Birth Of A Hero

In the heart of the nightless forest, where the sky glowed with a gentle and everlasting twilight, there stood a cottage unlike any other. It was old, the kind of place that had grown into the land rather than merely being built upon it. Moss crept along the stones at its base, and ivy twisted up the wooden beams like veins beneath weathered skin. The windows were round and slightly fogged from within, casting a faint glow each evening as firelight flickered beyond the glass. Around it, trees stood in silent vigil, their branches heavy with silver-tipped leaves that shimmered in the moonlight like stars caught mid-fall.

The forest itself was strange, timeless. The sun never rose, yet it was never truly night. The moon hung eternally above the canopy, a pale guardian whose light passed like milk through gauze. Time here didn't follow the same rhythm as the rest of the world. Days and nights blended into a single, serene moment that stretched on, a hushed breath held between the turning of seasons. Wildflowers bloomed constantly, their petals defying the natural order with bursts of color that never faded. The air smelled of moss and lilac, fresh rain and something older—like the earth itself remembered every footstep ever taken across it.

Within this eternal twilight lived a woman—solitary, patient, and marked by sorrow.

Her name was Isolde Zenryu. She had once been vibrant, full of laughter that rang like windchimes in a summer breeze. Her hair, long and golden as sunlight, had caught the light with every movement. She'd danced barefoot through fields and sung to the trees as though they might sing back. But those days had passed. The brightness in her eyes had dulled, the joy in her voice grown quiet, and though her beauty remained, it was now touched by something fragile and aching—like glass that had been cracked but not yet shattered.

She had loved deeply once. And she had been left.

The father of her child—his name never spoken aloud now—had vanished in the way shadows disappear with the first light. No, not vanished. Fled. That was the truth she carried in her heart like a splinter. The day she told him of the life growing inside her, he had held her hands with trembling fingers, his eyes filled with something she still couldn't name.

"I have my reasons, Isolde," he had whispered, voice rough like wind through dead branches. "Please believe me. I have to go."

She had begged him. Pleaded. Her voice had broken with desperation, and still, he turned. His cloak melted into the mist between trees, his silhouette dissolving into the dim light. Gone.

She never saw him again.

Months passed. Slow, drifting months that came and went like the tide. Isolde stayed in the cottage, alone. Her days were quiet, shaped by simple tasks and silent reflection. She tended the garden, gathering herbs and vegetables while the birds sang their endless twilight songs. She walked among the trees, hand on her belly, whispering stories to the child growing within. She talked to him often, her voice the only sound in the otherwise still air.

And when the time came—when the moment finally arrived—it was beneath that same unchanging moon, in a bed of soft moss and candlelight, that she gave birth.

A boy.

He entered the world without a cry, as though he already knew this strange place. His hair was red like fire newly kindled, rich and vivid, a stark contrast to the pale tones of the world around him. His eyes opened immediately—two glistening emeralds, wide and searching. Isolde looked down at him, and her breath caught. She wept, but not from pain. Not even from joy. She wept from the weight of something deeper, something nameless that filled her chest and stole her words.

She named him Taro.

Taro Zenryu.

From the moment he opened his eyes, he was everything.

And from the very beginning, he was different.

He grew quickly, faster than children normally did. By the age of ten, he could climb the tallest tree near the edge of the glade, leaping from branch to branch with a grace that bordered on supernatural. He would race the wind, barefoot and laughing, his voice echoing through the trees like a song. He learned to fish from the nearby stream, his fingers moving with uncanny precision. His words came early, and they came wise. Even as a child, he spoke with a calm, deliberate tone that made even adults pause.

But it wasn't just his skills or his intellect that made him different.

It was the way the world responded to him.

Leaves often floated upward when he passed beneath them, caught in an invisible breeze that moved only around him. Stones would hum softly under his hands, a gentle vibration that pulsed in time with his heartbeat. Water shimmered in colors unseen to the human eye when he dipped his fingers into the stream, dancing in spirals like starlight.

Isolde watched all of it in silence. She never commented, never asked questions. But in the quiet moments, she would look at him with a kind of aching pride, as if every breath he took reminded her of something lost and something hoped for. There was a knowing in her eyes—deep, distant.

And then came the day that changed everything.

It was his fifteenth birthday. The cottage was warm with firelight, the scent of baked root vegetables and herbs filling the air. Outside, the forest glowed as always, soft and silver. Taro sat by the hearth, poking at the fire with a stick. His face was thoughtful, quiet in that way he sometimes became when the world pressed too closely around him.

"Mother," he said, without looking up, "did I ever make a sword?"

Isolde's hand froze mid-motion. She had been folding a wool blanket in her lap, but now it slipped between her fingers. Slowly, she looked at him.

"A sword?" she echoed. Her voice was soft, careful.

He nodded. "It's a memory. I think. Or maybe a dream. But it felt real. I was holding this sword—it was dark blue, almost black. And there were these glowing dots on it. I remember shaping it. Like it came from me. Like I forged it."

Her eyes did not leave him. For a moment, the fire popped, sending sparks into the chimney, and still, she said nothing. Then—

"Taro," she said, her voice steady but distant, "you've never made a sword."

There was a finality in her words that he couldn't explain. Not just denial—certainty. Too certain.

He nodded slowly, but inside, doubt churned. The memory was too vivid, too layered. It wasn't a passing dream. It lived inside him, etched into his bones. That sword—he could still feel it in his hand, still hear its hum, feel its warmth.

That day, long after she had gone to bed, he lay awake staring at the ceiling. Shadows from the fire played across the wood like dancing spirits. The sword lingered in his mind, drawing itself again and again in the darkness. Something about it called to him, like a name half-remembered.

Was she lying?

He didn't want to believe that. His mother had always been the bedrock of his world—gentle, patient, endlessly honest. But then… what was this memory?

The question consumed him. Days passed, each one heavier than the last. Eventually, he couldn't bear the silence.

There weren't many people in the nightless forest. Most who lived there did so to escape the noise of the world. But a few neighbors remained—scattered, reclusive, yet kind. One such couple lived a short walk away: Maren and Doran. She was a healer, her hands always smelling of lavender and clove. Doran was something else entirely.

A swordsman.

He had once served in the capital's elite guard, a warrior of considerable renown. But he had long since retired, trading battlefields for forest paths, violence for peace. Taro had always respected him, quietly admiring the man's discipline and the beautiful, vine-wreathed sword that never left his side.

It was to them that he went one foggy morning.

The forest felt muted that day, as though it too waited. Dew clung to every leaf, and a low mist curled along the roots. He reached the cottage and knocked gently.

Maren answered, smiling as always. "Taro! What brings you here?"

He told her everything—the memory, the sword, the feeling. Her brow furrowed. She invited him inside. Doran looked up from his place at the table, where he was sharpening his sword, its green-tinged metal catching the light.

"I remember a sword," Taro said. "It was dark blue. Almost black. Covered in glowing dots. I think I made it."

Doran paused. His eyes narrowed slightly.

"I know the one," he said slowly. "The Sword of Creation."

Taro felt his pulse quicken.

"It was forged long ago," Doran continued, his voice low, reverent. "No one knows by whom. But every elemental weapon we have today, even mine, came from that sword's power. It hasn't been seen in centuries. Some say it was destroyed. Others say it vanished."

Taro leaned forward. "Then why do I remember it?"

Doran didn't answer. His silence said more than words could.

Taro left their home with more questions than he had arrived with. The forest felt different as he walked—quieter, yes, but also heavier. As if something ancient had stirred.

And then, as he reached the cottage, everything changed again.

He stepped inside and froze.

His mother was at the table—but not alone.

Across from her sat a man Taro had never seen before. Tall, lean, with dark, weathered skin and hair the color of wheat. His eyes were black as obsidian, and his cloak shimmered faintly, shifting in the light like water.

Isolde rose to her feet, her expression unreadable.

"Taro," she said carefully. "This man arrived just moments ago. He says he came here looking for you."

The stranger stood slowly and nodded.

"My name is Kael," he said, voice calm and steady. "And I've been searching for you for a long time."

Taro's heart pounded in his chest.

"We need to talk."

The man standing in the doorway of the cottage did not seem like he belonged in the Nightless Forest.

He was tall—unusually tall—and broad-shouldered, the way a soldier might be. His presence filled the small space, not just physically, but in a way that shifted the very air. His hair was the color of wheat under sunlight, cut clean but not quite uniform, as if it hadn't seen a comb in days. His eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses that caught the firelight in sharp flashes, masking any expression they might have betrayed.

But what drew Taro's attention more than anything were the two strange suitcases he carried. They looked heavy, metal-bound, reinforced at every edge with some kind of matte-black alloy. Both had runes etched faintly across their surfaces—marks that glowed dully, like embers smoldering in ash.

Isolde stood beside the table, her posture steady, but her hand lingered on the edge of a chair as though she needed grounding. She turned to her son, gesturing gently.

"Taro," she said softly, "take a seat."

The air was still, tense but not hostile. Taro's eyes flicked from his mother to the man and back. After a few seconds of quietly assessing the stranger, he obeyed, slipping into the chair opposite the man without a word. The flickering fire in the hearth cast long shadows across the wooden table, turning every movement into a ghost on the wall.

The man sat across from him, setting the suitcases on the floor beside his chair. When he spoke, his voice was formal, practiced—like someone used to addressing others with authority.

"Mr. Zenryu," he began, inclining his head just slightly, "I'm aware that your fifteenth birthday passed just over a week ago."

Taro blinked. He hadn't expected the man to know that, let alone start a conversation so directly.

"At that age," the man continued, "you are now officially eligible to traverse the world beyond your home—with a weapon chosen and issued to you by the Registry."

There was a pause.

Taro said nothing. He was confused, yes, but he had no intention of interrupting. There was a weight to this man's words, and something about the moment demanded stillness. So he listened.

Without another word, the man reached down and popped open the latches on one of the suitcases. With a soft hiss, the lid opened, revealing what was nestled inside.

A battle axe.

It was large—almost impractically so. The head was a double-bladed crescent of gleaming steel, polished to a mirror shine that reflected the firelight like liquid silver. Along the blades, tiny etchings shimmered faintly—runes or possibly a decorative pattern, too intricate to tell from across the table. The handle was long, carved from what appeared to be ordinary wood, but the grain was dense, dark, and polished to a silky finish. It looked... balanced. Deadly, but elegant.

Taro leaned forward slightly, studying it. It didn't have the same ethereal glow as Doran's sword, the one forged long ago with magic. Still, there was something unmistakably unique about it.

"Does it have any magic powers?" he asked, glancing up at the man.

The man gave a small nod and reached into the suitcase again. He retrieved a folded piece of parchment and handed it across the table.

Taro took it, unfolding it carefully. It was a weapon profile—printed and stamped with several emblems he didn't recognize.

Ranged Battle Axe

Power Level: 10

Ability: Handle Extension — Can alter the length of the handle up to 5 meters.

Taro blinked. A weapon that could stretch its reach in combat—five meters was enough to strike from across most rooms, or even up into treetops. It wasn't just a brute's weapon. With the right skill, it could be wielded cleverly—strategically.

Before he could ask further, the man opened the second suitcase. It was smaller, lined with soft padding, and inside rested a strange device—roughly the size of a thick book. It had a rectangular glass screen on the front, a few buttons along the edges, and a small, unassuming camera mounted on the back.

"This," the man said, lifting the device and offering it to Taro, "is a tracker."

Taro accepted it cautiously, examining it as the man spoke.

"It shows your location at all times—you'll appear as the blue dot on the map. It also displays weapons nearby—those are shown as green dots. If you tap on one, you can track it directly."

Taro looked up, intrigued.

"That's not all," the man went on. "This device can also tell you the power level, name, and abilities of any weapon you encounter—just scan it using the rear camera. In addition, it allows you to store weapons remotely. Once scanned, you can upload a weapon to your personal armory, where it will be kept in stasis until you retrieve it again."

Taro raised his eyebrows, looking again at the device in his hand. A weapon scanner and an armory in one tool—was such a thing even possible?

"Try it," the man encouraged.

Taro turned the device in his hands, angled it toward the axe, and pressed the scan button.

The screen blinked, then displayed:

Weapon: Ranged Battle Axe

Power Level: 10

Ability: Handle Extension

It worked exactly as described.

Taro felt a strange excitement beginning to stir in his chest. He looked up at the man, who was now watching him closely.

"You are, of course, allowed to decline," the man said. His voice had softened slightly. "You may stay here, continue the life you've known. Or—"

He paused.

"—you may accept the weapon, the tracker, and begin your journey into the wider world. The choice is yours, and yours alone."

Taro didn't answer immediately.

He looked down at the axe, its steel gleaming in the firelight.

He thought of the quiet days in the Nightless Forest—the soft wind, the birdsong, the eternal twilight. The safety. The calm. His mother's warm voice and quiet smile. The peaceful rhythm of a life lived in balance with nature.

But he also thought of the sword.

The memory that should not exist.

The image of its dark-blue metal, etched with constellations that shimmered with impossible light, refused to leave him. He remembered the feeling of forging it—of creating something that pulsed with power and destiny.

That sword was a part of him. And it didn't belong to this forest.

He wanted answers. He wanted to know why that memory lived inside him like a hidden truth. Why a weapon lost to time whispered to him in dreams. And to find those answers, he knew he would have to leave.

"I'll go," he said quietly.

The man nodded, not with satisfaction, but with understanding.

Taro reached out and lifted the axe carefully from the suitcase. It was heavier than he expected, but not cumbersome. It felt natural—solid. Real. The tracker went into the leather satchel he wore at his side.

He stood slowly.

Isolde hadn't moved from where she stood. Her hands were clasped in front of her now, and her eyes shimmered with unshed tears.

"You're really going?" she asked, her voice almost a whisper.

Taro turned to her, his heart tight in his chest.

"I have to," he said.

She nodded slowly, her lips pressed together. She crossed the room to him and wrapped her arms around him, holding him tightly. He hugged her back, burying his face in her shoulder, memorizing her scent—lavender, sage, and the faintest hint of pine.

When she pulled back, there were tears on her cheeks.

"Good luck, son," she whispered, her voice trembling. "And come back some day."

Taro looked into her eyes and gave a small nod.

"I will," he said.

And with that, he stepped out of the cottage—his axe slung across his back, his tracker in hand—and began walking toward the edge of the forest.

The trees whispered around him as he passed. The moonlight stretched across the path ahead, illuminating a world he had never seen. A world of answers. A world of danger. A world of truth.

And Taro Zenryu, son of Isolde, bearer of a forgotten memory, walked forward into it—ready to discover who he truly was.