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Undying Spark

Bears22
7
chs / week
The average realized release rate over the past 30 days is 7 chs / week.
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Synopsis
A spark born of sacrifice may be the faintest flame standing between a dying world and oblivion. Aeren was raised in a peaceful, nameless farming village by his mother, Myra, after his father, Thane, died defending their home. Myra gave him six miraculous years of life with her dying gift, a quiet legend woven by the villagers. As he grows, Aeren carries warmth in his heart—but at fifteen, when death walks through the fields, innocence shatters. Cornered and terrified, he unleashes a power that should have consumed him… and lives. He is found by Eldric Valen, founder of the Dawnguard, who pulls Aeren from ruin into an order bound by one mission: to preserve the light of a world collapsing into darkness. While Aeren seeks only to help because he can, monsters emerge that feed on dying hope, and a fanatic cult known as the Witherbound rises to twist death into dominion. Yet Aeren doesn’t know he’s become the world’s final spark—nor that every spark and soul matters. A dark‑soul fantasy of sacrifice, mystery, and meaning: Can a boy who doesn’t know his destiny choose to save the world anyway?
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Chapter 1 - Chapter 0 - Prologue

It was the kind of morning meant for naps in the sun. The skies were open and blue, the wind soft enough to lull the birds into lazy spirals above the green plains. A perfect day to stretch your limbs, maybe even fall asleep under a tree if the gods allowed. But for the boy currently sprinting across the field like death itself was nipping at his heels, it was anything but peaceful.

"How is this training, you crazy old man?!" he shouted breathlessly, dodging a lurching claw to his left.

A horde of monsters—beasts warped by Spark corruption—thundered after him. Each step they took sent shudders through the earth. Shrieks pierced the wind, and the stench of rot clung to the air. Some of them looked like twisted hounds, others like malformed bears, their limbs too long, their eyes glowing with the unnatural light of the Spark's infection.

At his side, a man with silver-streaked hair tied in a loose knot ran with ease. His robes fluttered behind him like banners from a forgotten war, and despite the chaos, his laughter rang clear.

"This is exactly how I trained at your age! Quit whining, boy!"

The boy—Aeren—bit back a retort. His lungs burned, but it wasn't the pain that made him stop. It was instinct. A cold surge ran down his spine, and something deep inside him—the part that never truly slept—stirred awake.

His boots dug into the grass as he skidded to a halt. The monsters didn't pause. They didn't question. They charged, howling, blind with hunger.

Aeren didn't blink. He reached behind him, drawing a curved sickle-sword from the sheath strapped across his back. The blade was scarred and pockmarked, a weapon that had seen far too many fights for someone his age. But it was his. It was loyal. It would do.

One of the beasts lunged.

A flash.

Steel met flesh.

The creature dropped mid-leap, its body thudding into the dirt. A claw from another grazed across Aeren's chest, tearing his tunic and slicing skin. He staggered back, hissing through his teeth.

And then it hit.

A surge—not quite light, not quite fire. Something else entirely. It pulsed from within his chest, rippling outward through his limbs. His veins lit faintly, his pupils narrowing. Not a transformation, but an awakening. The Spark.

He didn't think. He moved.

The first beast came low, aiming for his legs. He sidestepped, spinning into a backhand slash that cleaved it clean through the neck. Blood sprayed into the grass. Another came from behind—he ducked, rolled forward, came up slashing in a wide arc that opened two more.

Fifteen. That's how many Eldric had set loose.

He didn't count. He felt.

One on the left—fangs too wide, eyes milky. Aeren slid under its bite, drove his blade up through the jaw. The sickle caught in bone, but he didn't yank it free. He kicked the monster off and pivoted to meet another. This one was faster. It feinted low, then swiped across.

Pain bloomed across his ribs. Aeren cried out but didn't fall. He parried the next blow with the flat of his blade, then retaliated with a vicious elbow to the creature's snout. As it reeled, he swept its legs and drove his foot into its throat.

Eldric watched from a nearby slope. He hadn't lifted a finger. His arms were crossed, brows furrowed not with worry, but study. He was tracking Aeren's footwork, the faltering of his left shoulder during slashes, the overcommitment to spins. Mistakes he would drill out of him later.

Another beast, larger than the rest, roared and charged.

Aeren planted his feet, blood trickling down his side. He held his sword in both hands, breath ragged. He waited.

At the last second, he sidestepped, bringing the blade in a wide crescent. The beast tried to twist, but its bulk worked against it. Aeren's sword slashed across its flank. It roared again, wounded but not dead.

Aeren gritted his teeth. His Spark surged again, and he dashed forward. One step. Two. Then he leapt, bringing the sickle down with both hands. It struck between the creature's shoulders. The beast fell.

He didn't stop moving.

Every step was instinct. Every motion raw. No elegance, no formality. Just reaction and need. He wasn't a warrior; he was a storm barely held together by skin.

He cut down another. Then another.

His breath came in gasps now. His arms trembled with each swing. The Spark was fading.

The last monster lunged.

Aeren met it mid-air, blade-first.

Then silence.

The field, once echoing with snarls and howls, was still. Bodies lay strewn across the grass, twitching in their final death throes. Steam rose from some, their corrupted essence burning away under the touch of the Spark.

Aeren stood in the center, bloodied, chest heaving. His sword clattered to the ground as his knees buckled. He collapsed backward, letting the soft grass cradle his aching body. His eyes stared up at the open sky. Birds circled lazily again, undisturbed now.

Eldric approached at last. The old man walked with a measured calm, his boots crushing grass and gore alike. He looked down at the boy, his expression unreadable.

Aeren groaned.

"Be honest," he muttered, eyes half-lidded against the sun. "You're secretly trying to kill me, aren't you?"

Eldric didn't answer right away. Instead, he sat beside him, robes rustling as he settled into the grass like they were simply out for a morning picnic. He pulled out a flask, offered it to Aeren.

Aeren reached for it with shaking fingers, took a sip, coughed, then took another. Water had never tasted more divine.

The silence between them stretched—not cold, not awkward, just… understood.

Aeren exhaled slowly. His body ached. Muscles screamed. His wounds throbbed. But there was something else too. A strange satisfaction. He hadn't died.

"Next time," he murmured, "can I at least get a heads-up?"

Eldric's lips quirked into a small smile. The lines around his eyes creased like the folds of an old map.

He didn't look at Aeren as he spoke.

"Do you remember the first time we met?"