Chaper 3. Greeting of the Red Valley.

As the sacred waters of the Oblivion Lake gently caressed his toes, the Child of Chaos stirred, his eyes flickering open to meet the world for the second time. With each ripple that lapped against his skin, a sense of serenity enveloped him. The elder, cradling the child, beamed as he gazed into the boy's azure orbs. Despite the elder's youthful countenance, only joy graced his features.

In reverence, the warriors standing in solemn formation knelt, pressing their right hands to their chests. Before the altar stood the Head of the Despair Clan, clasping a white cloth in his hands. Following a brief bath, the infant was swathed in a yensei cloth. Around them, the haunting melody of demonic beasts filled the air. 

Martial artists joined their prayers to the ethereal song, their voices mingling with the blessings bestowed by the immortals

Sequestered in expansive chambers, pregnant concubines peered through their windows, observing a procession of commoners bearing diverse offerings en route to the main hall of the Ghostly Palace. Locked away from the grand ceremony, they watched in silence, their hearts heavy with anticipation and uncertainty.

The enchantment of the moment was so captivating that the baby couldn't fix his gaze in one place for long. His curiosity led him to reach out for the shimmering, multicolored mana dancing in the air, though his tiny hands failed to grasp the elusive particles. Above, the stone ceiling adorned with statues of colossal beasts seemed almost lifelike, as if they were merely in a brief slumber.

Yet, amidst the captivating spectacle, all eyes were drawn to the pristine white altar, where the celestial aura emanating from the baby seemed to captivate all who beheld him. It was as if his very presence caused their souls to stir and their hearts to beat slower, as if they were experiencing the touch of divinity itself.

Indeed, wrapped in soft cloth, the child bore a striking resemblance to a sacred idol, his tiny form radiating an aura of sanctity that left no one untouched.

As the singing ceased and the blessings fell silent in anticipation, a group of commoners entered the hall. Clad in tattered robes that failed to conceal their emaciated bodies, they carried with them an air of hardship and toil. The pungent scent of unwashed bodies wafted towards the baby, who, looking down this time, caught sight of black stones adorned with pulsating veins, their presence a stark contrast to the ethereal scene unfolding before him.

The winds whispered ancient secrets as they swept through the towering spires of the Ghost Palace, where shadows danced in the flickering candlelight. In the heart of this spectral fortress, the Head of the Despair Clan stood with solemn reverence, cradling the newborn hero in his arms. The air was heavy with anticipation as a delegation from the village of Red Valley approached, their steps echoing softly in the marble halls.

"We offer our humble greetings to the prophesied hero and to the esteemed Head of the Despair Clan," intoned the spokesman, his voice carrying a weight of both reverence and trepidation. His gaze flickered briefly to the child, wrapped in swaddling cloth, before returning to meet the Head's eyes.

The Head inclined his head in acknowledgment, his features a mask of stoicism tempered by a glimmer of curiosity. "Welcome," he replied, his voice a deep rumble that resonated through the chamber like distant thunder. "What news do you bring from the village of Red Valley?"

The spokesman straightened, his crimson eyes ablaze with determination. "We come bearing two tidings of import," he declared, gesturing to the obsidian stones that stood sentinel behind him. "These stones, imbued with the darkness of ages, are gifts from our village to the young hero."

As the words of the spokesman hung in the air, a ripple of murmurs spread through the assembled crowd like a gentle breeze stirring fallen leaves. Whispers of curiosity and concern intertwined, weaving a delicate web of anticipation and apprehension. Some spoke of hope, envisioning the child as a beacon of light in dark times, while others whispered of dread, fearing the consequences of meddling with ancient curses. 

The immortals exchanged wary glances, their expressions veiled in shadow as they debated the implications of the offering.

"Nonsense!" exclaimed one of the elders, his voice cutting through the hushed murmurs like a knife. "Cursed stones bring naught but calamity upon those who dare to wield them. Are you intent on bringing ruin upon the child?"

The spokesman met the elder's gaze with unyielding resolve. "We merely fulfill the will of our headman," he replied evenly. "He has decreed that the child must endure the curse for three years, until the veils are rent asunder. Only then will he prove his mettle as the true hero of our time."

The Head's brow furrowed in contemplation, his mind racing with the weight of the decision before him. Around him, the chamber hummed with tension, the air thick with uncertainty as the fate of the child hung in the balance.