Past

When darkness threatens the world, a 'Hero' will always emerge…

The origins of that legend had been lost to history, but somehow, it had always been passed onto the next generation. Tales of Heroes and Demons were known to all, but rarely were they considered with any kind of genuine faith. In times of peace, the idea couldn't be entertained that the world would ever be threatened with total destruction, and inevitably, entire kingdoms would be overrun when they refused to prepare for it.

Truthfully, Manyu had no parents. Though a kindly baker and his wife had taken the boy in, the details surrounding his birth were a mystery. Discovered at the threshold of a chapel, swaddled in a blanket of dark silk, nobody would ever step forward to claim responsibility for his sudden appearance. At the time, children were seen as incredible burdens. An extra mouth to feed was simply too much to handle as Demons ravaged the countryside and slowly deprived Tor of its natural wealth. Even so, Manyu came to consider that couple as his true family.

Even as the situation quickly deteriorated while he tumbled through his youngest years, Manyu was a smart child. Without an education, he was taught to read the common tongue by his father, and spent most of his quieter evenings reading at the city's library. There were few children his age--a consequence of the fear quickly mounting among the populace. He may have been called antisocial, or perhaps reserved would be a better term. Despite that, he was not an overly cold or affectless boy. He was about as happy as one could have possibly been in such a tumultuous period.

Of course, fate had grand plans for Manyu. Though he aspired to make his father proud by taking over the family's bakery, his time within the city would be over in just a matter of months. Following quickly after the death of his mother and father, he understood just as well as everyone else that Gria simply wasn't to last. Buying his freedom from the gatehouse guardsmen, his life became that of a nomad's, pacing from village to village in a search for meaning, getting by on whatever he could loot from abandoned homes or forage from the bountiful countryside.

Time had lost meaning to him. He remained unaware that the day of his spiritual awakening was his 10th birthday, or indeed, what awaited him on that gloomy, overcast evening. The sight of a cobbled chapel in the pouring rain had spoken to him. On the perimeter of yet another ruined settlement, he wandered into the fragmented shelter of that sanctuary and approached the amateurish stone statue placed within an alcove behind the altar.

It was the Goddess of Light. But from his perspective, her form appeared warped and malformed--not quite as human or angelic as she should have been. Without the chapel's standing torches, the very incarnation of light seemed very much like a different creature. Nonetheless, with nothing else to believe in, he closed his eyes and uttered a simple prayer, hopeful for a short instant that he could be delivered from despair through sheer faith.

When he opened his eyes, Manyu was no longer in the chapel. It couldn't be said for certain that he was anywhere. Without a sky to gaze towards or a floor to step upon, he could see nothing but the enveloping darkness which stretched infinitely in every direction. For a moment, he thought he had somehow died, but as he blinked again, a figure appeared in front of him. With a gown of soiled cloth and a garland of thistles around its misshapen head, whatever it was had tried dearly to imitate the form of a human, but in doing so had only exaggerated its hideous features.

Manyu saw its wings--pitch-black and torn, as if threads of sinewy flesh were draped over rotting tree branches, and its hands--with fingers too long and nails sharpened to a razor edge. But most hideous of all was its face, contorting to mimic poorly the expressions of a living creature. Its teeth were much too large and plentiful, and its nose was but a bump beneath the looming void of its tremendous eyes, with only singular beads of unmoving black following Manyu carefully as he recoiled at its gaze.

It was no Goddess--and certainly no beast of his world, but his terror at the sight of it froze Manyu in place. Rather than feeling as if he'd been caught in the sights of some vicious predator, the fact that it did not move in the slightest was more terrifying than anything else. When it finally spoke, its mouth did not move, and its eyes did not waver, but its voice was far from that of a beast's. Rather, it was the very definition of angelic.

That thing--that corruption of holiness, was the Goddess of Darkness. Her soft, motherly voice passed through Manyu's mind as a transitory presence, heard like a whisper. She spoke at length of his lofty destiny, telling the young boy that it was his birthright to steer the world towards salvation. To that end, she granted him a power most coveted--the Sword of Darkness, said to grant entry into the pale sanctum to the far north, where Demonkind and their ilk spawned in great numbers. All of his questions, she continued, would be answered in the frozen wastes of Hena.

Before Manyu had a chance to say anything about his so-called destiny, he blinked, and like that, he was back in the chapel, laying on his back. Through a hole in the ceiling, he could spot something in the starry night sky--a kind of presence, invisible but unquestionably real. As he stared, his vision deepened, and his perceptions of the world around him twisted. He heard whispers, and a repeating noise--clicks and fuzzy tones. Then, as he took a breath, his surroundings fell silent.

His vision wasn't borne of despair. A strange power had welcomed him. In his hand balanced a blade of night, wreathed in impenetrable shadow. At his request, the weapon would dissolve into thin air and rematerialised whenever it pleased him. Addled by the absurdity of the situation, he wasted little time in putting as much distance between himself and that village as possible. If only he had known what cruel fate awaited him, then perhaps he would have taken his own life in that very chapel.

From that day onward, it was as if Manyu was cursed. Though the power imparted by the Sword of Darkness allowed him to face even a Demon down with ease, its strength came with a terrible price. As he travelled the smouldering plains of Tor, Manyu encountered a village which had gone undiscovered by Demonkind--a settlement cradled within the region's thick forests. Its people were kind, wary of straying beyond the village's borders but more than happy to welcome a fellow human. For a few days, he found a semblance of peace there. He was given food and water--even a place to sleep at night. The hunters of the village instructed him on the way of the bow and taught him to hunt. It seemed as though he was being given a second chance.

In the dead of night, it happened. A symphony of thunderous tremors shook the very soil. Somehow, a group of Demons had been enlightened to the village's location. Struggling to rally and fight back at such an hour, those who had deluded themselves into believing they stood a chance were slaughtered in a matter of minutes. It was only when Manyu took stock of the situation and readied the Sword of Darkness that the counterattack truly began. Like a beast, he cut down the Demonic horde without an ounce of mercy, freely making use of the power he'd been granted by the Goddess of Darkness. As he fought, his heart sung with joy--with such power, he could easily turn the tides of that age. He could become a legendary Hero.

Only, when the battle was over and he stood triumphant upon the mangled corpse of a Demon, the surviving villagers didn't regard him with reverence or cheers, but with gasps and expressions of fear. They screamed at him as if he was some sort of wild animal. When he tried to speak, his voice came out as nothing but a mess of chittering snarls. One villager desperately hurled a stone in his direction, only for two more to follow suit. They were trying to kill him.

So, he ran. Of course he ran. His savagery had convinced the villagers that he was anything but human. After all, what sort of Hero would fight with a blade of pure darkness, and with the same fury as a Demon? They were simple folk--he didn't blame them for reacting in such a way, but it was clear the village was not where he belonged, much to his chagrin.

"For years, I became entangled in that cycle. No matter where I wandered or how many precautions I took, Demons would follow in my steps, and those who associated themselves with me were killed like dogs, or lived long enough to brand me as some kind of monster." Manyu recounted, "I was very patient. I understood my curse, and separated myself from people, but that didn't stop them from appearing. As if by sorcery, I was assailed by faces every waking day. People who never listened to me--insisted that I wasn't cursed and came up with reasons to tag along with me. Travelling warriors, sorcerers, thieves… all of them, their fates sealed, destined to become fodder for the Demons who ceaselessly followed in my footsteps."

Barion remained silent for a moment, "...So how did you cope?"

"I didn't." He answered plainly, "Do you really think that someone who could have 'coped' with that would have willingly accepted the title of Demon King?"