Vision and Memory

Let us return to the Feykin of the Kingdom of the Forest of Fairies, now that Destiny is exerting every effort to bring these two young children together: one was in the princely quarters, preparing for the grand day of her life, while the other dwelled in Limbo, that haven of asylum reserved for the persecuted Feykin in this doomed world.

In Haut-Lieu the Tournament of Succession to the Throne was being organized, which would decide the identity of the future queen of the Feykin Kingdom. However, the latter was elsewhere, far from her realm.

From afar, her delightful silhouette—seated atop a mountain—was discernible as she gazed toward the horizon, an apple in hand which she devoured voraciously. Though endowed with a well-defined musculature, her beauty remained incomparable—whether through her crystalline pastel hair, her incandescent pastel blue eyes, or her magnificent, glossy lips. Her graceful face captivated anyone who beheld it. Alas, this idyllic tableau was marred by the mountain upon which she had ascended to rest, as well as by her gloves, singed and stained with blood. The summit of that mountain had been vaporized by her own hand during the recent battle, reduced to nothing but the charred remains of enemy soldiers who had not had the presence of mind to oppose her.

Moreover, one of them attempted to flee, already bereft of his legs, and without so much as glancing at him, the queen, unmoving, caused a lightning bolt to fall from the sky upon him, reducing him to ashes, while she delighted in a new apple that had found refuge within the folds of her warrior's robe.

The light emanating from the allied city cast upon her a shadow which—coupled with her wings and her eyes that turned red—lent her the aspect of a death deity feasting on her prey upon a mountain of corpses serving as her throne.

A fairy clad in plate armor flew to meet her.

"My queen, it is time to return to the domain. I have sent an emissary to announce our victory," said the fairy.

"Sawyereli, do you think it might be possible to detour via Vicenti so that I may procure some...?"

"No, you are busy today. This already constitutes a detour."

"Very well, Sawyereli," the queen acquiesced, "since you compel me so."

"For it is your duty. And why do you address me by my nickname? Do you still hold a grudge for the other incident?"

"Are you going to reproach me for not observing proper etiquette and speaking more formally?" she smiled.

"Do not play the fool."

On the battlefield, no being could withstand her: strength, magic, endurance, dexterity, agility, mastery of both sword and axe… She possessed all these qualities, and far more. Capable of razing mountains and vanquishing the most fearsome creatures of that grim universe—whether they dwelt on land, in the seas, or in the skies—she was without equal. Undoubtedly, many of her detractors labeled her the "Spriggan's scourge," yet all had to acknowledge the superhuman power she embodied alone. "The Abominable Living Weapon of Sylvania" was how the current queen of Sylvania was nicknamed.

Whether ally or foe, it was said that in her murderous combats she exuded an aura so dreadful that even the psychologically frail soldiers would faint at her mere presence. Most of her adversaries preferred a reprieve rather than provoking her murderous frenzy, for with a single gesture she could alter the very topography of the region. It was even rumored that the darkest, most forbidding skies obeyed her. Such was the way the world regarded the greatest creation of the refugee-nation that is Sylvania.

The queen and her knight returned to the kingdom of Sylvania to complete the final preparations for the tournament, thereby allowing the soldiers of the allied city to breathe in peace, safe from the risk of being reduced to ashes.

The Tournament of Succession to the Throne was an event no citizen of the realm could afford to miss, so rare was it for this event to occur within one's lifetime—even for the fairies of this kingdom, who lived for centuries—this being attributed to the fact that their queen, it was said, lived seven times longer than they did. Curiously, however, the last queens had succeeded one another at a relatively rapid pace.

Yet here the matter was not the death of the queen but her abdication, prompted by the prophecy revealed by the royal seer in one of her visions:

"At the age of fifteen, the new queen shall ascend the throne, willingly or by force, with the aid of her companion; both shall confront an ancient evil that only they can halt, for it will imperil the fragile balance of this world. Only these two beings, bound by Destiny and by an unbreakable bond, can save this planet—once called Earth—from its buried darkness, as their predecessors once did."

This was more than sufficient reason to relinquish her throne. Regardless of one's racial origins, the technological level of our city, or the faith of our people, everyone was familiar with the legend of the hero. This "man" was meant to save the world from the evil festering within, owing to the malice of both Men and Feykin—or so the story went. However, over the millennia, that legend had lost its luster. People grew indifferent, and few still believed in it. Nevertheless, Queen Audisélia was fully aware of this legend. Although she relished her role as queen in this peaceful haven, she could not go against Destiny—if the fate of the planet were not at stake, under no circumstances would she have abandoned her throne. She would undoubtedly have employed the same method as King Herod to eliminate such manifest competition.

Yet she dared to ask what would become of her if she defied the prophecy, and the answer was immediate:

"Divine wrath shall befall you and your kind, and darkness will reign unchallenged over all the Earth, devouring all hope and life. What transpired during the Age of Darkness will pale in comparison to this new tide, for it shall spread throughout the universe."

"Everything..." said the queen with a wry smile, nodding her head.

"At least the aliens will share our burden!" her Majesty thought inwardly with a sardonic chuckle.

This announcement greatly quelled her fervor for revolt against Heroic Destiny—even though it was not the first time she had clashed with it and suffered the consequences. As previously indicated, the vision strongly evoked the tale of the legendary hero who would put an end to the Age of Darkness, with the notable difference that in this premonition a fairy was to accompany the legendary hero—a version of the story known to very few.

"I pay astronomical sums to force you from the throne... I swear I will kill you, you vile witch!" Queen Audisélia thought with a smile.

Six months had elapsed since that prophecy.

Six long months to organize a tournament that might have been concluded in half the time—simply because the queen needed to divert the realm's funds before settling into a secondary residence for her retirement—as, like all presidents, she was assured a lifelong retirement!

One hundred and fifty-six candidates—roughly, with a margin of error of a hundred—for a single throne! Such was the promise of this exceptional competition! Each candidate would be represented by her chosen champion, selected by their families, castes, or by the queen herself for the most audacious—or, in some cases, dismissed like the fairy Aptère. They would have to engage in dreadful combat, with their lives at stake.

Only four finalists would remain, and they would then contend using their intelligence, grace, beauty, and the eloquence of their respective speeches.

The current ministers serving under Queen Audisélia were entrusted with the task of choosing the one most fit to become the future regent of Sylvania.

In Limbo, our Hero had just awakened, still dazed after being knocked out and sold by mercenaries crossing his path. Imprisoned in a dark, narrow cell, he found himself among fellow human compatriots. These, having recognized him, immediately relegated him to a corner of the room, fear evident on their faces. They trembled for their lives; none imagined they could survive were he to repeat the massacre he had perpetrated at the Oranas prison.

Surveying his surroundings, he discovered—with little surprise—that he was restrained by handcuffs forged of Ardésium, one of the new metals that had appeared on Fayiera Terra during the emergence of the world of Feykin. It was said that this material was four times more resistant than steel. Confronted with this situation, the Hero could not help but allow a wry smile to appear, as if he found the circumstance almost amusing.

The first question he asked himself was: "Where am I?"

Upon seeing the moss-covered bricks and the bars, he realized he was not in a modern human prison. The establishment was either Feykin or of an earlier human era.

"Could it be that I have been found by the 'Knights'?" he wondered. "Must my journey end here because of that accursed bounty?"

However, when he noticed the torches made of Luxinite—a luminous stone originating from the primeval world of the Feykin—he understood that this was not the case. These luminous stones were used solely by those possessing the requisite knowledge to ignite them. Only a few humans, after arduous study of magic, were capable of doing so—an effort that, after long training, resulted merely in torches only marginally more potent than ordinary fire torches.

He might have mocked the cost–benefit ratio of using Luxinite among humans, yet he himself was incapable of wielding magic.

Another question occurred to him:

Unless someone had uncovered something about me, no mage or sorcerer should take an interest in me. So, what am I doing here among these wretches?

Bending toward the prisoners to ask them—after all, he must have been awake far longer than they had been, for they had not suffered the assault of some fifty tranquilizer darts piercing their entire bodies—he quickly realized from their fearful little cries that no answer would come from them, which was understandable given the "mess" he had caused during his stint at Oranas prison (needless to elaborate further!). In a teasing mood, he made a grimace to frighten them even more. The ruse was a resounding success.

He lay down on the grimy floor of his cell, folding his hands behind his hood, his gaze fixed on the decrepit ceiling overhead. He observed, without surprise—nothing astonished him anymore—that the ceiling was swarming with enormous, venomous spiders which had set upon one of his cellmates, long dead. At that moment, he wondered what purpose his damned existence served, wandering incessantly through the desolate lands of Europea. He likened himself to an unsinkable ship adrift on untamable seas, braving tides and storms, even though that very ship—with wood rotted to its core, a hull riddled with holes, a broken rudder, and charred sails—continued its course. Despite everything, the Hero, captain of this makeshift vessel, harbored an incredible audacity and an unfailing nonchalance in the hope of reaching his final destination.

Hope…

The hope that his morbid adventure might conclude on an optimistic note. Did he dare to believe that such a note could be joyful? For my part, I dared to hope for him.

Hope was all that remained in this relentless pursuit he had waged for so long. Perhaps he should have given up, as his mother had ordered him before departing this life… NO! That man had deprived him of all those dear to him! He would make him pay dearly!

But alas, he did not know how to find him; all he could do was await the information his brother deigned to convey—information that, most of the time, proved unreliable, as if deliberately so—in exchange for a "service" whose execution was, more often than not, fatal.

Moreover, that bastard knew him well! He was aware of the troubles in which he so delighted in plunging the young boy. Aware of this, he scarcely worried, for he knew full well that our dear Hero was immortal. Immortal, yes, but not invincible—so the Hero could still feel pain. Imagine the suffering this poor child must endure when emerging from a blazing dark-energy power plant he was tasked with detonating.

And yet! He truly worried for him—for that little fellow he had taken under his wing along a roadside, whom he had come to regard as his protégé, his little brother.

It was precisely because the Hero recognized the affection this adoptive brother bore him that he consented, during his first proper meal at that shabby restaurant in the middle of nowhere—him who subsisted solely on earthworms, slugs, venison, and griffon meat that wasn't even properly grilled—to be designated by him as "little brother."

Perhaps he would come to his aid if summoned, the Hero thought.

To him, that brother undoubtedly possessed the makings of a hero far more than he did.

The scarred adolescent opened one of the wounds on his chest and inserted three fingers along with his thumb, all under the disapproving gaze of his cellmates. The sound of tearing flesh was truly ghastly. The Hero extracted from his bleeding chest a holophone dripping with hemoglobin, which he attempted to activate—but to no avail. At first he assumed that the blood had infiltrated the device—ASTONISHING!—then he wondered: had not his brother sworn that his phone was waterproof? What relevance could that possibly have?

He then turned the phone over and discovered the deceit: there was no battery at all, only a scrap of paper on which was written, "Sowwy! I needed it for my controller! XOXO."

Furious, the Hero crumpled the paper into a ball and hurled it at one of the spiders, disturbing her during her meal. Noticing the unrepentant offender, the spider descended to meet him, intent on teaching this rather unruly young man proper manners relative to his human peers. At the same time, she intended to help herself to a snack.

In a state of sheer panic, the other prisoners surged toward the cell's barred window, shouting to the guard to let them out, claiming that a suicidal man was among them. But their pleas were in vain, for there was no one in a position to hear them.

The spider and the Hero circled each other—one displaying two purple eyes, the other a multitude of scarlet eyes. Then, abruptly, the spider launched its attack. However, it was already too late for her: the Hero had coiled his chain around the leg nearest to her head, twisting it so as to drive it into her labium, piercing the top of her head before completely decapitating her and grasping her head in his hand, all before the astonished eyes of his cellmates who could scarcely believe what they had witnessed.

"This child cannot possibly be from our world," murmured one of them, his voice trembling.

The boy turned his gaze toward the other spiders to see if any would dare confront him. They fixed their gaze upon him before returning to their feast, as if nothing had happened. After all, one less mouth to feed.

"Fill the earth and subdue it; have dominion over the fish of the sea, the birds of the sky, and over every creeping creature on the earth."

No creature could defeat him over the entire face of the Earth.

The Hero seized the web emanating from the rear of his victim and fashioned from it a thread fine enough to stitch his wound. He employed one of the stiff hairs from one of the spider's legs as his needle.

Alas, for the prisoners, the spiders had just finished off one of their cellmates—of whom nothing remained but bones—and they still appeared hungry.

They descended from their web and advanced toward the prisoners, all the while carefully avoiding the one they considered the ultimate predator. While he was busy mending his wound, he heard the supplications of his cellmates begging him to come to their aid.

Frankly, he hesitated.

He owed them nothing. They insulted him as a monster and feared him. That they might merely rejoin the natural cycle of life did him little harm… Yet it was not in his nature to abandon those in distress, whether they were wretched scum or not. He sighed and rose, whistled to attract the attention of the spiders, then smashed the back of one of them so that his message would be unmistakably understood:

"I am your adversary."

All of them turned and surged toward him… as if their number were sufficient to defeat the Hero—even though they numbered only about thirty!