Turning his head from side to side, the sensation of blinking washed over the boy's face—yet nothing changed.
There was still only darkness.
Endless, suffocating nothingness stretched in every direction, no matter where he looked. He squeezed his eyes shut, pinched his arm, and with reluctant hope, slowly opened them again.
Nothing.
No burst of light. No shapes. No color.
Ard stared into what could only be described as oblivion itself.
It wasn't just darkness—it was disorienting. A vast, infinite expanse that seemed to extend forever, yet somehow stopped at the very edge of his perception. There was no depth, no distance, no sense of space—only absence.
And within that absence… there was him.
Strangely, Ard felt more aware of himself than ever before. With nothing else to focus on, his own existence became overwhelming—his thoughts louder, his presence sharper.
He glanced downward—or at least, where he thought "down" should be—toward where his arms ought to hang.
But a sudden, chilling realization struck him.
Was he actually looking down?
Which way was down?
The darkness seemed to shift—not physically, but in sensation—warping his sense of direction. Up, down, left, right… none of it made sense.
Panic began to creep in.
Desperate for something—anything—to ground himself, Ard's thoughts raced. He needed a distraction, something to anchor his mind before the nausea of drifting in absolute nothingness overtook him.
If he focused on it too long, he felt certain he'd be sick.
Not that it mattered.
There was nothing here to be sick on.
"HANDS!"
The word burst from him in sudden realization.
Twisting instinctively, Ard reached out. Somehow, he could feel them—the faint outline of his hands, his arms, his body.
It was… strange.
Not like cold air brushing against skin, nor warmth radiating from a surface. Instead, there was pressure—subtle, ever-present. The void wasn't solid, or hot, or cold…
But it was there.
"That's it… focus," he muttered, concentrating as his fingers moved through that unseen resistance.
Only then did he notice something else.
His voice.
It didn't echo.
It didn't travel.
The sound existed only as vibration within him—an imitation of speech that vanished the moment it was created, swallowed instantly by the void.
Frowning, Ard took a deep breath, filling his lungs to their limit.
"HELLOOOO!"
His shout dissolved into nothing.
But something answered.
"Hello, child."
The voice was soft. Melodic. Clear.
It cut through the darkness as if it belonged there.
"I'm glad to see you are awake… No—no, not awake. Something else."
There was a slight note of dissatisfaction in her tone.
Ard's heart began to pound. His body—if he could still call it that—felt colder.
He wasn't alone.
Swallowing his fear, he forced the words out.
"W-Who's there?"
A giggle echoed—not loudly, but everywhere at once. Warm… yet mischievous. As if its owner knew some inside joke and was not inclined to share.
A faint white light flickered into existence in the distance. It was small. Insignificant. And yet, in a world of absolute darkness, it might as well have been a star.
"That is a terrible question," the voice sighed.
"Who are you?"
It sounded almost amused.
"What? You can't be serious!" Ard snapped, frustration breaking through his fear.
"Who are you—and more importantly, where am I?!"
The disorientation crept back in, clawing at his thoughts.
I need answers.
"You are with yourself," the voice replied calmly,
"and I am with you."
Ard blinked, confused.
"What does that even mean?" he demanded. Then, steadying himself, he added,
"My name is Ard. I don't know where I am or why I'm here… please—if you know something, help me."
For a moment, there was silence.
Then, that same gentle giggle.
"Sweet child, formed of the First and the Fallen…"
The voice lingered on the words, as if savoring them.
"How would a boy know the height of a peak without taking a single step? Or knowing the fall-- as man because you had chosen to climb?"
Her tone carried certainty—like the answer was already there, waiting for him to understand it.
"As for why you are here…" she continued softly,
"that is entirely up to you."
"But—"
"Well," she interrupted lightly,
"even if that is the truth, I do hope you wake soon, child of the First and the Fallen."
Another quiet laugh.
"I hope you see those heights again. But first…"
A pause.
"…try opening your eyes."
The light vanished. The voice faded. And once again, Ard was alone in the void.
"OPEN MY EYES?!" he shouted.
"What the hell does that even mean?!"
Frustration surged through him. For all her words, he had nothing—no answers, only more questions.
He lashed out, swinging his fists into empty space.
What annoyed him most, though…
She hadn't sounded much older than him.
And yet—
"Child?" he scoffed.
"I'm almost eighteen!"
His voice carried a hint of pride.
It wasn't just a number.
At eighteen, one could awaken.
Some would manifest the power of their own Soul—shaping it into something uniquely theirs. Others would devote themselves to a higher being, walking the path of Faith as an Aspirant.
Two paths. Two powers. Both with consequences. Ard's thoughts drifted—imagining himself as a warrior, standing atop a hill of fallen enemies, clad in the blazing symbol of the War God Amilla. Strength. Purpose. Power.
A future decided for him. The thought lingered… until something snapped him back.
"Open… my eyes," he whispered.
And then it hit him. His eyes were closed. The realization sent a jolt through his entire being. He could have sworn he'd been seeing the void this whole time. As if the belief alone had made it real. Slowly, the tension left his body. And then—
Light.
A blinding white brilliance tore through the darkness, forcing its way past his eyelids. They parted slightly, resisting at first, but the light overwhelmed everything.
The void shattered.
—Ard was waking up.
With a pained groan, Ard opened his eyes, lying motionless atop the pile of stale yellow hay and grey rags that made up his makeshift bed.
It was far from comfortable—far from anything resembling proper shelter—but it beat sleeping on the dirt-covered floor of the old, rickety barn he called home.
For all its faults—and if one could ignore the ever-present stench of horsehair and piss—it was the best place he'd had in a long while.
At least here, there was a roof.
Better than the time he'd slept beneath a gnarled, twisting oak tree.
With a particularly unfriendly sparrow.
Still flat on his back, Ard raised an arm in front of his face, watching the faint disturbance in the air as it moved. Slowly, he turned his hand over, a flicker of unease crossing his expression as he checked each finger.
All still there.
The memory of that strange, endless void lingered uneasily in his mind.
Lowering his hand, he reached up and lightly touched his cheek.
"Argh—!"
He recoiled instantly as a sharp, stinging pain shot through his face.
What a sight he must have made.
If anyone had stepped into the barn at that moment, this is what they would see: a half-rotted wooden door hanging crooked on its hinges, barely held together by fraying lengths of rope. Dust drifting lazily down from rough-cut rafters. Six horse stalls lining the walls—five occupied by sturdy, unremarkable workhorses bred for labor, not beauty.
The sixth stall, tucked away at the far right, stood empty.
Empty of horses, at least.
Instead, Ard lay sprawled across a heap of old hay, bound together with torn strips of cloth. His shirt was dirt-stained and worn thin in places, his leather chaps scuffed and cracked from constant use. Though he spent long hours under the sun, his skin carried only a modest tan—not as deep as the seasoned farmers, but still marked by labor.
There was the foundation of something striking in his features.
A well-defined jaw beneath the bruising. Dark brown hair falling to mid-length around his face. With proper food and a chance to bathe, he might have been considered handsome.
At least, he liked to think so.
But what truly stood out—what could not be dulled even now—were his eyes. A vivid azure, brighter than any natural blue, almost luminous in their intensity.
Though at present, they were barely visible.
His face was a swollen mess of purple, black, and yellow bruises, one eye nearly forced shut.
"Jack must've really done a number on me," he muttered.
Even the movement of his jaw sent a dull ache radiating outward.
That dream…
It had felt too real.
Too vivid.
He exhaled slowly, wincing.
The only reasonable explanation was that his mind had conjured it—some strange result of yesterday's beating. A scrambled brain trying to make sense of itself.
He paused, considering.
Honestly… if he lost the ability to feel pain entirely, farm work might actually become bearable.
Maybe a bit of nerve damage wouldn't be so bad.
Power.
What a strange thing.
It was the one thing Ard desired above all else—and yet, it remained completely out of reach.
For now.
In just under two months, he would turn eighteen.
Old enough to choose.
He could become an Aspirant at the local temple. Bind himself to the God of the Harvest—Sylvan—and receive power in return.
Perhaps… enough power to—
A grin twitched across his bruised face.
—smite Jack and his lot where they stood.
A small, manic laugh slipped from his lips, quickly dissolving into a cough that sent pain lancing through his ribs. He sank back into the hay with a grimace.
In another life, he might have chosen differently.
A war god, perhaps. A path of battle and conquest.
Sylvan was powerful, yes—but his domain lay in growth, purification, and life. Not combat.
Ard had considered another option, too.
Forcing his soul to awaken through sheer will. Pushing beyond its natural limits before his body was ready.
The thought lingered… then faded.
His current state made that path impossible.
He would fracture long before he gained anything of value.
No—this was his only real chance.
The temple.
A way out.
A way to stop being just another orphaned farmhand scraping by on scraps.
He could own land. Grow crops. Sell them in the markets of Marth.
A better life.
…Just not the one he truly wanted.
His gaze drifted, unfocused, as a memory surfaced.
Armored figures standing before a towering marble gateway, its surface etched with glowing runes. A portal to somewhere beyond.
The Branch Worlds.
A faint chuckle escaped him.
That was what he wanted.
Adventure.
To step through those gates. To fight through rifts, to conquer labyrinths, to carve his name into something greater than survival.
He imagined crowds lining the streets, cheering his return. Flowers thrown at his feet as he rode past on a mighty steed.
"Yeah… right," he muttered.
Reality settled back in.
Gritting his teeth, Ard forced himself upright.
"One… two… and—three!"
He grabbed the wooden divider of the stall, hauling himself up with visible strain. His body protested immediately—muscles aching, bones sore from endless labor and last night's beating.
His gaze fell on a small wooden bowl in the corner.
Water.
He staggered toward it, each step sending dull pulses of pain through him. Kneeling beside it, he scooped up a handful and braced himself.
The cold hit his face instantly.
Sharp. Unforgiving.
"That definitely woke me up," he muttered.
He scooped another handful and drank, letting the excess spill down his chin.
Through a narrow gap in the barn wall, something caught his eye.
A mountain in the distance, looming over the fields like a silent sentinel.
Below it, farmers moved through their morning routines.
One in particular stood out.
The man raised his hands toward the sky, head bowed.
Ard leaned closer.
"Is that…?"
Then it began.
Soft green light flickered into existence around the farmer, gathering into drifting sparks that floated gently downward into the buckets at his feet. The moment they touched the water, they dissolved—infusing it with something unseen.
A purification spell.
Magic granted by faith.
Water enriched for crops. Stronger yields. Healthier harvests.
Without it, these lands would never have flourished as they had.
Ard watched, transfixed.
If this was just one small expression of divine power… then what else was possible?
What else existed beyond this quiet, suffocating life?
Slowly, he stepped back from the wall.
There was work to be done.
He turned toward the barn door—
And froze.
Through his blurred, swollen vision, he saw it.
A shadow.
Stretching along the ground beyond the door.
Growing larger.
Approaching.
CRACK.
The half-rotted wood shuddered violently as the door slammed inward, one of its frayed rope hinges snapping with a dry, fibrous tear. Dust and splinters burst into the air.
"ARD!"
The voice arrived before the boy—loud, full of life, completely out of place in a building that smelled of rot and old hay.
A round-faced figure stumbled through the doorway, catching the sagging door before it collapsed entirely. With surprising strength, he shoved it back into place and hastily retied the rope hinge in a messy knot.
He was broad through the middle, soft in build but far from weak. Sunlight caught in his tousled blonde hair, and his auburn eyes gleamed with restless, infectious energy.
"ARD, YOU'RE LATE!"
Ard winced, instinctively bringing a hand to his head.
"Keep your voice down," he muttered, his words slurring slightly through the swelling.
The boy paused, squinting as he leaned closer.
"…By the fields, you look like you got trampled by a bull."
Ard let out a dry breath.
"Close enough."
The boy grinned anyway—wide, unbothered.
"Well, good news. Jack's not looking for you."
Ard raised an eyebrow—or tried to.
"That's because," the boy continued, stepping fully into the stall, "you're already late enough that the farmers are gonna skin you alive before he gets the chance."
Ard stared at him.
"…You said that like it was better."
"It is better," the boy replied confidently, bending to scoop up a half-torn boot. "Farmers yell. Jack…"
He tossed the boot toward Ard.
"Jack gets creative."
Ard caught it with a grunt.
He couldn't argue with that.
"Get up," Chubs added. "We've got irrigation lines to check, and Old Man Ferrin said if we're late again, he's docking our meals."
That got Ard moving.
Slowly.
Painfully.
But moving.
"You're walking like you're eighty."
"I feel like I'm eighty."
Chubs snorted.
"Come on, Ard. If you die, I'm stuck doing your work too. Don't do that to me."
Despite himself, Ard let out a faint chuckle as he fumbled with his other boot.
"Chubs," he said, glancing up, "you ever consider not shouting every thought you have?"
"No."
The answer came instantly.
"World's too quiet already. Someone's gotta fix that."
Ard shook his head faintly, pushing himself upright. He grabbed a worn cloth from the hay pile and loosely wrapped it around his neck, more out of habit than need.
Together, they stepped out into the morning light.
The farm stretched wide before them—rows upon rows of crops swaying gently in the breeze. The early sun painted everything in warm gold, dew clinging to leaves like scattered glass.
In the distance, the mountain loomed—silent, watchful.
Workers were already moving through the fields, bent to their tasks. Tools scraped, buckets sloshed, and the steady rhythm of labor filled the air.
Chubs stretched his arms high above his head with a groan.
"Beautiful day to not die, yeah?"
Ard squinted against the light.
"Debatable."
They started down the worn dirt path, boots crunching softly beneath them.
"Alright," Chubs said, clapping his hands once. "Plan for today: check the lower irrigation channels, clear any blockages, refill the troughs, and try not to get yelled at more than… three times."
"Ambitious."
"I like to aim high."
They passed a group of older farmers hauling sacks of grain. One of them glanced at Ard, his gaze lingering a moment too long on the bruises before he shook his head and moved on.
Chubs noticed.
"Looks worse today," he said quietly.
"It is worse today."
"…You gonna be alright?"
Ard exhaled slowly.
"Same as always."
Chubs nodded, accepting the answer—for now.
They reached the irrigation lines—long, shallow channels carved into the earth, guiding water through the fields. Some sections flowed cleanly. Others were clogged with mud, weeds, and debris.
Chubs crouched immediately, rolling up his sleeves.
"Race you."
"To what?"
"Clearing the line."
"I'm not racing you."
"Coward."
"I'm injured."
"Excuses."
Chubs plunged his hands into the muddy water, scooping out clumps with surprising speed.
Ard sighed, then knelt beside him, wincing as his ribs protested.
They fell into a rhythm—scoop, clear, push, repeat. Slowly, the water began to flow again.
"You ever think about leaving?" Chubs asked suddenly.
Ard didn't look up.
"All the time."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
Chubs grinned faintly, tossing aside a clump of mud.
"I'd go somewhere big. Not just Marth big—bigger. Towers. Markets. People who don't know my name."
Ard smirked slightly.
"You'd last a week."
"Rude."
"You'd get lost."
"I would not get lost."
"You absolutely would."
Chubs paused, considering.
"…Alright, maybe a little lost."
Ard huffed quietly.
They moved further down the line.
"Still," Chubs went on, "I think I'd like it. New food. New people. No Jack."
Ard's expression darkened at the name, but he said nothing.
"And you?" Chubs asked. "What's your grand plan?"
Ard hesitated.
"…Something different."
"That's not an answer."
"It's enough of one."
Chubs gave him a sideways look but let it go.
They worked on.
The sun climbed higher. Sweat mixed with dust. Time slipped past in a steady, familiar rhythm.
They moved on to the troughs—large wooden basins scattered across the fields. Some needed refilling, others cleaning.
At one, Chubs leaned over the water, studying his reflection.
"Think I've gotten more handsome?" he asked.
Ard glanced over.
"No."
"Really look."
"I am looking."
"And?"
"You look like you fell into a bread basket and stayed there."
Chubs gasped.
"Unbelievable. I come to you for validation—"
"You came to me for lies."
"Same thing!"
Ard shook his head, though the faintest hint of a smile tugged at his lips.
They moved on again.
By midday, the light had shifted—harsher now, pressing down with weight. The fields shimmered faintly in the heat.
Conversation came easier in the quiet stretches.
Small things. Complaints. Jokes.
Easy.
Familiar.
Safe.
Until it wasn't.
They found themselves near the edge of the fields, where the land dipped and the mountain came fully into view.
Chubs lingered there, hands on his hips.
"Hey," he said.
Ard glanced at him.
"You're turning eighteen soon, right?"
Ard stiffened slightly.
"Yeah."
"Me too," Chubs said. "Not long after you."
Silence settled between them.
The wind shifted, brushing through the crops with a low whisper.
"You ever think about it?" Chubs asked.
"About what?"
"After."
Ard frowned.
"After what?"
Chubs gestured vaguely—to the fields, the barn, the endless repetition.
"When we're not just… this."
Ard looked toward the mountain.
"…Sometimes."
Chubs didn't smile.
"My dad used to say turning eighteen is when life really starts. Like everything before that is just waiting."
Ard said nothing.
"I used to believe that," Chubs continued quietly. "Thought something big would happen. Like I'd wake up different."
He exhaled softly.
"Now I'm not so sure."
The air felt heavier.
"There's the temple," Ard said. "Aspirants."
"Yeah."
"You could go."
"You could too."
Ard hesitated.
"…Maybe."
Chubs nudged the dirt with his boot.
"You think it actually changes anything?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean… we go, we get picked, get some blessing." He glanced at the fields. "Then what?"
Ard didn't answer immediately.
"We just stay here?" Chubs went on. "Grow better crops? Get yelled at less?"
There was no bitterness in his voice.
That made it worse.
"It's still better," Ard said.
"Yeah," Chubs replied.
"It is."
A pause.
"But is it enough?"
The question lingered.
A distant shout echoed across the fields, breaking the silence—but not the tension.
Ard's gaze returned to the mountain.
"…There's more out there," he said quietly.
Chubs looked at him.
"You really believe that?"
Ard hesitated.
Then, softer—
"…I have to."
Chubs studied him, something unreadable in his eyes.
"I used to dream about it," he admitted. "Adventurers. Portals. All that."
A flicker stirred in Ard's chest.
"Used to?"
Chubs shrugged faintly.
"Dreams don't fill your stomach."
"No," Ard said.
"But they keep you moving."
Chubs didn't respond.