Chains of the Godslayer

The beast's fang swayed at the boy's side, tied with a strip of leather that dug into his belt. He felt its weight with every step, a reminder of survival hard-won. His legs ached, his chest burned, and his body begged for rest, but he pressed on, matching the old man's relentless pace.

"Your legs are shaking," the old man said, his voice calm but cutting. He didn't turn around, his gaze fixed ahead. "Do you think the heavens will care if you're tired? Weakness is a gift to your enemies."

The boy clenched his fists, forcing his body forward. He didn't respond immediately, letting the silence stretch between them. Finally, he said, "I'm still walking."

The old man stopped abruptly, turning to face him. His pale eyes glinted in the faint moonlight, sharp as a blade.

"Walking is the bare minimum," he said, his tone cold. "You survived the crater. That's something. But survival isn't strength. It's an opportunity—a fragile one. Weakness doesn't vanish because you escaped death. It waits. It watches. It drags you down the moment you stumble."

The boy met the old man's gaze without flinching, his own steady. His voice was firm when he replied, "Then I won't stumble."

A flicker of something—approval, perhaps—crossed the old man's face. His lips curved into a faint smirk. "Good. We'll see if you mean that."

---

The forest seemed darker than usual, its shadows stretching unnaturally long in the faint light of the moon. The boy's senses prickled as they moved deeper, every rustle of leaves and creak of branches setting his nerves on edge.

The weight of the air had changed. It was sharper now, colder, pressing against his chest with the same oppressive force he had felt in the crater.

"They've noticed you," the old man said suddenly, breaking the silence.

The boy glanced at him, his grip tightening on the hilt of his blade. "Who?"

"The heavens," the old man replied, his tone casual, as if he were commenting on the weather. "You cracked their hold tonight. Cracks don't go unnoticed. The chains stirred, and so did they."

The boy frowned, his pulse quickening. "Why would they care about me? I'm nothing to them."

The old man's laugh was sharp, edged with bitterness. "You're right. You're nothing now. But cracks spread, boy. The heavens don't fear you for what you are—they fear you for what you might become."

The boy's grip on his blade tightened further, the dull hilt digging into his palm. His voice was low but steady when he said, "Let them watch. Let them come."

The old man chuckled softly, the sound dark and approving. "That fire will keep you alive. But fire without control burns itself out. Remember that."

---

They reached the camp just before dawn, the boy collapsing against a tree as soon as the clearing came into view. His body gave out, the exhaustion he had fought back overtaking him. He closed his eyes, but rest didn't come. The events of the crater replayed in his mind—the crushing weight of the chains, the shadow's voice.

"Why do you resist?" the words echoed, sharp and unrelenting.

The boy's jaw tightened. "Because I must," he whispered to himself.

The crackle of the fire broke the silence, and he opened his eyes to see the old man sitting by its edge. The flames danced in his pale gaze, casting long shadows over his weathered face.

"You're wondering why the heavens marked you," the old man said, his voice low and even.

The boy hesitated, then nodded.

"They don't care about you," the old man continued. "They care about what you might represent. To them, you're an aberration. A crack in the foundation they've built. And cracks… spread."

The boy frowned, his fingers brushing against the faint pulse of the chains beneath his skin. "And what do I represent?"

The old man tossed a stick into the flames, watching the sparks rise. "Potential. A possibility they can't control. The heavens rule by fear, boy. Fear of defiance. Fear of failure. But fear is fragile. If one person breaks free, others might follow. You're small now, but rebellion doesn't start with armies. It starts with a single step."

The boy's gaze fixed on the fire, its flickering flames reflecting in his eyes. His chest felt tight, the weight of the old man's words settling deep.

"And what am I supposed to become?" he asked finally, his voice quieter.

The old man looked at him then, his expression sharp and serious. "Something they fear."

---

When the sun broke through the trees, the boy stood, his blade in hand. He moved to the edge of the camp, where the ground was clear, and began to practice. His movements were slow at first, each strike deliberate, though his arms trembled with the effort.

The rusted blade whistled faintly through the air, its dull edge catching the morning light.

The old man watched from a distance, silent, until finally, he approached.

"Why do you still use that blade?" he asked, his voice cutting through the boy's focus.

The boy paused mid-strike, glancing at the weapon in his hand. Its cracked hilt and chipped edge had become familiar. "Because it's mine," he said simply.

The old man crouched, his fingers brushing the blade's surface. "It's weak. Flawed. Just like you."

The boy frowned. "Then I'll make it stronger."

The old man's lips curved faintly. "And that's why it's worth keeping. Strength isn't born, boy. It's forged. Both in weapons and in men."

He stood, his gaze steady. "Sharpen it. Reforge it. Make it worthy of the path you're carving."

The boy nodded, gripping the blade tighter.

---

Hours later, the old man tossed a small leather pouch to the boy.

"What's this?" the boy asked, catching it.

"Seeds," the old man replied. "Plant them near the Tree of Wills. If you live long enough, you'll see what they grow into."

The boy opened the pouch, tipping its contents into his hand. The seeds were dark and smooth, faintly warm to the touch, as though alive.

"What will they become?" he asked.

The old man's smirk returned. "That depends on you. Strength isn't just about breaking chains. It's about planting something that lasts when the chains are gone."

The boy stared at the seeds, their faint warmth pulsing against his palm. His gaze drifted to the horizon, where the Tree of Wills stood, its ancient branches stretching toward the heavens.

"You're giving me riddles again," he muttered.

The old man chuckled softly. "Life doesn't hand you answers, boy. It hands you tools. What you build with them is your choice."

The boy closed his hand around the seeds, his resolve hardening. "I'll plant them."

"Good," the old man said, his voice quiet but firm. "But remember: not all seeds survive the storm. The question is whether you will."

The boy said nothing, but as he gripped the seeds tightly, a flicker of defiance burned in his eyes.