Vale moves at a measured pace, his steps quiet against the shifting grass. The cool night air brushes against his face, carrying the distant hum of crickets and the rustling whispers of wind threading through the plains.
He doesn't look back at the cottage immediately. He knows Obinai has already surrendered to exhaustion, likely lost in the deep, dreamless sleep that follows a day of hard-won progress. Still, after a few more steps, he pauses, casting a glance over his shoulder. The soft glow from the windows flickers gently, the warmth of the interior standing in stark contrast to the vast, open stillness of the night.
He's getting stronger.
His eyes linger on the cottage for a moment longer, before he exhales, turning forward again.
Then, he raises a hand.
The earth responds immediately. Without a sound, the ground before him sinks inward, stone and soil folding away like something alive, revealing a spiraling staircase leading deep underground. The air that drifts up from below is cool, carrying the faint scent of parchment and ink.
Vale steps forward, descending into the depths...
As he moves further down, torches ignite one by one along the cavern walls, their flames burning an eerie, otherworldly blue. The glow casts flickering shadows against the rough stone, illuminating the intricate carvings etched into the walls—ancient symbols and runes, their meanings long forgotten to all but a select few. The deeper he goes, the quieter the world above becomes, until nothing remains but the crackle of flame and the faint, steady sound of his own footsteps.
At the base of the stairs, he reaches a massive door, its surface covered in an array of markings. The engravings weave together in symmetrical, labyrinthine patterns, glowing faintly as he approaches. The lines between them pulse once, a soft blue shimmer tracing their paths—recognizing him, acknowledging him. Then, as if sighing in relief, the glow fades, and the door splits down the middle, stone grinding against stone as it parts.
Beyond it, an immense chamber stretches outward.
A library.
No—something far beyond just a library.
Towering shelves, impossibly tall, stretch high into a ceiling shrouded in shifting mist. Some lean at unnatural angles, stacked haphazardly, yet never toppling. Scrolls and tomes are piled on long tables, some rolled open to reveal passages written in languages long lost to the world above. In one corner, an array of floating orbs drift lazily through the air, softly pulsing with stored information, their contents locked away behind spells of preservation.
Strange artifacts rest on pedestals throughout the chamber—glowing crystals encased in metallic frames, ancient weapons humming with dormant power, glass vials containing swirling, iridescent liquid. A golden astrolabe hovers near the ceiling, shifting and rotating in slow, methodical movements, adjusting itself to some unseen force. Every so often, small mechanical constructs—no larger than a hand—drift through the air, carrying scrolls from one section to another, their tiny metal wings emitting soft, rhythmic beats.
Vale steps past them all, his fingers briefly brushing against the spines of a few books...
"Such effort," he murmurs, almost to himself.
Some of these tomes contained knowledge so ancient, so perilous, that even he hesitated to read them in full. But knowledge, dangerous or not, had always been the key.
He moves past towering stacks of scrolls, past artifacts humming with forgotten power, until he reaches a large wooden desk in the far corner of the chamber. The chair creaks slightly as he lowers himself into it, his robes shifting softly around him.
Before him, a single book sits atop a pile of aged manuscripts.
Its title, embossed in worn silver lettering:
"I Am No Hero."
Vale exhales slowly, fingers tracing over the cover before flipping it open.
Vale's fingers rest lightly on the worn pages, his eyes flicking over the faded ink. The parchment is fragile, the words written by a hand long since stilled, yet the weight of them feels as present as if their author sat across from him, whispering his regrets into the dim glow of the library.
He exhales slowly, steadying himself as he begins to read.
"I stand here a coward.
I am afraid.
I have run away.
And yet, the masses call out to me—desperate, pleading for my power. I have it, yes, but to wield it in the manner they beg of me would be nothing short of immoral.
Humans… why are they fighting like this?
There was a time, not long ago, when they were as ambitious as they were fragile. But now, that ambition has twisted into something monstrous. Something insatiable. An old colleague of mine—one who shared in my doubts—chose to infiltrate their ranks, to see if he could discern the cause of this… change. But he has not returned. He has not written. He has not sent word.
I fear the worst.
And yet, something else troubles me more.
This war… this bloodlust surging through humanity, it did not come from nowhere. It was not slow, nor was it bred from desperation. No… something changed them. Something unseen, creeping into the very bones of man, twisting their desires into hunger.
Had it been fear? The fear that they were dwindling, that their existence was threatened? Or was it something else entirely?
Human ascension had always been a myth. A whisper of possibility, never seen, never believed. And yet, he did it. He reached the impossible, the unattainable. I was there. I saw it happen. No human had ever passed a Trial. Even among those who sought the path, none ever returned—none had even left a trace of their attempt.
But Vincent Xandev was different.
He set himself apart in ways even the greatest among the Exalted could not understand. He did not seek power for power's sake, nor did he covet knowledge as the gnomes did. He did not train his body to god-like perfection like the Dragonkin, nor did he wield magic as though it were his birthright, like the High Elves. And yet, he surpassed them all.
There was something in him—something the rest of us could not grasp.
Perhaps that was why Nemis chose him.
Nemis, the most powerful of the silenced gods. The truly lost one. The shade that lingers between epochs, a forgotten deity whose name has been stripped from the tongues of the divine. He waited in the void, unseen, untouched, shrouded in the pitch-black swirls of nothingness.
And Vincent—
He heard him.
No one believed in Nemis. He was a god without worshippers, a concept abandoned by the heavens themselves. But Vincent… Vincent listened to the whisper in the dark. And through that whisper, he carved a path that no human was ever meant to walk.
And then—
After that day, he vanished.
No body. No word. Just… gone.
Some believed he had failed. That he had been consumed by the Trial, never to return. That the burden of the choice was too much, and that he had been erased from existence.
But I know that is not true.
Because the sky itself parted.
It was not a mere phenomenon of weather, nor the work of mages testing their limits. No spell, no divine hand, no force in this world or the next could replicate what happened that day.
The sky did not merely split. It broke.
A jagged wound, like glass struck by a hammer, spread across the heavens. Cracks wove through the firmament, their edges shimmering with a light too blinding to be holy, too chaotic to be magic. The stars beyond it flickered—not as celestial bodies should, but as if they too had been disturbed, as if something had shaken the very fabric of the cosmos.
And then came the silence.
The wind stilled. The rivers ceased their flow. Even the earth, restless and ever-moving, held its breath.
And in that silence, something was taken.
I do not know what it was.
Most would say it was merely an omen, a sign of Vincent's passing into whatever awaited him beyond the Trial. But I know better. I felt it. As did the Exalted, the Neutrals, the Forsaken. Every living being knew, though most could not comprehend. It was as though a thread had been pulled from the great tapestry of existence—a thread woven so deeply into humanity that when it was removed, the pattern of their souls changed.
Slowly, subtly at first, but inevitably.
It started in whispers. Mistrust. A slight narrowing of the eyes where once there had been warmth. The fraying of once-unbreakable bonds. Then, it spread. The kingdoms of men, once allies, turned on one another. Their hunger grew, their hands reaching for weapons, for power, for dominion. They no longer sought unity. Only conquest.
Some called it the natural order of things. That humans, by their very nature, were fated to war.
But I knew better.
Something had been lost that day. Something vital.
And I do not know if it can ever be returned.
The very air changed.
And humanity followed suit.
The bridges they had built with other races, bridges held together by fragile hope, crumbled overnight. Where there was once a cautious coexistence, there was now hatred, violence, blood spilled in the streets. It was as if something had been taken from them.
It is as though, in Vincent's ascension, he carried away something vital. Something that was never meant to be removed from the hearts of men.
And now, we are left with this.
The gods turn their faces away.
The Exalted retreat into their high towers.
And I, a man whom history may remember as a hero, see only a murderer staring back at me in the reflection of my blade.
Someone who aided in the destruction of a core part of this world.
And yet still, a coward.
This is the end.
Arelius Frieden."
Vale closes the book gently, as though afraid the weight of his thoughts might crush the delicate parchment. He leans back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face, exhaling slowly through his nose.
Vincent Xandev.
The name isn't new to him. He has read about him before—only in whispers, vague mentions in texts that danced around the truth of what happened. A human who had done the impossible, reaching heights that should have been beyond him. But the aftermath…
Vale's fingers drum against the desk.
The dim blue torches lining the stone walls flicker gently, their glow casting elongated shadows across towering shelves.
He exhales through his nose, rubbing his temple as his gaze lingers on the open book before him. His mind drifts, thoughts circling like predators.
Ascension.
He chuckles under his breath, a dry, humorless sound. "So, he succumbed to it… like the rest."
Reaching a certain threshold of power when dealing with Essence inevitably invited the same fate. There was always a visitor—a being beyond mortal comprehension—offering the Trial.
The choice was simple.
Refuse… and bear the burden of Essence Strain.
Vale shakes his head. A pitiful fate. Essence wasn't meant to stagnate within a body not designed to hold it. The strain would corrode the soul, shatter the body, unravel the mind. Magic would turn volatile, unstable—until either death or madness took the wielder.
Or, he muses, you take the Trial.
And should you survive, you transcend.
The higher form of your race. A perfected existence, tailored to whatever being had bestowed the challenge. But that wasn't the true end of it. No—Ascension was binding.
You then have the choice to serve the one who gave you the Trial, pledging yourself to their cause in exchange for greater power. The gods, the higher entities, they never offered such things freely. They wove threads of allegiance into the very fabric of the ascended being, granting them authority over domains beyond mortal understanding.
Vale leans back in his chair, the old wood creaking beneath him. A wry smirk tugs at his lips.
"That's the only time the real truth can be told… when you're beyond simple mortality."
He closes the book with careful hands, as if afraid of waking the words slumbering within. Then, reaching for his notepad, he dips his quill into the inkwell, letting his thoughts spill onto the page in elegant, flowing script.
"Eventually, the time will come.
Arelius knew of it. He feared it. Perhaps he even felt responsible, as though he had set humanity on an irreversible path. Though he was an elf, his name will forever be etched into the history of mankind.
The treaty he forged laid the foundation for the Monolith—the great barrier that sealed humans away. But how? Such power cannot be drawn from mere mortals. Such magic does not exist outside of divine intervention.
And yet, the gods…
They went quiet in the Third Epoch. Before the Old Era.
They do not answer prayers as they once did. They only guide their followers through ascension. They do not weave fate as they once did.
Except for two.
Two voices remain.
One, ever so carefully, has constructed the foundations of Alaris Sanctum, the only recognized religion across eastern and southern continents. A careful web of faith, belief, and prophecy—one that dictates the movements of entire kingdoms.
And the other…
The other whispers from the darkness. From forgotten places. From the fractures in the world where existence itself is weak.
Then, there is the matter of the Godkin.
Their authorities, their concept designations, their bitter relationships with the divine. It leaves me more confused than ever. They should not be above the gods. And yet, the gods allow them dominion over this world, untouched, unquestioned. Why? What were they meant to be?
I sit here writing as a mere watcher—a historian, an observer.
But also… a survivor.
I have seen what this world is becoming. I have seen the inevitable futures spiral outward like shattered glass. No matter which path I explore, they all lead to the same horrifying conclusion.
The Arbiter of Insanity.
The Lord of Lunacy.
The Madman.
There is no path where he does not rise. No fate where his influence does not consume.
If my efforts fail, the cycle will continue. The wheel will turn once more, and it will all collapse into itself.
For he is the anomaly.
The one who should not exist.
May the Silent Gods have mercy on their creations."
Vale exhales sharply, running a hand down his face. The ink on the page glistens faintly, drying under the ambient glow of the torches. He stares at the words...
It always comes back to the Silent Gods.
Those who vanished from history. Those who left no trace, no scripture, no divine messengers. Those who did not answer prayers.
Why had they gone silent?
What had driven them to abandon their creations?
More importantly—
If they were truly gone… why did he still feel their presence lingering in the corners of reality?
He presses his fingers against his temple, willing away the tension gathering there.
Above him, high in the wooden cottage nestled in the false tranquility of this pocket dimension, a boy sleeps. A boy who should not exist...
Vale turns his head slightly, as if listening for something unseen. The torches flicker, the air shifts—something brushes against the edges of his perception.
He frowns.
The cycle is of events now will shift again.
Obinai is the first ripple in a tide that is soon to follow.
And Vale isn't sure if this time…
They will survive it...