[Chp 26] The One Who Came Before

Inside the Guildmaster’s office, Zero sat behind a broad oak desk, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows across stacks of parchment. His pen moved swiftly across job requests, assigning tasks and approving missions — each one vital to keeping the guild alive and earning coin in these uncertain times. A knock echoed through the quiet guildmaster’s office. “Come in,” Zero called without looking up, still scribbling assignments and job requests across a stack of parchment. The door eased open, and Iskar stepped inside, his presence calm but firm. “Zero, tell Zen to—” Before he could finish, a cold mist coiled around Zero’s shoulders. In one smooth motion, it took shape—rising up beside him like a shadow stepping into the light. Zen stood there now, materialized as his own being. He wore a dark, tattered cloak that shifted with ethereal energy, his eyes a piercing shade of storm gray. A subtle grin traced his lips as he folded his arms. “Let me guess, Iskar…” Zen said, his voice smooth and laced with sarcasm. “You’re here to finally tell him the truth about Zarif? I already gave him the important parts, you know.” Iskar’s expression didn’t waver, though a flicker of frustration crossed his features. “No, Zen. You gave him fragments. Echoes. He deserves the full story. All of it.” Zen’s grin faded slightly as his gaze turned toward Zero, who had set down his pen and was now staring between the two of them. “I’ve had enough of riddles,” Zero said quietly, his voice firm, despite the tremor of anticipation that ran through him. “If I’m supposed to carry Zarif’s will… I need to know what that means. All of it.” Zen gave a low chuckle but said nothing. He stepped back, melting slightly into the background, watching. Iskar took a deep breath, his aged eyes, usually holding a glint of detached amusement, now held a solemn weight. He gestured to the ancient, gnarled root Zero had been previously described sitting on, or simply indicated the air before the desk. "Then sit down, both of you. What I’m about to say… not even the gods remember everything." The scent of damp earth and ancient stone hung heavy in the air of the forgotten chamber, disturbed only by the soft, rhythmic plink of water dripping from an unseen fissure. Dust motes danced in the sparse shafts of light that pierced the gloom, illuminating Iskar's weathered face as he stood before Zero. Zen, a silent sentinel, remained perched on a crumbling stone, his gaze fixed on the unfolding revelation. "You want to understand, Zero," Iskar began, his voice a low, resonant murmur that seemed to vibrate through the very foundations of the realm. "And it is time you did. This isn't just a story of a long-past hero. It is, in a profound way, your story. The echoes of his existence resonate within you." Zero flinched, a subtle tremor passing through him, as if a distant memory had brushed his soul. His eyes, usually sharp and inquisitive, were wide with a dawning apprehension. "Zarif," Iskar continued, his gaze piercing, "was not born the confluence you might imagine. He began as a demon, a being of primal chaos and raw power, native to the darker corners of existence. That was his foundation. But his journey… his journey was one of ceaseless acquisition. He wasn't simply a hybrid; he became one." Iskar paused, allowing the words to settle, emphasizing the evolution. "Over centuries, he gained. He wrestled with and absorbed the primal fury of a dragon. He delved into the terrifying void and claimed the essence of a hollow. And through trials unimaginable, he attained the divine, becoming part god. Imagine that, Zero. Not born with these disparate natures, but forging himself into this terrifying, magnificent mosaic of power. Each new essence, a war within his own being, a constant battle for integration." A sigh, like dry leaves rustling, escaped Iskar. "It was this unique, hard-won composition that presented him with an impossible choice, a decision that would ripple through all of existence. To save each realm individually, a task that would have stretched into eternity, demanding endless sacrifice, or to combine them all. To merge the fractured realities into one cohesive whole." Iskar's voice grew distant, as if recounting a memory of his own. "He chose the second path. He envisioned unity, a singular existence where the endless conflicts might finally cease. A noble ambition, born of immense power and a singular, perhaps naive, vision." A shadow crossed Iskar's face, deepening the lines around his mouth. "But even as Zarif embarked on this monumental undertaking, another entity stirred in the periphery. Zenthara. A god, yes, but one consumed by bitterness, banished to the desolate Realm of Banished Gods. Two centuries after Zarif first drew breath – two centuries of Zarif's relentless transformation and acquisition – Zenthara, through means I dare not fully explain, sensed it. The profound, unique potential. The bloodline of the First Balancer." Zero's breath hitched, a faint, almost imperceptible surge of energy stirring within him. Iskar's eyes met his, unwavering, knowing. "Zenthara made his move," Iskar continued, the air in the chamber growing colder, heavier. "He escaped the Realm of Banished Gods – a feat previously deemed impossible – and slipped into Zarif. Not as an invasion, not a direct assault, but a whisper, a creeping shadow. Insidiously, Zenthara began to consume Zarif from within, becoming one with him. And as Zenthara's twisted influence grew, hell began to unfurl across almost every realm. The unified power, now corrupted by a bitter god, threatened to unravel the very fabric of reality." "But Zarif fought," Iskar emphasized, a glimmer of profound admiration in his gaze. "He wrestled against the invading force within his own body, within his own mind, for complete control over his power, over his very being. And against all odds, he prevailed. He cast off Zenthara's dominion, at least for a time. The realms, battered and scarred, found a momentary respite, a fragile peace." Iskar sighed again, the sound laced with the weariness of ages. "But the battle had taken its toll. Decades later, the internal struggle began anew, subtly at first. Zarif found himself losing control over his own mind and body, the sheer magnitude of his existence, the endless contradictions within him, becoming a suffocating weight. It was during this period of instability that he encountered Organization 13." "He joined them," Iskar explained, a note of resignation in his voice. "After bringing a fleeting calm to the Sixth Realm, he sought structure, a purpose outside of his own chaotic nature. Perhaps he hoped their discipline would anchor him. And then, during a mission in the Eighth Realm, he stumbled upon it: the Oblivion Orb. A relic of raw, uncontained cosmic power, capable of creation and annihilation in equal measure." Iskar's voice dropped to a near whisper, the tension in the chamber growing palpable. "The leader of Organization 13, sensing the Orb's ultimate potential, instructed Zarif to retrieve it. And Zarif, ever the dutiful, if unwitting, instrument, did. He brought it back. And that," Iskar said, his voice hardening with disdain, "is when everything truly began to unravel." "The leader," he continued, his tone laced with contempt, "was a deceiver. He had no interest in peace, only in absolute power. He was merely using Zarif to get his hands on the Orb. They fought. And in a desperate, last-ditch effort, Zarif did the unthinkable. He consumed the Orb's power. He became its vessel, its living conduit." A visible shiver ran down Zero's spine. "The Orb's energies, untamed, untamable, began to consume him," Iskar elaborated, his eyes fixed on Zero, probing the depths of his being. "He started losing control over his power, over his mind, almost instantly. The combined chaotic surge of the Orb, the lingering demonic origins, the wild dragon, hollow, and divine essences, it became a maelstrom. He nearly annihilated the Fifth Realm in his agony, a storm of raw, cosmic energy." "But he took control back," Zero interjected, his voice barely audible, a desperate hope in the words. "He did," Iskar affirmed, a faint, almost proud smile touching his lips. "Through sheer, indomitable will, he wrestled back his essence, contained the cataclysm within himself. And then, with this terrifying, newly integrated power, he became a force of desperate salvation. He saved the Fifth, Fourth, and Third Realms from the evils that had taken root within them." Iskar's gaze grew distant again, lost in the eons. "Then came the Second Realm. And there, amidst its fading grandeur, Zarif was once again confronted with the primal choice: save each realm individually, or combine them all. He had seen the endless cycles of destruction and fragile peace. He had felt the chaotic surge of forced unity. This time, however, with the Oblivion Orb's power coursing through his veins, and the lingering, almost symbiotic presence of Zenthara still woven into his very essence, he made his final decision. He would unite them." "It took him five brutal years to defeat the darkness in the Second Realm," Iskar recounted, the weight of those years palpable in his voice. "And then, he came to the First Realm. This very place. And here, he realized the ultimate, devastating truth: no one, not even through his own bloodline, could save the First Realm in its fragmented state. It was too deeply broken, too far gone in its isolated existence." Iskar took a deep breath, the ancient air filling his lungs. "So, he did it. Right then and there. With the power of the Oblivion Orb, the echoes of Zenthara's will, and his own boundless, self-forged essence, he unleashed the ultimate act of cosmic will. He combined them all. Every last realm, every fragment of existence, into one singular, unified whole." A heavy silence descended, broken only by the soft drips. Zero stared at Iskar, his mind reeling, trying to grasp the sheer scale of such an act. The very air around him seemed to hum with residual power. "And then," Iskar concluded, his voice softer now, almost a whisper, "he was sent to death himself. Not just any death, Zero. Not the quiet slumber of the afterlife. But a confrontation. A final trial. It was then, right there at that moment, that he knew. He had to fight Death itself. To prove himself worthy enough to become Death, to assume its mantle, or to prove worthy enough to simply pass onto the afterlife, his purpose fulfilled. That was Zarif's end. Or perhaps... his true beginning." Zero stood motionless, his gaze fixed on Iskar. The weight of the story, coupled with the knowledge that fragments of this extraordinary being resided within him, was almost unbearable. He looked at his hands, then back at Iskar, a thousand unspoken questions burning in his eyes, the first stirrings of Zarif's legacy awakening within his own soul. Zero stood motionless, the oppressive weight of Zarif's history pressing down on him. The air in the chamber, once merely still, now thrummed with a heavy, resonating hum that seemed to originate from within his own chest. He looked at his hands, then back at Iskar, his mind a maelstrom of conflicting emotions and burgeoning, terrifying possibilities. He had always known he carried disparate essences, felt the pull of different powers within. He knew the Oblivion Orb intimately, having consumed it himself. But to hear that Zarif, the very source of these fragments within him, had walked such a parallel, cataclysmic path… this was a heritage of a scale beyond anything he could have conceived. He wasn't just carrying a will; he was carrying a universe of Zarif’s struggles, sacrifices, and cosmic consequences. His breath caught. A faint, almost imperceptible image flickered at the edge of his vision – a colossal being, wreathed in chaotic energy, reaching, pulling, combining. Then a flash of profound weariness, a sense of an endless, internal war. It was gone as quickly as it came, leaving a chilling echo that resonated with the multi-faceted nature he already knew resided within him, and with the raw, untamed power of the Orb he now carried. "So..." Zero's voice was a raw whisper, barely audible above the low thrumming. He looked up at Iskar, his eyes wide and searching. "So that's what it means to carry his fragments? To bear... the struggle with Zenthara? The almost destruction of realms? The madness of the Orb, after he consumed it... just like me?" A knot tightened in his stomach. If Zarif, with all his hard-won power and eons of experience, nearly succumbed to madness and ultimately faced such a final, impossible trial after consuming the Orb, what hope did he have? The fragments within him, combined with the Orb's volatile power he now wielded, felt less like a gift and more like a ticking time bomb, a fate he might not be able to escape. Zen, who had been a silent, observing shadow, now detached himself from the wall, drifting closer, his storm-gray eyes fixed on Zero with an unreadable expression. "He told you the full story," Zen's voice was softer now, devoid of its usual sarcasm, a rare vulnerability in his tone. "Every crushing detail." Iskar nodded, his gaze unwavering as he met Zero's troubled eyes. "The fragments you carry, Zero, are not just power. They are echoes of his memories, his struggles, his very essence. And yes, they carry the weight of his destiny. You are connected to him in a way few could comprehend. Especially now, with the Orb." Zero closed his eyes for a moment, pressing a hand to his forehead, as if to quell the storm raging behind his eyelids. The sheer scale of it was overwhelming. He, a Guildmaster, dealing with job requests and coin, was now suddenly burdened with the legacy of a being who fought gods, wielded oblivion – and who, like him, had consumed the very source of that oblivion – then combined realms and confronted Death itself. When he opened his eyes, a new resolve had begun to harden them, mingling with the lingering fear. "What do I do with it?" he asked, his voice stronger now, though still hoarse. "This... 'legacy.' What does Zarif's end mean for my beginning?" The question hung in the quiet air, heavy with unspoken implications, waiting for Iskar's guidance. Iskar stepped forward, moving from the shadows toward the desk, his expression a complex mix of gravity and faint hope. Zen remained a silent, watchful presence, his eyes flicking between Iskar and Zero. "That, Zero," Iskar said, his voice now softer, more direct, "is the question that has echoed through the ages. What does a legacy of such immense power, such profound choices, such overwhelming struggle, truly mean for the one who inherits its fragments?" He placed a hand gently on the broad oak desk, his gaze unwavering as he met Zero's anxious eyes. "Zarif sought to balance. To bring disparate things together, first within himself, then across all existence. His path was one of forced unification, a desperate attempt to quell chaos by merging it all into one. He used the Orb's power, and Zenthara's residual essence, to achieve that ultimate, singular realm." Iskar paused, letting the weight of his words settle. "But his method, born of desperation and immense power, led him to the precipice of madness. And to the final confrontation with Death itself. What you carry, Zero, is not merely his power, but the imprint of his journey. The knowledge of his choices. The understanding of their consequences." He leaned slightly closer. "You possess a foundation he forged. You wield the very Orb that nearly consumed him. The question is not whether you are Zarif, or destined to repeat his every step. The question is: what will you do with these fragments? Will you walk his path, attempting to force balance through overwhelming unification, risking the same madness, the same ultimate confrontation?" Iskar's gaze intensified. "Or will you find a new way? A true balance, perhaps. One born not of forced amalgamation, but of understanding, of weaving the disparate threads without dissolving them entirely. Your inherent nature, your prior knowledge of being multiple beings, and your direct experience with the Orb – these are not burdens, Zero, if you learn to master them. They are tools. Lessons." Zen's subtle grin returned, a faint, almost imperceptible tilt of his lips. He finally spoke, his voice a low hum. "He's telling you, Guildmaster. Zarif's end was a consequence of his choice. Your beginning is a chance to make a different one." Zero looked from Iskar to Zen, then back at the desk, at the stacks of guild requests. The mundane tasks of Guildmaster seemed utterly insignificant now, yet also, strangely, a grounding anchor. A new kind of understanding began to dawn on him. He wasn't just a powerful being; he was a nexus point. A continuation, yes, but also a divergence. He slowly reached out, his fingers tracing the rough grain of the oak. "So... I'm not just a fragment of his power," Zero murmured, testing the words aloud. "I'm a fragment of his choices. And my own choices... they matter more than ever." He lifted his gaze to Iskar, a flicker of something new—not just fear, but determination—entering his eyes. "What then, is the true balance? The one Zarif couldn't achieve?" Iskar's gaze softened, a deep wisdom settling in their depths. "The 'true' balance, Zero, is not a state one forces, but one cultivates. It is the harmony found not in merging everything into an indistinct whole, but in allowing distinct truths, disparate powers, and even opposing forces to coexist, to interact, to inform one another, without consuming or being consumed." He straightened, a hint of his usual, ancient authority returning. "Zarif, in his pursuit of unity, became a hammer. He saw the realms as shards to be forged into a single blade. But a true balancer... is perhaps a weaver. One who understands the unique threads, who sees their individual strength, and who can weave them into a tapestry stronger than any single thread, yet allowing each to retain its color and texture." Zen stepped fully into the light now, his tattered cloak swirling around him like mist. "And the Orb, Guildmaster," he added, his voice low, "is both the greatest tool and the gravest test of such a weaver. It binds. It shatters. It reveals." He met Zero's eyes, a rare glint of genuine seriousness in his storm-gray gaze. "The fragments of Zarif, the essence of the Orb... they are not your chains, unless you choose them to be. They are the materials for your tapestry." Zero pushed himself back from the desk, standing. The flickering candlelight seemed to intensify, catching the subtle, multi-colored glint in his own eyes, a reflection of the essences within him. The immense weight of Zarif's past still lingered, but it was no longer crushing. It was... fuel. A challenge. A map, however dangerous, to a destiny he now understood, at least in part. He looked at Iskar, then at Zen. The silence stretched, filled only by the distant drip of water, each drop echoing the passage of eons. Zero nodded slowly, a silent acknowledgment of the truth, the burden, and the terrifying, exhilarating freedom of choice. "I understand," Zero said, his voice quiet but firm, imbued with a newfound clarity. His hands, still resting on the desk, clenched momentarily, not in fear, but in resolution. "The guild requests can wait." His gaze lifted, passing through the walls of the office, as if already seeing beyond the confines of this chamber, beyond this realm, to the vast, fractured realities that lay before him. The first threads of his own tapestry were about to be spun. The chapter of Zarif's tale was closed, but Zero's own, built on its foundation, had just truly begun.