No one knows when or where this myth began.

  Before the dawn of civilization—when wandering warlords led fractured cns, when cults and shadowy organizations thrived in the open—humans and monsters alike waged endless war. There was no difference between them in their struggle for a single drop of water.

  In that era, the skies never wept.

  The oceans and kes had long since dried up, leaving only cracked earth behind.

  Monsters tore through the lungs of their kin, desperate for even a scrap of nourishment.

  To soothe the searing dryness in their throats.

  To taste the fleeting warmth of blood on their tongues.

  Men and women sughtered one another for a single drop. Their eyes burned crimson, veins bulging like the roots of a dying tree, madness hollowing them from within.

  Society—if it could even be called that—was in ruin.

  But on the dawn of a certain day, everything changed.

  To the east stood a mountain. It was neither the tallest nor the richest in resources. It sheltered only a few scattered tribes and wandering beasts. And yet, to those who dwelled in its shadow, it was the First.

  The Mountain of Origin.

  The cradle of life itself.

  Few beyond the tribes believed in its divinity. To the outside world, it was just another peak among many. But on that fateful day, as if the god within had finally heard the cries of its devoted, the mountain stirred.

  It bore witness to the bsphemy of heathens.

  To the cruelty of the world.

  To the ceaseless, merciless sughter.

  And so, the mountain stirred.

  The winds hushed. The earth trembled. A presence, vast and unfathomable, pressed upon the nd.

  Then—silence.

  The warlords, the cultists, the monsters—beings who had known only war—stood frozen before the mountain. Their breath came in ragged gasps, their bodies wasted by thirst. Cracked lips parted, but no words came. No prayers. No cries.

  Then, the first drop fell.

  A single bead of water, rolling down the jagged stone like a tear shed by the heavens.

  And then another.

  A whisper of movement turned into a stream. A stream into a torrent. A torrent into a flood. Water surged down the mountainside, bursting forth as if the heart of the world had been split open.

  For a moment, no one dared move.

  Then the first of them colpsed. A warlord, his sword slipping from his grasp, fell to his knees. His enemies stood before him, their weapons still slick with the blood of his kin—yet in that moment, none of it mattered. He reached out, fingers trembling, and cupped the water in his hands.

  He drank.

  And he wept.

  The flood washed over the battlefield, over the broken and the wretched, over men and monsters alike. Cultists prostrated themselves, murmuring prayers between desperate gulps. A great beast, its fangs still stained red, bowed its head to the ground, its massive form shaking as it pped at the sacred stream.

  Tears mingled with the water as warlords, assassins, and creatures of the abyss knelt side by side.

  There were no more enemies—only the forsaken, seeking forgiveness from the mountain they had once ignored.

  And so, they prayed.

  For mercy.

  For absolution.

  For a world no longer ruled by thirst and sughter.

  And the water did not stop.

  It surged forth like molten rock from a volcano, cascading down the mountainside in an unending torrent.

  The blessed wept with joy.

  The monsters bowed in reverence.

  Warlords, cultists, and creatures of the forest, mire, and abyss gathered before the mountain, casting aside their bloodstained bdes. In hushed voices and trembling limbs, they prayed—not for conquest, not for power, but for forgiveness.

  For mercy.

  And the mountain, in its boundless mercy, listened.***Lucien rose from his bed, his gaze drifting to the dawning sun on the horizon through the window.

  A golden glow spilled across the floorboards, stretching long shadows against the cold stone walls.

  The chirping of birds now resounded in the distance—a stark contrast to the suffocating quiet within.

  The once-endless shouts and cmor from below had fallen silent.

  He rolled his shoulders, a dull stiffness lingering in his muscles, then cracked his neck. …Let's get this over with…

  With that, he moved, pushing the door open. The hinges groaned, the sound too loud in the still air.

  The hallway was eerily silent

  The creak of his boots echoed through the emptiness.

  Ahead, a spiral staircase wound downward, but Lucien ignored it, striding forward instead.

  A short distance away, a guard stood motionless, its entire body cd in armor.

  Along the hallway, various weapons and trophies were dispyed—double axes the Baron had won in a tournament, the severed heads of goblins, chimeras, and trolls from his hunts—all pced as grim decorations.

  Even from here, the sharp voices of women cut through the door ahead.

  Lucien sighed internally. I wanted to avoid her after the incident. Now, dealing with her is going to be another headache.

  Should I come back another time?

  He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. Never mind. I'm leaving anyway.

  As he neared the door, the voices became clearer, the words slicing through the air like knives.

  The baroness's low, sharp tone carried unmistakable disdain.

  "…Why are we still keeping that bastard child—"

  "…Don't even consider him as the part of the family…—"

  Every word dripped with venom, curling through the air like smoke.

  Lucien smirked, the insult rolling off him like rain on stone. Bastard child. How original.

  After all these years, they still hadn't found a new way to despise me.

  Zexusgo