Chapter 39 - It's All a Lie

Date: 29th of Innestres, 13,134 RD...

Colorful sparrows fluttered freely through Tamasi. They filled the branches of trees with their melodic songs, those chirps that pour into the bottle of emotions, turning it into wine made of happiness. One of them landed atop what seemed to be a nest made of brown leaves. Oh, wait. It wasn't a nest, it was Voidanos' hair, as he sat on a bench in front of his house.

In the rural parts of this kingdom, one could often see simple, traditional houses with green courtyards and wooden benches. Nature was close to the boy, even when he was far from it. Voidanos didn't mind the sparrow's company as he turned the pages of a small book he was reading. Beside him sat a cluster of white grapes on a deep blue plate. He would take one grape, eat it, and offer the next to the sparrow that had found shelter in the calmness of his presence.

As Voidanos' eyes moved across the words, the gate creaked open, gently pushed by his tutor's hands. The man's long chestnut hair gleamed brighter under the sun, giving him an almost enchanting grace.

"Beautiful place. I've always wanted to live here," said the tutor, walking along the narrow cobblestone path of the yard.

"He's here!" Voidanos exclaimed with joy, springing up from the bench. The sparrow flew away, startled by the boy's excitement, carrying with it the grape in its beak.

Aoddhan looked around, momentarily lost in the greenery that brought calm to his mind. He turned to see the boy greeting him.

"Good morning, my boy. First day today," said the tutor warmly, smiling at Voidanos.

"Good morning, Mr. Magees," the boy replied politely. The tutor stopped walking, finding himself before the boy, observing the humble little house that exuded a comforting simplicity.

"You're home alone?" he asked.

"Mom and Dad are at work until the Sun nears Diaboros," said Voidanos.

"I see," the tutor replied, gesturing playfully for the boy to open the door. Voidanos ran ahead and held it open for him.

"Thank you for the hospitality," said the tutor as he stepped inside, carefully taking in the furnishings.

"My room's this way," Voidanos said, closing the door and leading the way. Aoddhan followed, glancing around curiously. Upon entering the boy's room, the first thing that caught his eye were the tall bookshelves, they gave that modest space an unusual air of dignity for an eight-year-old.

"You've read all of these?" asked the tutor, intrigued.

"At least two or three times each," said Voidanos, sitting on his bed while looking at his books. Aoddhan was astonished by the answer. His fingers brushed across the book covers, feeling an even greater motivation to guide this child on the right path.

"That must be at least a hundred and fifty books. An impressive number, even for me," said Aoddhan.

"I don't really have any other hobby," said the boy in a quieter tone.

"What do you mean?" asked the tutor.

"All the other kids my age play together, go to school, visit places of fun. But I stay home most of the time. The only time I go out is to borrow a book from the library. Even then, I feel judged from all sides," the boy said, his voice tinged with sadness.

"You have a special place in this world, Voidanos. Those who are different will always be targets of judgment by those who refuse to break free from the chains of 'normal.' You should be proud of your difference. What you must do is ignore them, ignore their stares, which reveal what they truly feel," said the tutor, sitting beside him.

"I can hear them clearly in my head," said Voidanos.

"What?" asked the tutor.

"I can clearly hear people's thoughts. And I've never heard anything positive, except from Mom and Dad. I can't avoid the sadness I feel when I hear their cruel words about me," said the boy, staring down at his shadow.

"Poor child. It hurts to see someone so innocent carry such weight," thought Aoddhan, watching the sorrow unfold through the boy's body language.

"Thank you, Mr. Magees. Well, Dad always tells me not to be upset by the thoughts of people I could crush like flies. I really admire my dad, he's a very strong man," said Voidanos, lifting his head, his face lit with a trace of optimism.

"You read my mind, didn't you? Your father's right, well, except for the violence part, hahah," said the tutor with a soft laugh. "You must understand, Voidanos, that others burn with envy every time they see you."

"Because of my powers, right?" asked the boy.

"Exactly. You can turn anything that crosses your mind into reality. And those who hate you... hate themselves for living in a world they cannot change. And—"

Beep. Beep. Tutor's watch made an alarm sound

"Oh! Class time already. I forgot I'm supposed to be your teacher, hahah," said Aoddhan.

"Let's begin then," said Voidanos, rushing toward his chair, while the tutor watched him with a warm smile.

250 years earlier.

Far away from Ladnoria, in an unknown land, vast fields of corn stretched across the fertile earth. The sun was nearly setting, casting a golden hue upon the land that seemed to share its color. A scarecrow stood among the stalks, surrounded by crows watching from every direction. The sound of snapping husks echoed through the air, sending the crows flapping away and leaving the scarecrow to its intended solitude.

A man wearing a straw hat was cutting the corn with a sickle in his worn-out gloves. He wore a blue vest and work-stained trousers, the kind of clothes that spoke of long days under the sun. Gathering the harvested corn in his hands, he poured it into a sewn canvas sack. Wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, he looked toward the horizon. He was a man in his forties, with a straw stem between his teeth and chestnut sideburns that gave him the rustic look of a simple, honest farmer.

He slung the sack over his shoulder and began his walk home, down a narrow path that cut through the grass and trees. Along the way, Ghaltrinas, small fairy-like beings with wings shaped like closed flower petals, glowed softly, lighting his path as if rewarding him for his labor. He deserved that quiet sense of welcome. He was a friend to prosperity and honesty. To him, that was the entire meaning of life, peace with oneself.

At the end of the path, through the remaining trees, stood a small, secluded house. A warm light glowed inside, proof of life and love within. Nearby, sheep grazed peacefully, at ease in their simple paradise. Towering mountains surrounded the home, making it feel like a place where every problem was forgotten, a reminder of the sacred bond between man and nature.

The farmer walked toward the house. With each step, the sun dipped lower behind the mountains, signaling the time to enjoy the evening with one's family. And when we say "family," we mean the sight that awaited him: his wife and daughter greeting him with joy at the door. The little girl wore a brown dress, and the woman a red cardigan. She had tied back her dark hair with a wooden clasp, the mark of a humble homemaker.

The farmer removed his hat, releasing his dark, curly hair, dirty and damp with sweat from his toil. He set the sack of corn aside and joined his family for dinner. They prayed together, hands clasped and eyes closed, before the modest meal on their table: a bowl of soup and a loaf of bread. When the prayer ended, they began to eat, talk, laugh, their meager table rich with warmth and love.

When the candles finally went out, so did the day, drifting peacefully toward another morning filled with truthless joy.

And blue came with dawn. Drops of dew slid across the fresh grass, leaving the fingerprints of morning behind. The farmer stepped outside, preparing his cart for a trip to town to gather supplies for his family. There were no horses to pull it, only a single wooden beam that he himself had to push and drag forward. He didn't mind, though others, privileged to command the strength of horses, often looked down on him as he passed by in such a way.

He pulled the cart for hours until he reached a bustling market town. Merchants, customers, and travelers from different classes and lands crowded the square. He left his cart near the entrance and carried with him a small pouch of bronze coins to buy what he needed.

Everywhere he looked were vendors, selling fish, bread, household tools, wood, chairs. Across the street, slaves were being sold, their heads bowed, displayed like mere goods. The farmer felt pity for them but knew he was in no position to change their fate.

He stopped at a butcher's stall and bought some beef, placing it into a bag he slung over his shoulder. As he walked past the market, a loud voice rose, someone leading a protest. Curious, the farmer brought his cart along to listen. A large crowd had gathered, holding torches, pickaxes, and knives, shouting as a powdered-wig politician spoke passionately about the injustices of the local kingdom.

The farmer listened for a moment, indifferent, realizing the matter did not concern him, until something else caught his eye.

A dress shop.

There was no one inside, but in the window hung something that drew his full attention: a small red dress with a white ribbon tied neatly at the waist. It had silver buttons that clasped the top, adding a grace unlike any other dress there, it radiated warmth and life amid the dull colors around it.

He imagined how happy his daughter would be if he could give her such a gift. But one obstacle stood in his way: he didn't have enough money, not even if he saved for months.

With that thought lingering, he left the town and returned home by nightfall. Inside, he found his wife and daughter asleep together at the table, waiting for him to return. Quietly, he took a blanket for each of them and covered them gently, not daring to wake their peaceful rest.

Sleep, however, would not come to him. He stepped outside to breathe the cool night air, his thoughts circling back to the dress. Something so close to his reach, yet forever beyond the grasp of his rough, honest hands.

He wondered whether to keep torturing those hands further in extra labor so his daughter could smile at that gift, or to find another way to make the money. A way that strayed from his nature. A way that required stepping outside himself... to see beyond. To perhaps give more to his family, to his wife, who spent her days weary and isolated in their quiet home.

That red dress had become a kind of nectar, one that could draw the bees of prosperity. But what if, instead of bees, hornets came? What if that nectar, no, the entire flower, was torn apart by their anger?

The farmer was torn by doubt. His family seemed happy with what they had... but was that happiness real? Were they truly content with a man who held back their dreams? With a man who couldn't give them the life they deserved?

Perhaps happiness could only be reached by breaking the shell of honor. Perhaps sincerity with oneself could destroy the wings of those who wished to live freely.

The farmer couldn't sleep. The night faded, and the sun rose again, its warmth calling him back to the fields.

He worked through his exhaustion, harvesting corn under the same heavy thoughts. And as he cut through the stalks, he noticed something unusual, a carriage drawn by two horses approaching his field. The sight was strange in this humble land.

He stopped working and stepped closer, curiosity guiding his steps.

The carriage halted. Two well-dressed gentlemen stepped down, covered in long, elegant coats from head to toe, a stark contrast to the world they had just entered.

The farmer froze, staring in bewilderment. The two strangers turned their heads toward him, and began walking his way.

"Are you the owner of this land?" one of them asked, stopping alongside, let's say, the other aristocrat.

"Yes. What do you want here?" the farmer replied in a rough, wary tone.

"I see you've worked this uninhabited land quite well. The Central Committee of the Kingdom of Trista has issued an order to establish a Guild outside its cities, specifically in a strategically placed area for gathering hunters. We've searched for days for a suitable location, but to be honest, your land fits the criteria better than anything we've seen. Don't you agree, Charles?" asked the aristocrat, turning to his companion.

"Hmm... I could go for some corn right now," the other said, glancing around idly.

"I suppose that means he agrees with me," the first aristocrat continued, smiling.

The farmer stared at them, slightly bewildered, then turned his gaze toward the fields, land he had poured years of sweat and spirit into shaping.

"Of course, you and... you must have a family, don't you?" asked the aristocrat.

"A wife and a daughter," the farmer replied.

"Excellent. You and your family will be generously compensated for giving up this land to build the Guild. Do you have any particular request? How much do you want?" the aristocrat asked.

The farmer hesitated, thinking. Such a sudden situation, such a seemingly insignificant moment in the grand sense of time, could completely alter the course of his life. To throw away the nobility of his labor for an offer that brought him wealth without toil. No... perhaps not. Maybe this was the moment he had worked all these years for. Maybe this was the reward for all his suffering. The image of the dress shop's window breaking formed in his mind. The dress itself now rested within his rough, calloused palms.

"Would this land... be enough to buy a dress for my daughter?" he asked, his voice innocent and guileless.

"Hnnngh—Hahahahahahahah!" The aristocrat burst into laughter at the farmer's question.

"Is he serious? Hahahah! I didn't know he was a comedian!" the other aristocrat managed between fits of laughter.

The farmer looked at the two, confused by their reaction.

"Not one dress, but with the compensation we'll give you, you could buy every dress shop in Trista," the aristocrat said, placing a hand on the farmer's shoulder.

"A-All of them?" the farmer asked.

"All of them. You'll never have to work with your hands again. Your family will live in luxury, extravagant meals, fine clothing. You only need to say yes to our offer," the aristocrat continued, his words flowing like honey.

The farmer turned his head toward the land once more. For the first time in his life, he looked at his corn with different eyes. It was time, he thought. Time for them to take care of him. You are free now, from the hands of misery.

The next morning, the vast fields of grain were being leveled by the picks of laborers. The farmer and his family sat inside a carriage, moving away from the land where they had once laid the foundations of their lives. Through the window, the little girl watched as the land slowly emptied itself of her memories. She didn't know what to feel, happiness, sadness, confusion, amazement. It was beyond her understanding.

The wife wore a quiet expression, one that revealed she could no longer raise her voice against what had been done. She simply stared downward.

Alongside them were the two aristocrats from the day before, smiling as they looked at the family. The farmer no longer wore his hat. He had put an end to that sorrowful life.

"It's all... a lie..."

The farmer's entire vision was swallowed by endless darkness. He was still sitting, yet there was nothing around him anymore. No carriage. No aristocrats. No wife. No child. Only himself.

He looked around, searching desperately for the faintest trace of life, but there was nothing. Every attempt was futile. Gradually, the darkness began to fade from his sight. Confusion overtook him as the void dissolved, revealing an endless wasteland of withered grass stretching to the horizon.

The farmer fell back, landing on the dry, cracked earth. The sky above was unnaturally clear, a boundless blue unmarred by clouds. It was peaceful, yet unsettling, as if nothing living was meant to exist beneath it. He ran his fingers through the brittle grass. The sensation was unpleasant, like touching death itself.

Then, strangely, he began to feel tremors beneath him, small at first, then stronger and stronger. At first he thought it might be an earthquake, but soon realized it was something else. Something enormous was walking across that barren land. A chill of fear seeped into him, born from his helplessness and the unknown. The tremors grew so powerful he could feel them pulsing through his body like waves.

The sunlight dimmed, cut off by shifting shadows that passed over his feet. The farmer lifted his head and saw them: a horde of corn cyclopes marching toward some unseen destination.

They were titanic. The sun vanished behind their colossal bodies. The farmer could only stare as they walked, entirely indifferent to his existence. Their garments were woven from corn leaves; their skin was covered in countless yellow kernels. The only fleshly part of them was the enormous single eye on each face, staring straight ahead. Every thunderous step shook the dead soil beneath them, injecting a grotesque mockery of life into a world that should have been still.

Then suddenly, they stopped.

The farmer froze, bewildered. But his confusion deepened when the cyclopes turned their one-eyed gaze toward him. The eerie stillness was unbearable. The radiance of their eyes faded, and in its place appeared visions, shifting and chaotic, as though each eye were a massive field of screens broadcasting scenes from different worlds.

In one eye, the farmer saw war, bloody, merciless war. Corpses of men littered the ground; houses looted and burning. He saw his own home engulfed in flames. He saw his wife and daughter being dragged away by men wielding picks and torches. Blood ran through the streets. People were executed under the guillotine, branded as traitors.

He stood petrified, unable to look away from what the cyclopes revealed, things he never wished to see. His eyes widened in horror as he saw his wife and daughter lying lifeless atop their kitchen table, staring toward the cyclops' eye with a cold, hateful emptiness. They were dead, but their gaze carried a sorrow and bitterness that life itself could never have expressed.

Then the visions shifted again. He saw hands, his own, perhaps, being flayed alive, blood erupting as skin was torn away. He saw knives, pincers, syringes glistening with crimson crystals. A dark room filled with the stench of slaughter, where the dim light revealed the silhouette of a figure. The eyes of the cyclopes began to dim, until from within the fading glow, the outline of a mask emerged: a long-beaked raven mask, shadowed but unmistakable.

The farmer's hands clenched, tearing at the withered grass in panic, terror, and emotions far beyond words.

"You were never happy," a voice echoed. "And you never will be. You will always remain a rejected monster, Al—"

"Aldes... Aldes... ALDES!!"

"NOOOH!!"

Aldes jolted awake, gasping for breath, sweat running down his face. He raised his head quickly, disoriented and shaken.

"Fell asleep on the corn again, didn't you?" said Atbara, who sat by a campfire in the middle of a vast wheat field somewhere in the northern Dominion lands.

"The same nightmare again... Damn it! I can't get it out of my head," Aldes muttered, frustrated and still trembling from what he'd seen. He rose slowly, brushing the torn grass from his clothes.

"We're heading to Tamasi again today," said Atbara. "Maybe it'll help you forget whatever it is you saw."

"I hate this place. Let's go," Aldes replied coldly, straightening his coat and walking ahead of the vampire, barely acknowledging him.

"Now that's more like it..." murmured Atbara with a faint grin, following the demon through the endless fields...