most of it¡ªtaking it easy and enjoying this rare moment of free time. That was precisely why he was making such a hefty breakfast, not sparing a single thought on the cost.


    Before long, his meal was ready. Crispy bacon, freshly baked bread, eggs, vibrant vegetables, and a steaming cup of coffee¡ªall neatly plated in front of him.


    He awkwardly picked up his plates and coffee cup, heading for the porch. It was simple, with only a small table and a chair¡ªbut for Kael, it was enough.


    Just last year, he had finally saved up enough to buy a small cabin on the outskirts of the city. It wasn¡¯t anything special, just a modest home tucked away in the woods. But he liked it. It was peaceful, a place where he could escape the noise of the city and enjoy some quiet.


    It wasn¡¯t luxurious by any means, but it had all the essentials. More importantly, it was surrounded by trees in every direction, with a small lake visible through the gaps in the foliage¡ªa quiet retreat where the only sounds were birdsong and the gentle rustling of leaves in the wind.


    Kael sat down and opened one of the many books he had picked up from his bookshelf. The pages were slightly worn, the spine creased from countless readings, but that only made it feel more familiar. As he read, time slipped away unnoticed. The morning sun climbed higher, warming the wooden porch, but he remained lost in the world within the pages.


    A cool breeze drifted past, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine, stirring the leaves overhead. Somewhere in the distance, a bird called out, its song blending seamlessly into the gentle hush of the forest. Kael turned another page, shifting slightly in his chair.


    Eventually, the warmth of his meal had faded, the last crumbs of bread sitting forgotten on his plate. The golden afternoon light spilled through the trees, stretching shadows across the porch. He blinked, glancing up at the sky¡ªwhen had it gotten so late?


    He let out a slow breath, stretching his arms before leaning back in his chair.


    For a brief moment, he simply sat there, listening to the sounds of the forest. There was no rush, no pressure¡ªjust him, his book, and the quiet company of nature.


    And for now, that was enough.