A Tale Of How He Came To Be

The beast's glowing eyes fixed on the boy, as if seeing something beyond flesh—deep within his soul. Its massive form shifted. Stretching shadows fell across the jagged cave walls.

"This father of yours," the beast rumbled, voice low and deliberate, "you speak of him as though he was beyond everything. Is he?"

The boy clenched his fists, knuckles turning red. He wanted to respond quickly, confidently—but the question hung in the air, drawing hesitation. His father was no ordinary man. No common soul.

There was strength in him the boy could barely comprehend—something limitless, like the earth itself.

"That is false. The boy has fantasies of me—conquering districts. No matter if it furthers his training, he's eager to continue," Kokoro said to a guard who had reported the stories his son had been spreading.

"My dad fought with a sage! He didn't win, but he fought one!" the boy had screamed through castle halls. And another time: "My father is a rank 5—" but on that claim, he kept silent.

"He knows everything," the boy finally whispered, voice unsteady. "He's powerful. Stronger than anyone. He's preparing me to fight monsters like you."

The beast's eyes gleamed, almost amused. "Ah, I see. You believe he is beyond me. Untouchable. Perhaps you think he holds all the answers?"

The boy said nothing, jaw clenched. The beast's words wrapped around his thoughts like vines.

"But even your father, no matter how great, cannot escape me," the beast said, quieter now, voice heavy. "I reside in him, as I reside in all things. There is no soul in this world I do not touch."

The boy's face twisted with anger. "No! He's nothing like you! He fights monsters like you!" His voice cracked with desperation. "He's trained me so I won't become someone like you!"

"You think your father's training will cleanse you? Make you pure?" The beast tilted its massive head, eyes narrowing. "There is no such thing as purity, boy. No man walks without a shadow. Your father, this invincible figure you worship, fights his own darkness. Just as you will."

Even as he listened, the boy's ribs burned. A gash appeared across his side—shallow, but real—as if echoing a wound not his own.

The beast watched. "Empathy is not your curse. It is your inheritance."

"You're lying," the boy whispered. "You just want me to doubt him. To believe you're everywhere. But you're not. My father won't let you in. He's stronger than you."

"You misunderstand. I don't seek to corrupt you. I don't have to. I already live within you. As I live in all things. All things have something corruptible—lust, greed, envy. I merely rearrange the pieces."

The boy recoiled, breath hitching. "I won't let you! I won't become evil!" His voice wavered, but he forced himself upright, fists trembling at his sides.

The beast's gaze darkened, but there was no malice—only an ancient weariness. "Good and evil… you cling to those words as if they're absolute. But they're not. No man is all good. No man is all evil. Even you—innocent as you are—carry darkness inside. You will learn this in time."

"I don't want to learn!" The boy's scream echoed in the cave, panicked and high. His chest heaved; nails dug into his palms. "I don't want to understand you! I want you gone!"

The beast shifted, the shadows rippling around its form. "Gone? Even your father cannot erase me."

His lips trembled. His shoulders shook under the weight of those words. His father had always seemed unbreakable. Certain. Right.

His training had been relentless, forging him into a protector. A slayer of demons. A keeper of the light. Yet here he stood, facing the darkness itself—hearing it speak as if his struggle meant nothing.

"I'll keep fighting," he muttered, mostly to himself. "I'll keep training. I'll be stronger than you. I won't let you win."

The beast regarded him in silence, eyes filled with something unreadable—pity, perhaps, or understanding. "Where will it lead you?" it asked softly. "One way or another, you will end up in a place you hate. That is the way of those who fight their own shadows."

The boy stepped back. The beast did not follow. Its eyes dimmed—not with mercy, but memory.

"I remember them too," it said. "The farmers. The poets. The ones your bloodline burned to preserve itself."

He couldn't stay. Couldn't keep listening. With a sob caught in his throat, the boy turned and ran. His footsteps echoed through the cave, filling the dark space as he fled, breath ragged.

The beast remained still. In the silence, its eyes gleamed—ancient and knowing.

"You will fight, as do all," it murmured. "And perhaps you will find the light for a time. But in the end… I wonder if you will escape the shadow."

Years Later

The boy stood at the cliff's edge. The metallic scent of blood mixed with the briny air, thick and suffocating.

His armor, once shining with pride, now hung loose and battered—splattered with blood. His dark hair clung to his face, slick with sweat and gore. He gripped his sword, its blade still wet from the day's slaughter.

"I love my life," he whispered in his city's dialect, voice hollow, empty.

Then, with sudden bitterness, he shouted, "Go drink with them! Laugh with them!" His voice cracked with rage.

He stared down at the sea below. But this was no ordinary sea. The waves moved with unnatural grace, glowing red beneath the horizon.

Instead of water, flora churned in constant motion—breathing, expanding, and contracting like a living organism. The air reeked of gas, thick and invasive, a fog that clung to the lungs.

His thoughts drifted to the beast—the voice that had once poisoned his mind.

"Has he fully corrupted me?" he whispered.

In the puddle by his feet, his reflection shimmered. Not with light. But with eyes. Dozens. Watching. Waiting.

The red sun cast the city in a crimson haze. The boy looked toward the battlefield—bodies strewn like broken dolls. Limbs twisted. Eyes frozen in terror.

Veteran warriors sat among the dead, laughing and drinking as if the bloodbath were a game.

One older man, face marked with scars, lifted a cup. "You'll get used to it, boy," he said. "This city's your family's now. Slaying a few rebels won't change that."

The boy limped forward, body aching. Sword dragging. "I'm tired," he mumbled. No one responded.

Another warrior, taller, clapped him on the back. "Thirteen years old and already a killer. You're a natural!"

The boy said nothing. The weight of blood, screams, and guilt pressed down, suffocating him.

He looked again at the bodies. They were only farmers. Men who had picked up weapons to protect their families. Now they were corpses.

"They were weak," he said finally, voice bitter. "We slaughtered their clan."

"Weak, yeah," another chimed in, leaning on a bloodied spear. "But they fought hard. Like rats in a trap. Still, barely worth the effort."

The boy looked away. He wanted to believe it. That they were weak. That it was justified. But their faces wouldn't leave him.

"They were just trying to protect what was theirs," he muttered.

The others kept laughing, oblivious. This was routine to them. Just another battle. Another victory.

But to the boy—it wasn't.

"You'll get used to it," the scarred man repeated. "In time, it won't bother you. It's in your blood."

The boy didn't answer. He didn't want it to become easy. But as he looked at them—their grins, their bloodstained hands—he feared it already had.

The red sun sank lower. Long shadows stretched across the land. The strange sea of flora hissed, releasing its pungent fog.

He could still feel the beast, even now.

"Has he fully corrupted me?" he whispered again.

This time, he answered himself.

"Not yet," he said. "But soon."