ETERNAL

Chapter 10: Blood warfare

God... The word hung in the air, a prayer unfinished. A child's hand, small and dirt-streaked, reached for a stone, its surface warm from the sun's touch. A shout pierced the stillness, "Hey! Saburo!"

He turned, the world spinning slow, revealing the youth in him not yet scarred by time's relentless march. Behind him, a woman's voice rose above the whisper of the wind. "Why are you standing there?! The food is ready!"

Her call, a tether to simpler times, to moments unburdened by the weight of what was to come. He walked towards her, each step a bridge between the boy he was and the man he would become. The scent of the meal, a mingling of smoke and spice, promised a brief respite from the shadows that would soon fall.

“In the Land of Dawn, where magic weaves the tapestry of reality and power is the pen with which history is written, I stand before you. Not as a conqueror, but as a harbinger of truth-a voice amidst the cacophony of the arcane.

In this world, authority is not granted by crowns nor by the clamor of the crowd. It is earned in the silent communion with the essence of sorcery itself. It is a currency minted in the crucible of wills, where every spell cast and every demon bested adds to one's ledger.

We live in an age where the lines between right and wrong blur like the horizon at dusk. Where the victors claim justice as their prize, and the vanquished whisper it as their curse. It is a dance as old as time, where the rhythm of power dictates the steps of fate.

But heed this, sorcerers of the Land of Dawn: the true measure of your dominion comes not from the battles won, nor the enemies felled. It is found in the quiet moments when you choose mercy over malice, when you weave spells of healing as deftly as those of harm.

Let us not be blinded by the illusions of peace wrought by war, nor be deafened by the silence that follows the storm. Instead, let us write a new chapter where magic serves not as a sword, but as a shield. Where our authority is not measured by the fear we instill, but by the hope we inspire.

So, let your magic rise like the dawn, bright and clear. Let it be the beacon that guides the lost and the light that reveals a path to a future where all may walk in the warmth of the sun, unshadowed by the specters of the past. This is the legacy we must strive for, the authority we must wield with wisdom and courage.”

Saburo POV:

"My mother, she was the warrior that even fear itself would bow to. Her enemies, clad in armor as brittle as twigs before her might, would shatter under her relentless onslaught. Her blade, a sliver of moonlight, could cleave through the hardest of metals as if it were mere butter.

She tasted the blood of her adversaries, a bitter elixir that spoke of victories hard-won. To her, the battlefield was not a landscape of death, but a canvas awaiting the strokes of her sword. With each swing, she painted a portrait of the end, a masterpiece where she was both the artist and the harbinger.

She became death, the destroyer of worlds, her name whispered in awe and terror. For in her wake, nothing remained but the echoes of her conquests and the memories of her foes, forever etched into the annals of time."

Father was a courier. Messages passed from his hands to those of empires and kingdoms. A noblewoman, taken with him, wove a web of seduction. Betrayal, a silent serpent, struck. Mother's face across the table, a mask of dread. Her essence, hollow purple, like a bruise upon the world.

She served us a bowl. Red. Thick. The smell of it, rotten flesh. We tasted. Our tongues met the corruption, the betrayal. A family broken. A trust shattered. The taste of it lingered, a testament to the poison that had seeped into the very marrow of our lives.