The sun hung high, bathing the limestone streets in warmth. While the Western District drowned in fearful whispers, the heart of the city beat with a different rhythm. The Central Street was unusually congested with a sea of small heads. Children of all ages were swarming toward a single location, ranging from toddlers to teenagers on the cusp of adulthood. They gathered around a small, makeshift wooden stage set up in a corner of the bustling plaza. It was humble and barely raised off the ground with no curtains or decorations to adorn it. Yet to the hundreds of children staring up at it, it was the center of the world. Standing on that stage was the sole reason for the comfort. A young man of approximately twenty-two years stood waiting there. He stood one hundred and eighty centimeters tall with a lean, athletic build that hinted at hidden power. His skin was swarthy and sun-kissed, glowing with health, while jet-black hair fell loosely over his forehead. His deep, abyss-like black eyes seemed to hold a thousand secrets, possessing a magnetic charm that drew people in. However, his attire was shockingly low-status, consisting of a set of rough, faded blue clothes. He wore loose trousers and a tunic made of coarse fabric. To any passerby, he looked like a common laborer or slave. But the man wore the rags like royal robes, carrying himself with an air of undeniable dignity. This was the Storyteller, who had appeared in Oktavira seemingly out of nowhere a few years ago. Since then, he had become a local legend, employing a business model that bordered on the insane. He charged adults two silver coins but allowed children to listen for free. Two silver coins was a fortune for a commoner, enough to feed a whole family for a week. As a result, his audience was almost exclusively children, creating a sanctuary where the youth could escape reality. The Storyteller smiled with a warm, genuine expression that reached his eyes. He raised a hand, and the chattering crowd instantly fell silent. The wind rustled the leaves of the nearby trees, as if nature itself was leaning in to listen. "Children," his voice rang out clear and melodic, carrying effortlessly to the back of the crowd without shouting. He crouched slightly as his eyes sparkled with mischief and wonder. Today's story will be about the legendary Firebird, he declared to the captivated audience before him. A collective gasp of excitement swept through the waiting audience. Long ago, before the sky was divided, there lived a bird made of pure, undying flame. As he began to speak, the air around the stage seemed to shimmer with an ethereal energy. He was not just telling a story; he was weaving a world that felt tangibly real. Unbeknownst to the children, the man in the slave clothes was reciting history not from a book, but from memory. After 3 hours, "Mister Storyteller, please, tell us what happened after that, for the fate of the hero remains unknown!" echoed the pleading cries from the children's innocent and curiosity-filled lips. "Yes, yes, tell us; do not leave us in the agony of waiting!" others chimed in, sparkles of undying interest shining brightly in their wide eyes. The ceaseless encouragement of the children signaled the end of the storyteller's legend for the day, as the sun, reddening on the horizon, was already gathering its golden rays to prepare for fading into the depths of the night. "My dear children, our adventures for today consist of this, for just as every sweet has its limit, a little bit of honey is more delicious," said the storyteller in a soft and mysterious voice, his face reflecting a mixture of fatigue and satisfaction. "If you wish to see that legendary bird from the story with your own eyes, pray with a sincere heart, and it will visit your dreams." Empowered by this answer, the children impatiently questioned, "Mister Storyteller, to whom should we pray, and to which holy temple must we go to light candles?" The storyteller, with a look of deep tranquility and universal mystery, replied, "After you have finished eating dinner, it is enough to simply offer a sincere prayer in 'His' name with the desire to see 'Him'..." "Mister Storyteller, who is this 'He' you speak of, and what is his name?" This question increased the children's astonishment. The storyteller continued to explain the essence of prayer to the children, arranging his words softly: "Children, even I do not know 'His' true name, but if you recite the prayer I taught you in 'His' name, you will achieve your goal." The children were left bewildered after this unexpected statement, because for the first time in their short lives, they were hearing that it was possible to turn to the gods without going to luxurious temples or following formalities and that this process could happen even without the participation of strict priests. "Just close your eyes, imagine 'Him' inside you, and pray for good intentions for 'Him' while stating your pure wish... Believe me, He will certainly hear you." Although the older adults looked disapproving of these strange words that contradicted tradition, the innocent children listened to every word of the storyteller with great interest, sealing them in the corners of their fragile hearts. After that, the square slowly emptied as people began to disperse to their homes, and in the moments when the noise subsided, a strange phenomenon occurred. A few seconds after the people disappeared from view, the wooden stage and the mysterious storyteller melted into the air like a mirage, as if he had never existed there, leaving only the whistle of the wind.
"Mother, I have returned," announced the twelve-year-old boy, his voice echoing slightly as he stepped into the modest interior of the living room constructed from rough-hewn, unadorned brick. From the direction of the culinary quarters, his mother emerged, a woman of approximately forty-three years whose raven-black tresses framed a visage etched with the premature furrows of hardship, her attire bearing the distinct, utilitarian resemblance to the garb of a common house servant. "My precious child, have you finally arrived?" she asked, her voice laced with a palpable tremor of maternal anxiety. "Where have you been until this late hour?" The boy, beaming with the resilience of youth, replied, "Mother, today I journeyed to the city center with our esteemed mentor, Patriy Adrivili, to attend a storytelling gathering; do you know, the narrator possesses a truly uncanny gift, for he regaled us with a tale concerning a mystical avian creature of the heavens." Observing the genuine spark of delight in her son's eyes, the mother felt her frantic heart rate decelerate into a rhythm of tranquility, and she settled down to audit his enthusiastic recounting. "Well then, my little one, are you capable of reciting that very same fable to me?" she asked softly. With a smile that radiated pure, unadulterated joy, the boy nodded vigorously and commenced his narrative with the timeless invocation, "In ancient times..." Their verbal exchange persisted for roughly two hours, stretching until the sun had fully capitulated to the horizon. As twilight deepened into the heavy cloak of evening, the mother began to serve their sustenance, encouraging, "Take the food while it retains its heat, my son." During the course of their humble repast, the boy, driven by a sudden surge of curiosity, interjected, "Mother, the storyteller declared that if you harbor a desire to witness the heroes from the tales I have spun, you must offer a prayer and a wish to 'Him' after we have finished our meal, and He will manifest in your dreams to provide an answer." The mother was struck by astonishment at this proclamation, inevitably concluding that such a feat was an absolute impossibility; after all, the deities are typically deigned to respond only when one visits the sanctified grounds of a temple and participates in elaborate rituals orchestrated by ordained priests. How could "He" possibly answer a mere, informal supplication? Nevertheless, determined to preserve the fragile buoyancy of her son's spirit, she cleared the table and retreated to the kitchen with the empty vessels once they had consumed their fill. "Mother, come, let us pray together to 'Him' and make our wish," the boy insisted. Yielding to his plea with a gentle smile, she approached the table, preparing herself for the orison. "My child, can you divulge 'His' name to me?" she asked. "Without a name, how am I to direct my prayer?" The boy paused for a few seconds of contemplation before answering, "Mother, the storyteller mentioned that we might address him by the title of 'Mr. Future.'" Consequently, the mother recited the prayer under the precise appeal her son had provided. "Oh, majestic and powerful being, Mr. Future, hear our plea, for your greatness is infinite; please, reveal to us the celestial bird of the sky." Following this solemn invocation, they retired to their sleeping quarters and surrendered to slumber. It was approximately two o'clock in the morning. The entire world seemed buried under a blanket of silent tranquility. The mother and the boy lay beneath a single quilt, their bodies entwined in a protective embrace as they slept on the shared mattress. Suddenly, the perspective shifted to the Dream Space. The mother felt as though she had been unceremoniously dropped into a realm submerged in absolute darkness and boundless infinity. In that obsidian void, where the laws of reality seemed suspended, a colossal, undefined shadow abruptly materialized before her.