《VOIDBORN PROPHECY》


 A child born of fate

    The night he was born, the skies mourned.


    A tempest raged above the desolate world, winds howling like grieving spirits. Lightning scarred the


    heavens, illuminating the lone figure of a woman drenched in rain, her breath ragged, her body


    trembling.


    In her arms lay a child--silent, unnervingly still. His golden eyes, unnatural for a newborn, glowed


    faintly in the dark.


    He was not meant to exist.


    She had seen it.


    Visions of ruin, of a lone figure standing amidst corpses and crumbling stars. His hands, tainted with


    power beyond comprehension. His fate was carved in the fabric of reality itself.


    And she could not bear it.


    The woman stumbled forward, the towering gates of the church before her. It was the only place he


    might be safe. From the world. From himself.


    Her fingers hesitated as she unwrapped the cloth that held him. A single thought gnawed at her


    mind:


    If I leave him here, will he curse me? Will he seek me out?


    Would fate allow her to escape?


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    She pressed a final, trembling kiss to his forehead, whispering words that only the rain bore witness


    to.


    "Forgive me."


    Then she was gone.


    ---


    The priests took him in without question. A nameless child abandoned at the gates of divinity--what


    cruel irony.


    They called him Zerathis.


    From the beginning, he was different. The other children instinctively avoided him. The elders spoke


    in hushed tones when he passed. His golden eyes carried an unsettling weight, something primal,


    something not meant for a mortal.


    Yet he did not lash out. He did not hate them. He simply watched


    He listened.


    The whispers of his bloodline followed him like ghosts. The fallen hero--the man who betrayed his


    own kind for power. The one whose name was erased from history. His father.


    The weight of a past he never chose clung to him like a curse.


    And then fate tested him.


    A fire broke out in the town. The inferno spread with merciless hunger, consuming wood, stone,


    flesh. The night was filled with the screams of the helpless.


    But it was no accident.


    Somebody had started the fire.


    And they had done it deliberately.


    Zerathis ran. Not away--but toward the flames.


    A child--one of the orphans from the church--was trapped beneath the wreckage. She screamed his


    name, her tiny hands reaching for him as the fire closed in.


    He reached out, his heart pounding.


    Something inside him stirred.


    For a single, fleeting moment, he thought--maybe fate had not abandoned him. Maybe he could


    change it. Maybe--


    But nothing happened.


    His hands grasped at nothing. No divine power came to his aid. No unseen force lifted the debris.


    No hidden strength surged within him.


    He was just a boy. A powerless, pathetic boy.


    The fire consumed her.


    The scream cut through the night, then silence.


    Zerathis stood frozen, his hands trembling, his vision blurred. He did not move, even as the smoke


    choked him, even as the heat scorched his skin.


    He had failed.


    Not because he had hesitated. Not because he had been too slow.


    But because fate had never intended for him to succeed.


    And someone had ensured it.


    Somewhere in the shadows, unseen eyes watched. The fire had not been random. It was planned.


    But why?


    Zerathis did not know.


    But he would find out.


    It was in that moment--standing amidst the ashes of his failure--that something inside him cracked.


    "If fate dares to forsake me..."


    His golden eyes burned as he clenched his fists, nails digging into flesh.


    "Then I will defy it myself."


    And so, the path of Zerathis began.

 A Life In Shadows

    The grand halls of the Sanctum of Lumina stood tall, bathed in the morning glow of stained-glass reflections.Within these sacred walls, Zerathis had spent his childhoodhis earliest memories filled with the scent of old parchment, the soft murmurs of prayers, and the cold stone floors beneath his bare feet. But despite the serenity that enveloped the holy grounds, he knew his presence was an anomaly.


    Even as a child, Zerathis was different. The other orphans were loud, playful, and carefree, their laughter echoing through the church halls. But he... he was quiet, observant, and strangely mature for his age. He had no memories of the mother who left him here, nor did he question her absence. Deep within, he always felt a weight pressing on himsomething unseen yet ever-present, as though the strings of fate had already begun to weave a path too heavy for his small shoulders. He spent his days studying under the watchful eye of High Priest Aedric, who treated him with a distant kindness, never cruel but always wary. The older priests whispered about him, speculating in hushed voices when they thought he wasnt listening.


    "A child born under an ill omen..."


    "Why did she leave him here? She was a hero once, but..." "They say he doesnt cry, doesnt complain... unnatural, dont you think?" Zerathis never let their words show on his face, but the weight of them settled deep in his chest.


    His first true struggle came when he was barely eight. A routine sparring session turned into something else entirely. The church provided training in both discipline and self-defenseessential for those who served under its banner. Zerathis had never enjoyed these sessions, but he participated out of duty.


    One of the older boys, Garrick, had always found pleasure in taunting him. Whats wrong, orphan? Afraid you might actually be normal for once? he sneered. Zerathis didnt react he never did. But when Garrick charged at him with a wooden staff, something inside him stirred. His body moved before thought could catch up. His foot slid half a step back, weight perfectly balanced. A turn of the wrist, a flick of the armbefore anyone could react, Garricks weapon was gone. It clattered to the floor, spinning away.


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    Zerathis hadnt even realized what he had done. He stood frozen, one hand gripping Garricks wrist, his other pressing against the boys chest a position meant to break ribs if force had been applied. The entire chamber fell into silence.Malriks brows furrowed. That movementit was precise, refined, beyond anything an orphan boy should know. He stepped forward, breaking the tense silence.


    Where did you learn that? Malriks voice was low, but there was something else beneath it. Not accusation, Recognition. Zerathis slowly released Garrick and stepped back. I... dont know.


    The answer was honest. He had never seen that technique before, never been trained in it. And yet, it had come as naturally as breathing. Malrik studied him for a long moment before turning away. The match is over, he declared. Resume training.


    But as the other trainees hesitantly obeyed, Malrik cast one last glance at Zerathis. The movement, the instinct, he had seen something like it before, long ago, in the days of fallen kings and lost warriors.


    That night, Zerathis found himself alone in the Sanctums library, surrounded by ancient tomes. He had always been drawn to the written word, seeking answers in ink when reality offered none. But there were no books that could explain why his hands moved with knowledge his mind did not possess. He traced his fingers over the faded scripts of a history long forgotten. The words whispered of warriors who defied fate, of battles unseen by mortal eyes. He did not know why, but a part of him felt drawn to these lost stories, as if he was missing a piece of himself buried within them.


    From the doorway, High Priest Aedric watched him in silence. He had known since the boys arrival that Zerathis was different. Now, after what Malrik had reported, his suspicions only grew stronger. This boy is not ordinary," Aedric thought. "And soon, he will have to face the truth himself.

 Whispers of the forgotten

    The grand halls of the Sanctum of Lumina, once his quiet refuge, now felt different. The air was heavier, the gazes sharper. Zerathis could feel it-the shift in how the other orphans looked at him. Some with awe, others with suspicion, and a few, like Garrick, with barely concealed resentment. The fight had changed something..


    For years, he had moved through the church unnoticed, another nameless orphan raised under divine doctrine. Now, however, murmurs followed him like shadows. "Did you see how he moved?" "That wasn''t normal. That wasn''t anything Malrick taught us."


    Zerathis ignored them or atleast he tried to.


    Malrick however didnt ignore the situation as he wondered upon the flexibility of a boy who hadnt known the frontlines of a battlefield ...That night, after the training session, the old instructor summoned him privately. The dim torchlight flickered in the secluded training chamber, casting long shadows on the stone walls. Malrick stood with his arms crossed, studying Zerathis as if he were a puzzle with missing pieces.


    "Again."


    Zerathis hesitated. "Sir?"


    Malrick didn''t repeat himself. He tossed a wooden staff at him, stepping back into a stance.


    The unspoken command was clear.


    Zerathis took his position, gripping the staff tightly. The moment he settled into a defensive stance, Malrick lunged-faster than anyone in training ever had. Zerathis barely had time to think. His instincts took over. A sidestep. A shift in weight. A downward parry followed by an upward strike.


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    Malrick barely managed to block the attack and his eyes narrowed


    Again


    Again


    And again ...


    Every time, Zerathis reacted with precision, his movements efficient, calculated-but not entirely his own. There was no hesitation, no second-guessing, as if his body remembered something his mind did not. Malrick finally called for a stop. He exhaled, shaking his head. "These aren''t techniques taught by the church."


    Zerathis remained silent. Malrick watched him for a long moment before sighing. "I don''t know what you are, boy. But I do know one thing-whatever sleeps inside you is waking up." Those words haunted Zerathis long after he left the chamber.


    That night, he found himself drawn to the library again. The scent of ancient parchment filled the air, the dim candlelight flickering against the endless rows of books. He had searched before, looking for answers to questions he couldn''t fully form. But tonight was different.


    Something called to him.


    His fingers brushed against the spine of an old tome-one he didn''t remember noticing before. The cover was worn, its title barely legible: "Chronicles of the Lost Sovereigns."


    Zerathis hesitated before opening it. The pages were brittle, the ink faded, but as he read, a chill ran down his spine.


    "In ages long past, there were those who defied the fate written in the stars. Warriors who wielded power beyond their understanding, moving as though guided by forces unseen. These individuals, cursed and blessed alike, carried echoes of a time forgotten, when gods still walked among mortals."


    "But such gifts come with a price. To defy fate is to invite ruin. And so, those who bore these echoes were cast into the abyss, their names erased, their legacies buried in the void." Zerathis'' grip tightened on the book. Something inside him stirred-something deep, something ancient.


    Behind him, from the shadows of the library, High Priest Aedric watched. He had known, since the day the boy was left at the church, that Zerathis was different. The signs had always been there. But now... now it was undeniable.


    The past was trying to reclaim him and soon, Zerathis would have to face the truth himself.

 Whispers Of The Past

    The flickering glow of candlelight danced along the stone walls of the sanctum, casting elongated


    shadows that seemed to move with a life of their own. Zerathis sat in quiet contemplation,


    his fingers tracing the worn edges of an ancient tome that lay open before him. The words


    etched upon its pages spoke of forgotten battles, of warriors lost to time, and of a history


    that felt eerily familiar.


    His conversation with High Priest Aedric had left him unsettled. There had been too many half-truths,


    too many veiled warnings. He had always known he was different, but the way Aedric had spoken


    hinted at something far greater, something deliberately hidden from him. A sudden knock at his door pulled him from his thoughts.


    "Enter," he called, closing the book with a measured sigh.


    A young acolyte stepped inside, bowing deeply. "High Priest Aedric summons you to the inner sanctum."


    Zerathis frowned but nodded, rising from his seat. He had expected this.


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    The walk through the silent corridors felt heavier than usual. Priests whispered prayers under their


    breath, their gazes lingering upon him for a fraction too long. It was as if they knew something


    he did not.


    Upon reaching the sanctum, he found Aedric waiting, flanked by two elder priests. The air was thick


    with incense, and the golden light of the sacred flame illuminated the chamber.


    "You seek answers, Zerathis," Aedric said, his voice calm yet unreadable. "And yet, answers often


    come with a price."


    Zerathis met the priest''s gaze. "Then I am ready to pay it."


    Aedric studied him for a long moment before gesturing toward the altar. "Then step forward, and


    see for yourself what has long been hidden from you."


    A sense of foreboding gripped him, but he did as he was told. As he placed his hands upon the


    etched surface of the altar, a wave of energy pulsed through his body. Visions flashed before his


    eyes-ancient battlefields, a woman clad in silver armor, her gaze fierce yet sorrowful. His pulse


    raced as recognition struck him.


    Selene Vaelcrest.


    His mother.


    The vision faded, leaving him breathless. He staggered back, his mind reeling.


    "What... was that?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.


    "The beginning," Aedric said. "The beginning of your truth."


    As the sacred flame flickered behind the high priest ,


    Zerathis realized-his journey for answers had only just begun.....

 Echoes Of Destiny

    The flickering glow of candlelight was absent tonight. Instead, the pale moon cast its ethereal glow through the high-arched windows of the sanctum, illuminating the stone corridors in a ghostly silver hue. Zerathis tread carefully, his mind burdened with the weight of unanswered questions, each step an echo of his lingering doubts.


    Selene Vaelcrest. A warrior. A seeker of truth. A mother who had left him behind for a purpose.


    His fingers curled into a fist, frustration simmering beneath his skin. High Priest Aedric had given him just enough to stir his curiosity, but not enough to form a complete picture. His mother had not abandoned him out of neglect¡­. but what had she been running from? Or rather, what had she been preparing him for?


    The sanctum¡¯s main hall smelled of burning incense. A few robed priests murmured prayers near the altar, their voices blending into a low hum that seemed to vibrate against the stone walls. The sanctum was peaceful, yet beneath that peace, Zerathis felt something else......something unseen.


    There was something about this place, something hidden beneath layers of reverence and routine.


    He would find it.


    The following days passed in a cycle of training, prayer, and study. Zerathis threw himself into his daily routine with a renewed sense of purpose, sharpening his skills in both combat and scripture.


    Under the watchful eye of Malrik, he honed his swordsmanship each strike more precise, each movement an extension of his will. His instructors noticed the shift in his demeanor. He wasn¡¯t just fighting to improve anymore; he was fighting to understand.


    "You''re pushing yourself harder than usual," Malrik observed one evening after a particularly grueling sparring session. He leaned on his training blade, studying Zerathis with a measured gaze. "Something on your mind?"


    Zerathis exhaled sharply, wiping sweat from his brow. "Do you believe in fate, Malrik?"


    The older warrior narrowed his eyes slightly, as if measuring his words before speaking. "Fate is a convenient excuse for those who refuse to carve their own path."


    Zerathis considered that. "But what if your path was set before you were even born? What if __" He hesitated. "What if someone chose it for you?"


    Malrik remained silent for a long moment before finally responding. "Then I would ask: do you accept it? Or do you defy it?"


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    Zerathis had no answer.. not yet


    The library called to him again.


    Late one night, long after the priests had retired to their chambers, Zerathis found himself walking through the candlelit aisles, his fingers trailing over the spines of ancient tomes. His instincts guided him deeper, past the familiar shelves and into the older sections where dust clung thick to forgotten knowledge.


    His footsteps halted before a particular shelf. One book stood out among the rest, its leather-bound cover worn but intact.


    "The Chronicles of the Forgotten War."


    Zerathis pulled the book free, its weight heavier than he expected. He turned to a nearby reading desk, carefully opening the aged pages. The script was old, the ink slightly faded, but legible.


    "And so, in the age before reckoning, when the heavens waged war upon the earth, the forsaken ones were cast into the abyss¡ªbound by chains unseen, their names erased from time itself. Yet in the echoes of fate, their blood still lingers, waiting to be called forth once more¡­"


    His pulse quickened.


    The words felt too close. Too personal.


    Before he could read further, a voice broke the silence.


    "You should not be here at this hour, Zerathis."


    He looked up sharply. High Priest Aedric stood near the entrance, his expression unreadable.


    Zerathis hesitated, but then slowly closed the book. "I was looking for answers."


    Aedric stepped forward, his gaze lingering on the tome. "And did you find them?"


    Zerathis shook his head. "Only more questions."


    Aedric sighed. "Some truths reveal themselves when the seeker is ready. Be patient, Zerathis. In time, the path will unfold before you."


    Zerathis met the priest¡¯s gaze. "And if I don¡¯t want to wait?"


    Aedric smiled faintly. "Then you must be prepared to face what you find."


    The moonlight filtered through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the library walls. And in that moment, Zerathis knew¡ªhis search was only just beginning.


    The following week, his training sessions became more rigorous. Not just in the art of the blade, but in discipline, patience, and mental fortitude. Malrik pushed him harder, testing the limits of his endurance. And still, in the quiet moments, his mind wandered back to the book, to the war, to the forsaken ones.


    One evening, after a particularly intense sparring session, he found himself standing before Aedric¡¯s chamber door. A moment of hesitation, then he knocked.


    "Come in, Zerathis."


    He entered, his eyes scanning the dimly lit room. Scrolls, relics, and tomes lined the walls. Aedric stood near the fireplace, hands folded behind his back.


    "You seek answers," the priest said without turning.


    Zerathis clenched his jaw. "Yes."


    Aedric finally faced him. "Then tell me¡ªdo you wish to know your origins, or do you wish to understand them?"


    The distinction made Zerathis pause. "Both."


    Aedric nodded. "Then you must listen carefully. For the truth is not always kind."


    A heavy silence filled the room.


    "You were never meant to be ordinary, Zerathis," Aedric said at last. "And the blood that runs through your veins is proof of that. Your mother... she was not merely a warrior. She was part of something far greater, something that even I do not fully comprehend. And you, whether you wish it or not, are bound to that legacy."


    Zerathis felt the weight of those words settle deep within him.


    The truth was beginning to surface and he was no longer sure if he was ready for it

 5.1 The Wandering Elder

    The lands had changed, but the weight of history never faded.


    Draped in a dark traveler''s robe, Elder Vaelmir strode through the ruins of an old battlefield, his sharp gaze sweeping across the scorched earth and broken stones that once bore witness to great conflicts. To the world, he was merely an aging wanderer, a relic from an era long past.


    But within the Demonic Sect, his name still carried weight.


    He was not just an Elder, but a Branch Leader¡ªone of the few entrusted with maintaining external affairs and ensuring that the sect''s presence remained undeniable across the martial world. Diplomacy, war, alliances¡ªhe walked the line between them all, ensuring that the sect¡¯s interests were never overlooked.


    But that was not why he wandered now.


    His journey was personal.


    Vaelmir had once stood at the heart of the sect¡¯s political web, ensuring that its power remained uncontested. His duty had also placed him close to Vaelrik, one of the Heavenly Demon¡¯s five disciples¡ªthe most cunning, the most ambitious, and the one who betrayed his master.


    Though not his direct master, Vaelmir had once supported Vaelrik¡¯s rise, ensuring that the sect¡¯s next generation would be strong enough to survive the cruel martial world.


    And yet¡­


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    "I failed to see the rot growing within him."


    Vaelrik had reached further than he was meant to, grasping at a power beyond his right. His hunger had led to treachery, and in the end, his ambition had resulted in the fall of the Heavenly Demon himself.


    Vaelmir had not been present there that day.


    He had been sent away to handle an external conflict, securing vital alliances to maintain the sect¡¯s influence. By the time he returned, it was already too late.


    Azradris had fallen...


    The Demonic Sect fractured, its core leadership scattered.


    And Vaelmir was left with unanswered questions and unfulfilled vengeance. but deep inside he knew that his lord was alive but not in the mortal world but lingering onto the spirit world...


    For years, he had searched for the truth behind that fateful night. He had scoured ancient records, interrogated former allies and enemies alike, and pursued every whisper that might lead him closer to understanding what truly transpired.


    And for years, he had found nothing but silence.


    Until now.


    As he walked through the ruined remains of an old village, a sudden chill gripped his spine. It was subtle, a mere flicker¡ªlike a shadow passing over his soul.


    An aura.


    Familiar.


    Impossible.


    Vaelmir turned his gaze toward a nearby structure, where a lone human child sat amidst old, tattered scrolls. The moment his eyes locked onto the boy, his breath caught in his throat.


    The aura was weak, nearly imperceptible beneath the boy¡¯s mortal shell.


    But it was there.


    "This¡­ No, it cannot be."


    Vaelmir''s mind raced. He had spent decades searching for any remnant of the Heavenly Demon, for even the faintest echo of his presence.


    And now, standing before him, was a mere child¡­ radiating something eerily familiar.


    But that was impossible.


    The Heavenly Demon was dead.


    And yet...


    Vaelmir clenched his fists.


    Had fate truly woven such a cruel trick? Or was this something greater?


    He did not know yet.