He was a boy, walking through lands of endless wheat fields, where the wind brushed against golden crops and made the whole world look softer than it truly was. He grew up fast, far faster than any child should have, joining the military to serve his great king before he even understood what kind of life he was offering away.
He fought in war.
Blades clashed against blades, screams filled the air, and balls of fire scorched his friends into nothing but ash before his eyes. He used magic too, though his magic was weak, unworthy of such battles, barely enough to call himself a practitioner in the first stage of the Magic Soul.
The Spark Realm.
He lost his buddies one after another, and then he was captured by the enemy forces, forced into slavery, chained like an animal by the sa race he had once believed he belonged to. At the age of twenty, he t a girl in the forest. He did not know why he had gone there that day, only that he had enough of human control, enough of human cruelty, enough of being told what he was by people he had grown to hate. He hated them, and he hated all who dared to call him human as well.
Instead, he called himself a free spirit. He did not wish to have a race. He was just himself.
The mory shifted.
That day, he left the girl behind. She cried her eyes out, reaching for him, begging him not to go, but he had already chosen this fate. He told himself it was better for her, that such a pure being should be left alone, untouched by a man like him, especially after he had failed to inherit the power of the Spirit Sovereign.
His heart had not been pure enough. His heart had not been strong enough. All those he killed, all of them, every last one, broke him when he had to accept their blades. He cried and cried, not for hours, not for days, but for years inside that trial world, until the trial finally deed him unworthy.
Years passed.
Then decades.
He was no longer a young man. He was an old man on his deathbed, living alone in a shabby hut that creaked whenever the wind touched it. He had spent his whole life alone, carrying mories that had already rotted inside him, and on the day he was supposed to die, when his eyes closed for the last ti and his breath began to fade, sobody knocked on the door of that old hut.
It was a man of unimaginable beauty.
He was an elf, or at least appeared to be one, with a face too perfect to belong to any ordinary race. Without asking for permission, he reached into the dying man and pulled his soul out, dragging it with him as if death itself had been interrupted.
The mory shifted once more, returning to the trial world.
This ti, the man had lived long enough to understand himself. His heart was stronger, heavier, and though the trial was still difficult, though every step still tore him apart and every dead man still found a way to pierce him, he passed all of the trials.
"I want you to take my place," the elf said, his voice calm, yet filled with exhaustion that even beauty could not hide. "I do not have much ti left, and power without a host cannot reach the man it is intended for."
At that mont, the man in the mory understood.
This power had never been ant for him.
He was only ant to carry it, to keep it safe, and one day pass it to another person who would truly be worthy of the Spirit Sovereign.
"I am not a sovereign either, yet I call myself that," the elf continued. "Before , my predecessor passed the task of safeguarding this power, and before him, another predecessor did the sa. Nobody knows exactly where this began. So far, nobody has ever passed the trial at a young age and beco truly worthy of this power, and likely, there never will be one."
The elf’s hand slowly rose.
"But listen carefully. You must keep it safe, and if by so miracle you escape this curse and find a person worthy of the power, please let them know these words."
His voice changed then, becoming deeper, older, as if he was repeating sothing passed down through countless mouths before his own.
"The world you know is not the world of truth. It is not the world of falsehood either. It is only the world you were allowed to see. One day, the world shall once more face the choice, and you must find the truth before that ti cos. Only by acquiring her heart and bloodline can one call themselves a true Spirit Sovereign. Until then, you are but a seed. Until the day the prophecy is fulfilled, do not et him. If you do, he shall kill you, and the world shall never see the light. Darkness will swallow everything, and if that happens, there will be no second chance. You will face sothing far worse than death."
The mory ended there as the elf placed his palm on the man’s head, transferring the power to him.
And now, Max’s vision returned to the real world.
The man before him was fading, just like the elf had faded in the mory. His body grew thinner, more transparent, the light inside him slowly scattering into the air like dust caught beneath the morning sun.
"I wish you the best, Maximus, the Spirit Sovereign’s seed," John said, his voice weaker now, yet strangely peaceful. "You are the first one, and the last one, to ever be worthy of this magic. It is a power that will shake this world, and a destiny worse than death."
His fading eyes looked at Max, and for once, that strange humor of his was almost gone.
"Do not forget that this was your choice. Do not bla for whatever happens." Then, after a short pause, a faint smile returned to his lips. "Though... I don’t mind. I am not a saint, just like you."
The light around him scattered even more.
"And... take care of her. I believe she will find a way to love you more than she ever loved ."
The world twisted before Max.
When he opened his eyes again, he was back inside the old citadel, sitting upon the throne of the Spirit Sovereign. A crown of twigs, gold, and leaves rested on his head, light and heavy at the sa ti, as if the forest itself had placed its will upon him.
Then the door opened.
Saelunith stood beyond it.
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