The forest is alive.
Some say it has eyes, watching from the shades.Others say it has ears, listening to every footstep that dares disturb it.A few even claim it has a heart, beating slowly beneath layers of soil and root.
They are not wrong.
On this day, the forest was truly afraid.
Trees trembled without wind. Bark tightened around ancient trunks. Creatures that had ruled these woods for generations burrowed deeper and deeper into the earth. The forest grew eerily quiet, as though any sound—no matter how small—would invite death.
Fear clung to every corner and edge of the woods.
Not fear of fire.Not fear of steel.
But fear of superiority.
Two figures stood at the center of the forest.
The elements could not touch them—or perhaps, they did not dare to.
One reclined lazily upon a tree branch, as though nothing in this world possessed the authority to move him. A wide smile rested on his face, not born of naivety, but of certainty. There was almost nothing within this solar system capable of harming him.
Some would call it arrogance.
But was it truly arrogance if it was simply fact?
The other figure remained within the shadows. Only one thing about him was visible—deep blue, snake-like eyes that watched without blinking.
"What brings you here?" the one on the branch asked, his tone playful.
The figure in the shadows met his gaze."The order of the Xiansdu Army is long dead," he said. "I no longer have any reason to answer to you."
The smile on the other's face did not fade.
"Really?" he replied, disdain woven into every syllable. "If I willed it, you would die where you stand. Have you forgotten where your loyalty lies? The order of Xiansdu is eternal."
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"The way you speak to me is punishable by death. But I will overlook it—your illness is clearly worsening."
The shadowed figure did not flinch.
"Times are changing," he said calmly. "You cannot afford to live in the past. I came to warn you—do not interfere with what is about to unfold."
He turned slightly, the forest holding its breath.
"If you do," he continued, "I will make you regret that decision."
The forest remained silent.
As though it had already chosen a side.
"I want to see you try", with his smile slowly fading, "I have not felt regret for a long time and I will love to know the feeling again".
"Don`t say I did not warn you".
Far from the forest's pulse, the world went on as usual. Inside a modest wooden home, a boy watched the screen with wide eyes. Flames rose across a shattered city, but the crowd cheered. A figure hovered above the chaos, cape fluttering like a storm-born flag.
Hero. Savior. Protector.
"That's him!" his sister shouted, gripping his arm. Her eyes shone with excitement. "The strongest one!"
The boy leaned forward, breath caught. He wasn't watching the destruction. He was watching how people looked at the man in the sky.
His father sat nearby, expression hard and distant, holding his drink. "If they're so powerful," he muttered, voice low, "why does everything still fall apart?"
No one answered.
Their mother sat quietly on the couch, blanket wrapped tightly around her shoulders. She smiled, though weariness lined her face. Her fingers rested lightly on the boy's arm, a touch of warmth in the cold room.
"Mama," the boy whispered, "do you think… someone like me could ever be a hero?"
She hesitated, a flicker of sadness in her eyes. Then she brushed his hair back gently, her touch trembling ever so slightly.
"If you grow strong," she said softly, "make sure you choose what you're strong for."
The boy smiled, caught in a fleeting world of wonder. He didn't notice her breathing grow shallower.
Rain fell the next day.
The wooden box sank into the earth, soaked by water and sorrow. The boy stared, unable to understand how someone so small could hold someone so vital. His sister cried openly, leaning on him for comfort.
His father did not cry. He stood rigid, face carved into something cold and distant, a man remade by loss.
The house lost its warmth that day. Laughter vanished first, then patience, then kindness. Commands replaced conversation. Silence became a punishment.
"You're old enough," his father said one morning, voice clipped. "Get up."
The boy awoke with a sharp breath. Morning light slipped through cracks in the wall. His body ached before he moved, but even pain could not hold him.
For a moment, fragments of another life clung to him—trees, shadows, whispers of being watched. Then reality returned.
An axe leaned against the wall.
Outside, the forest waited.
Another day. Another cut. Another chance to grow stronger.
THE TALES OF KAMERIA BEGINS