"Run!"
Screams tore through the nameless village like wind through brittle branches. Smoke drifted upward in sluggish spirals, curling around charred beams and shattered stone. The sky, once a peaceful canvas of blue, now bled red as the sun dipped below the horizon, washing the world in blood and fire.
In the heart of the chaos stood a man, a farming sickle clenched tightly in his hand. His name was Thayne, and he had never wielded a blade meant for war. Yet here he stood, alone, the only thing between the monstrous horde and the lives that cowered behind him.
The bodies of his friends and neighbors—fellow farmers, bakers, millers—littered the ground behind him, their tools still clenched in lifeless hands. There had been a few trained fighters, brave enough to charge in when the beasts came roaring from the woods. They were the first to fall.
The monsters were not of flesh alone. Warped and twisted by spark corruption, their limbs were too many, their eyes too bright, their howls too wrong. They clawed and tore and bit, but not just at bodies—at the very peace this village had built over generations.
Thayne exhaled slowly. His heart thundered like a drum in his chest, but his hands didn't shake.
Then, like a whisper through the storm, he felt it.
A thrum in his chest.
A tug in his soul.
A name, not given by man, but etched into his very being. A name the world had spoken into him at birth.
[Will.]
He had always known it was there, like a seed in the dark. True names were said to be prophecies—a reflection of the death a person would one day meet. Most feared their true names. Some tried to run from them. Others never understood them until the very end.
But Thayne understood his now.
"Through my will, I can do anything."
It wasn't just a prophecy. It was a promise.
He stepped forward.
The monsters surged.
His sickle moved like wind over wheat. One monster lunged—a tiger-shaped beast with jagged bone protrusions from its shoulders—and Thayne sidestepped cleanly, the sickle slicing across its neck. Black ichor sprayed into the air.
Another beast followed, and another. Thayne's body moved faster than thought. His strikes were born not from training, but from purpose. The sickle, no longer a farmer's tool, spun and danced like it belonged in his grip all along. It slipped from his fingers—only to curve midair and return, slicing through two more monsters in its arc.
The villagers, huddled behind shattered barricades, watched in stunned silence. Children clung to weeping mothers. Old men gripped broken pitchforks with white knuckles. Every eye was on Thayne.
His body bled. Cuts marred his arms, his side, his legs. But his gaze never wavered. Each time a monster fell, he repeated his truth:
Through my will, I can do anything.
The field before him began to empty. Dozens of monsters now littered the grass, steam rising from their broken forms. But then, a new presence entered the battlefield.
It stepped from the treeline like a nightmare.
Twice the size of a man, hunched and hulking. Its back bore plates of stone-like armor, and its mouth split wide into a jaw lined with spiraling teeth. A boss-class beast, born from centuries of accumulated corruption. It roared, shaking the air.
Thayne's knees buckled from the force.
He barely raised his sickle in time to block a crushing blow. The impact hurled him across the village square. He crashed through a wooden wall, splinters embedding in his flesh. He coughed blood.
But he rose.
He stood tall.
The spark within him ignited.
His eyes glowed gold.
A white aura surged from his skin, wrapping around him like flame that did not burn. The wind stopped. The very earth seemed to hold its breath.
Gasps echoed from the villagers.
"No…"
"Thayne!"
"He's… he's sparking!"
"Not the Final Spark—please, gods—"
They knew what it meant.
The Final Spark was a miracle and a curse. A power drawn from the deepest truth of one's soul. It could move mountains. Defy death. But once used… there was no return.
Thayne charged.
The monster met him head-on.
Sickle clashed with claw. Aura clashed with corruption. Each blow sent shockwaves through the ground. Sparks and blood filled the air. Thayne moved like a storm—every strike faster, heavier, more desperate.
The monster struck his ribs. Something cracked. Thayne fell to one knee.
But he rose again.
Through my will, I can do anything.
He hurled the sickle. It split the air, striking the beast between its eyes. It howled, stumbling back. Thayne followed, leaping atop it, driving the blade deeper.
With a final, guttural roar, the beast tore away from him and fled into the trees, leaving a trail of ichor behind.
The village held its breath.
Thayne did not chase.
He turned.
He ran—not toward the cheering villagers—but toward a small, weather-worn hut at the village's edge.
Inside, a woman lay screaming.
Her name was Myra.
Pain etched her face, but her eyes blazed with the same light now flickering in Thayne's. She gripped the edge of the cot with one hand and her swollen belly with the other. A midwife sat beside her, pale and trembling, guiding the baby into the world.
Thayne knelt beside her, breathless, bloodied.
"I'm here," he whispered, voice cracking. "I'm here."
Tears streamed down her face. "It's a boy…"
The baby cried.
Thayne looked down at him—tiny, wrinkled, angry at the light.
He smiled.
"I'm the happiest man in the world right now," he said.
Then the glow overtook him.
His body shimmered, the golden light rising like smoke.
Myra reached for him, her hand brushing his cheek.
He kissed her forehead.
And like the last harvest before winter, he burned,
then vanished..
Outside, the villagers fell to their knees.
Inside, Myra wept.
And the baby, eyes wide and bright, watched it all in silence.
His name would be Aeren.
And the light that died that day… would be born again.