Fading Flames of Hope

The village of Barangay Saliksik lay at the edge of the wilderness, far from the safety of the towering Empyrean Shields that guarded the wealthier regions of Bathalumea.

It was a Level 0 settlement, a place where life was a constant battle against the elements and the beasts that prowled the land.

The village had no schools, no fortifications, and barely enough resources to survive. What it lacked in luxury, it made up for in grit. The people of Saliksik relied on barter, hand-me-downs, and the resilience born of hardship.

Every day was a struggle, despite that; there was hope—however small—that they might one day rise above their circumstances. Builders constructed the settlement along a series of narrow, winding dirt paths connecting small, dilapidated huts and open-air markets.

People made the homes from rough-hewn wood, thatch, and salvaged materials from long-forgotten times. There were no stone walls to protect them, only fragile wooden fences that barely kept out the wild animals.

The villagers often spent their nights sleeping with one eye open, aware that monsters roamed the forests, drawn by the dark emotions lingering in the air—fear, grief, hopelessness. And yet, in the heart of it all, the people clung to one another, for community was their only shield against the harshness of their world.

Fifty years ago, while the village still flourished, they established the Negation Obelisk at the center of Saliksik.

This towering stone spire, carved with intricate symbols, served as a beacon of hope and protection. Enclosing the town were threads of protection, weaving the collective aspirations of the people.

The villagers aspired to elevate Saliksik to a Level 1 settlement, standing alongside Kabunlawan. However, while other villages rose to safer settlements, Saliksik fallen behind because of constant monster horde attacks.

They solely focused their funds on defense, and over the years, many villagers, including some of the founding families and fighters, left the area.

In the present day, the once-vibrant threads have thinned, barely providing any sense of security. The Negation Obelisk sputtered weakly at the village center, its energy reserves drained from years of neglect. It had always been a fragile defense, but now it was little more than a dying ember.

The villagers had tried everything to maintain it, offering what little they had to keep it functional, but time had worn it down. Now it sputtered weakly, its pulse fading like a dying heartbeat. In a place like Saliksik, the people could only pray it would hold—just a little longer.

Today, however, was different. Today, the villagers had gathered around a makeshift platform beneath the sprawling canopy of a centuries-old balete tree, the village's heart and a symbol of endurance.

The air was thick with emotion as the elder stood at its center, his tattered robes fluttering like the remnants of a lost era. His hands shook as he grasped his staff, but his posture remained straight, his eyes still sharp, a quiet strength emanating from his frail body. He was the last living link to the old ways, the keeper of stories and traditions that many had long since forgotten.

Around him sat the community's youth—dozens of eager faces filled with equal parts of fear and excitement. Today was their departure day.

The day they would leave Barangay Saliksik, this forgotten corner of Bathalumea, and embark on a journey to Kabunlawan, a Level 1 settlement.

There, they would find a school, better security, and perhaps—just perhaps—a way to escape the cycle of poverty and danger that had defined their lives. "Children," the elder began, his voice crackling like dry leaves. "You carry the dreams of this village with you. Where we have struggled, you will thrive. Where we have fallen, you will rise."

The crowd murmured in quiet agreement, the weight of his words settling like a thick fog. Behind the children, their parents and neighbors stood huddled together, their faces lined with exhaustion but softened by the fragile hope of a better future. Months of scrimping, bartering, and begging had finally borne fruit. They had gathered just enough funds to send their brightest youngsters to a Level 1 settlement. It was a chance at a future that none of them could have ever dreamed of—if they survived the journey.

The elder raised a gnarled finger toward the horizon, where the faint silhouette of Kabunlawan shimmered in the distance. "There, in Kabunlawan, you will find the opportunity. Knowledge. Safety. But do not forget where you came from. Do not forget Barangay Saliksik. For even if this place is poor, it is rich in its people."

The children nodded solemnly, their eyes reflecting the weight of responsibility. Families, homes, and entire worlds were being left behind. They were stepping into the unknown—a world of greater dangers, but also of greater possibilities. They could scarcely imagine what awaited them. "Before you go," the elder continued, "let me tell you a story. A story of who we were—and who we could be again." He paused, letting the silence settle over the gathered villagers, the ancient tree's branches swaying gently in the breeze.

Even the birds seemed to hold their breath. "A thousand years ago," he began, his voice low, filled with the weight of untold history, "this land was not like this. It was Bathalumea, the cradle of sovereigns. Our ancestors wielded Haraya—the power of the soul, unmatched by any other. They could command the winds, calm the seas, and ignite the stars themselves. Bathalumea was not poor or forgotten. It was the heart of Auralis, the promised land."

The children leaned in, captivated, their faces lit by the flickering firelight.

Even the adults who had heard this story countless times felt themselves drawn into the elder's words as if they, too, had never heard it before. "But power invites envy," the elder's voice darkened, his eyes flashing with a fierce intensity. "Other nations feared Haraya's might. They conspired against us, driving our land to ruin. And now, Bathalumea is but a shadow of what it once was. Our bloodline, our power, lies dormant."

The elder's gaze swept over the crowd, his eyes glinting with a fierce light. "But don't think someone has lost it." Haraya waits. It sleeps in our veins, in the soil beneath our feet, in the whispers of the wind. One day, it will awaken. And when it does…"

He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to. The villagers shifted uneasily, a few casting furtive glances at one another. Haraya—the bloodline power of their ancestors—was a myth. A story. A legend passed down through generations was told to inspire the children, to remind them of their potential. But even in the elder's voice, there was a truth—a certainty—that made the story feel more than just words.

Just then, the sound of wagons rolling over the dirt roads interrupted the moment. Two rusted carts, drawn by weary draft beasts, creaked to a halt at the edge of the village. The drivers, hardened mercenaries hired to escort the children to Kabunlawan, exchanged grim looks.

They knew the journey would be dangerous. Traveling between Level 0 regions was fraught with peril. Monsters, twisted by negative emotions, roamed the forests, prowling for their next victim.

The children climbed into the wagons, their belongings tied in bundles. Parents pressed farewell kisses to their foreheads, whispering hurried prayers, clinging to the fleeting moments of their last goodbyes. Some cried openly, their tears falling freely. Others smiled bravely, trying to mask their fear behind hopeful eyes. But in every embrace, there was a silent acknowledgment of the dangers ahead.

As the wagons departed, the elder raised his hand in a solemn blessing. "Go forth, children of Saliksik. Carry our hope with you." Night descended quickly over the village. The air grew still, heavy with the weight of the day's emotional farewells. The villagers returned to their homes, the embers of their fires flickering in the darkness, casting long shadows across the ground. They had done the unthinkable—given their children a chance at something better.

A chance to escape the cycle of poverty and fear.

But the peace was fleeting.

The first warning came as a faint tremor beneath their feet, a ripple of unease that spread through the earth. The villagers froze, exchanging worried glances.

They had become all too familiar with these signs—shaking ground, distant roars—but there had been nothing for years. They believed the worst was over. Then, a distant roar shattered the quiet of the night.

It echoed through the trees, a deep, guttural sound that made the hairs on the back of their necks stand on end. "They're coming!" someone shouted, their voice filled with panic. From the forest's edge, glowing eyes emerged—first one, then two, then dozens.

Then, in a sickening wave, hundreds of them. Creatures of shadow and bone, twisted by the corruption of negative emotions, surged from the darkness. Their bodies were misshapen and grotesque, their eyes burning with a malevolent glow. The ground quaked with their footsteps, the very earth trembling in their wake. The villagers scrambled to arm themselves, grabbing whatever they could—farming tools, kitchen knives, even rocks. There was no time to prepare.

No time to flee. "Hold the line!" the elder shouted, his voice ringing out above the chaos. Despite his frailty, he stood tall, a beacon of defiance in the face of certain doom.

"Protect each other!" But it was futile. The monsters were too many, too strong. They came in waves, too overwhelming. The sky was ablaze with fire and screams, the air thick with the stench of fear and blood. In the distance, the wagons carrying the children disappeared over the horizon, oblivious to the carnage.

As the elder faced the oncoming horde, a flicker of gold appeared in his eyes. He raised his arms to the heavens, shouting one last plea. "Haraya, if you still live—awaken!"

As the elder stood amidst the chaos, his frail form silhouetted against the burning horizon, he felt an overwhelming surge of determination.

The village of Barangay Saliksik was under siege, its people—his people—facing annihilation. The Negation Obelisk had failed, and the monstrous horde advanced relentlessly. Raising his trembling hands toward the storm-laden sky, the elder's eyes burned with unyielding resolve.

He had pleaded for Haraya's awakening, but now he understood: the power to protect lay within him, fueled by his unwavering will. From the depths of his being, threads of ethereal energy emerged, shimmering with a luminescent glow.

They intertwined with the very fabric of the environment, drawing strength from the ancient balete tree, the earth, and the air itself. The threads ascended, spiraling upward, merging with the roiling storm clouds above. The heavens responded to his silent command.

Lightning crackled, illuminating the night in blinding flashes. With a deafening roar, a colossal bolt of lightning descended, guided by the elder's threads, striking the forefront of the monstrous onslaught.

The explosion was instantaneous. A blinding light engulfed the area, followed by a shockwave that rattled the very bones of the earth. The explosion, after its brilliance subsided, had obliterated a vast swath of the horde, leaving only smoldering remnants.

The villagers, momentarily stunned, gazed in awe at the elder. His once-feeble frame now emanated an aura of formidable power, his threads still shimmering with residual energy. Though exhaustion etched deep lines into his face, his spirit remained indomitable.

In that moment, the elder had become the embodiment of their ancestral strength, a beacon of hope against the encroaching darkness. The battle was far from over, but the tide had turned, igniting a spark of resilience within the hearts of Barangay Saliksik's defenders.

However, the respite was fleeting. From the shadows, more creatures emerged, their numbers seemingly endless. The elder, undeterred, summoned his threads once more, channeling his will into the stormy skies. Another bolt of lightning descended, but this time, its brilliance was dimmer, its impact less devastating.

He repeated the act again and again, each effort draining more of his strength. The once-vibrant threads now flickered weakly, and the subsequent lightning strikes barely singed the advancing horde. The monsters pressed forward, undaunted, their guttural growls echoing through the night. A palpable sense of hopelessness settled over the village.

Despite: Despite his valiant efforts, the elder could not stem the tide. The villagers tightened their grips on makeshift weapons, their faces etched with despair. The realization dawned: despite their courage and the elder's power, the overwhelming darkness threatened to consume them all.

Piercing the night, a cacophony of terror, the monsters' shrieks reverberated through the village. Burning flesh and blood created a heavy, metallic scent in the air. The ground trembled beneath the relentless advance of the horde, each step a harbinger of doom. The monstrous growls swallowed the villagers' pleas for help, their cries for mercy unheard.

As the elder collapsed to his knees, his strength spent, the threads dissipated, leaving only the faintest glow. The monsters closed in, their eyes gleaming with malice. The village, once a beacon of hope, now stood on the brink of annihilation. And then everything went black.