Excerpt 20

  (Page 3, Section 1)

  What you fear will come—whether you await it in dread or deny its arrival altogether. And worse still, what you do not yet know to fear will come too, creeping in the shadows beyond your understanding. Fear is not weakness—it is the echo of the inevitable. It is the whisper of the future echoing into the present. It is the quiet herald of events already set in motion.

  But here lies the truth: fear is not your enemy. It is your signal. Your call to rise. The flame that, if not mastered, will consume you—but if harnessed, will forge you into something more.

  So take that fear and shape it. Turn its sharp edge against itself. Let it sharpen your instincts. Let it become your fuel, your resolve. From fear, carve out hope—not blind hope, but the kind that endures when all else crumbles. Then from hope, shape desire—not empty longing, but the focused hunger to overcome, to act, to conquer.

  At that moment, fear no longer binds you. It becomes your shadow, not your master. And in its place stands only your will—a desire honed sharp as obsidian, ready to face what comes not with the tremble of doubt, but with the gaze of a seer and the stillness of a blade awaiting war.

  For the brave do not live without fear. They learn to ride it into battle.

  Source: The Path of Desire – An’Thariel of the Undying Verse

  Excerpt 20 End

  As Hassan returned from the system space back to reality, he expected the day to continue like any other. He took a steady breath, mentally preparing for another routine cycle of training and recovery.

  After a larger-than-usual meal, a result of his recent growth, the caregiver quietly approached, scooping him up in her arms without explanation. She wrapped him in thick animal hides for warmth—more than usual—and without a word, stepped outside into the cold.

  What now? More tests? Or maybe another ritual to see if I’m possessed? Can’t I just train in peace? Hassan sighed internally.

  Though patches of hardened snow still clung to the earth, signs of renewal were everywhere. The collapsed tents from the snow had been repaired, and the winding roads between them were now lined with firepits, their glowing embers slowly melting the ice away, creating narrow, steaming paths. Despite the cold, activity bustled all around—zamongarai moved with purpose, and the village thrummed with energy.

  The caregiver pressed onward without speaking, walking in a direction unfamiliar to him. Hassan glanced around, taking in the unfamiliar scenery with quiet unease. Where are we going now?

  After nearly ten minutes of walking through increasingly sparse clusters of tents, the landscape opened up. Before him stretched a vast, snow-cleared field. Dozens of zamongarai—adults—were training with weapons, their movements sharp and disciplined. The clash of wooden and metal arms echoed faintly, carried by the cold wind.

  From what Hassan could see, the field was enormous—easily the size of five hundred tents, maybe more. Compared to the caregiver’s tent, it felt like another world.

  Wait... Are they going to train me here? That doesn’t make sense. In the children’s tent, he was still far too young—several age groups behind the point where he’d even be allowed to touch a wooden weapon.

  As these thoughts spiraled, the caregiver led him toward one of the spare tents on the training field’s perimeter. Without announcing herself, she pulled back the flap and stepped inside.

  Hassan blinked, surprised. Inside stood someone he hadn’t seen in a while—Major Megaphone.

  He released a slow breath of relief. Thankfully, not more mysterious tests, at least for now.

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  The caregiver set him down, then began speaking with Major Megaphone in quick phrases. The large warrior turned to look at Hassan, eyes widening, likely at the change in his appearance.

  The conversation picked up speed—too fast for Hassan’s limited understanding of their language—so he tuned it out and took in his surroundings instead.

  This tent was nothing like the caregiver’s. Weapons lined the walls—massive swords, axes, and polearms, each one built for zamongarai hands. Armor hung from wooden frames, mostly leather, but three sets gleamed faintly in the ambient light. Iron? Steel? Hassan couldn’t tell, but they looked heavier and far more refined than anything he’d seen before.

  A plant-like object at the tent’s center emitted a soft glow, pulsing gently. The same kind of magic-pot the caregiver used... must be a standard thing in their homes.

  Suddenly, raised voices snapped his attention back. Major Megaphone barked something and began striding toward him. The giant knelt, the difference in size between them comically vast. He stared down, then shouted a command.

  Hassan stiffened. Does he expect me to understand that?

  But it turned out it wasn’t for him, as the caregiver moved forward and began laying out a selection of weapons—row after row—on a thick fur rug. Hassan’s eyes widened as the last item was placed: a staff inscribed with glowing symbols, radiating a faint magical hum.

  Major Megaphone stood up then stepped aside and gestured at the weapons. The message was clear: Choose.

  This left him confused—how did they expect someone only a few months old to understand what they were implying? Was this some kind of trap?

  Hassan hesitated. The caregiver’s face was tense, worry tightening her brow. Something was happening—but what?

  What was he meant to do? How was he supposed to act? His thoughts drifted to the zamongarai children—those old enough to carry a weapon back in the large tent. Each one had their own. Was this some kind of ritual? A moment where you chose the weapon you'd carry for the rest of your life?

  Then a nudge came from behind—a firm shove from Major Megaphone, impatient.

  With little choice, Hassan approached the weapon spread. There were options for close combat and even ranged tools. But only two caught his full attention. The staff—clearly magical—called to him, its aura similar to the ones he’d seen used by the spellcasters. The flail, by contrast, looked brutally effective—perfect for crushing defense or breaking enemy lines.

  His heart was set on the staff. He wanted to wield magic—needed to, if he was ever going to learn it and find a way back to Earth. The flail was tempting, but it felt secondary, a backup.

  Hassan deliberately fumbled for a moment, feigning clumsiness to appear more childlike and natural—then reached out and grasped the staff.

  The moment his fingers wrapped around it, a warmth spread through his palm. The wood was unnaturally dense—stronger than any metal he’d ever handled—but surprisingly light. The carved runes glowed subtly, their energy pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat. This isn’t just a tool—it’s alive with power.

  He glanced at the caregiver—her shoulders dropped in visible relief. But when he turned to Major Megaphone, the warrior’s jaw clenched, eyes narrowing. Was he… angry?

  Before he could fully process the reaction, the two adults launched into another argument, their voices overlapping in heated debate.

  While they argued, he tried to see if he could tap into any magic or even feel magic power of some sort, but felt disappointed to feel nothing. It seems he needs to learn the basics first and there wasn’t a shortcut using a weapon.

  Hassan then turned towards the flail.

  Maybe I can still get the flail… Hassan thought, seizing the moment.

  Clutching the staff, he moved toward the flail. The conversation behind him trailed off, silence replacing the argument as both the caregiver and Major Megaphone watched.

  He reached the flail and grabbed its handle—but the second he tried lifting it, the truth hit him. It was far too heavy. Designed for adult zamongarai, the weapon barely budged in his grip.

  Letting go of the staff, he tried lifting the flail with both hands—but it still didn’t budge.

  Still, Hassan gave it his all, straining even though he knew it was futile—he just wanted to understand how vast the strength gap was between him and an adult zamongarai.

  Behind him, the voices resumed, but softer—no longer angry. Hassan didn’t need to understand the words to feel the shift. Their tones were calmer… almost nostalgic.

  Both the caregiver and Major Megaphone approached and looked down at the flail. Something in their expressions changed—less frustration, more sorrow. The caregiver murmured a few words, her voice trembling.

  A tear slipped down her cheek, catching the dim light as it fell.

  Hassan stopped trying to pick the flail and stood still, unsure what to do. Major Megaphone gently placed a hand on her shoulder, offering quiet comfort.

  Eventually, the mood settled. The caregiver walked over and gently took the staff from the ground. She placed it back to its original location among the other weapons. Major Megaphone helped gather the rest.

  They exchanged a few final words before the caregiver once again bundled Hassan in hides and began the walk back.

  The cold air stung a little sharper on the way home. He didn’t resist as he was carried, his thoughts tangled in confusion.

  What in the world just happened?

  Back in the tent, he quietly returned to his routine. Whatever had happened, it was over now. Better to focus on what he could control—his training.

  With any luck, he could finally push Zamongarai’s Sense talent to its next stage. It was close to breaking through.

  And that, at least, made sense.