An Eldritch Legacy: Sin & Sacrilege

The broken child stood within a different reality—or what many might call their subconscious, inner mind, or sea of consciousness. So many flamboyant names mortals came up with to feel more important than they ever truly were.

Quite arrogant, really. If you think about it critically, how could the body of someone so weak possibly hold the manifestation of their legacy?1

These are not things to be toyed with, and yet, puny mortals think they can house them in their fragile minds.

Maybe, to a certain extent, that makes sense. But I alone give you the true truth.

The Legacy Manifestations simply existed in a different reality, one that tugged at the connection between the holders and the legacy itself, manifesting the phenomenal and making it seem as though it was born from within.

And the key to connecting to that reality? Aether—used for Awakening or Gate Opening Rites. Man… these names are exhausting. At least they try to sound subtle. Wait till you hear the names for the higher tiers of strength. Even I, the impassive observer, cringe at the antics of these "Pathwalkers."

This reality, on the other hand, seemed like a place of mourning, drenched in an aura of longing—for life, for something lost—hidden from those desperate to live just a little longer.

To me, it felt more like unwillingness...just saying. The living mourned the dead, and the dead mourned the loss of life. Another paradox... among the uncountable.

The broken girl stood before two massive gravestones.

Her eyes were as empty as the first time I laid my all-seeing gaze upon her. The emptiest of all. And yet, she had found a family that made her feel something once. She had laughed in what she thought was joy, hungered with them, felt wrath for the suffering they endured together.

But now, they were gone.

And she was alone in this ruthless world.

Honestly, the young Count might not even have saved her from what was to come. He might even be crueler than the world. But hey—choose your evil, right?

The gravestones bore unseen names, constantly shifting through countless iterations—so many that it was overwhelming. And yet they never became clear. This place felt like it would vanish in an instant, hazy and unsteady.

Despite her emptiness, something within her refused to die.

It clung onto life like those that sought to live beyond the grave, and something mourned for it from above the grave; the push and pull allowed for a ripple to pass through the broken child.

It might have been the love she shared and the times she was anything but an empty vessel.

Otherwise, she would have cremated her parents under the flames instead of burying them with her own hands.

Something had changed.

And no one could predict what that meant for everyone else.

The pain was real. Everything felt both close and distant—so surreal she couldn't even begin to process it.

Her life before now was warm, but dreary.

She had the love of her father and mother, but times were hard. Enjoying their warmth was both the easiest and hardest thing to do.

Food was scavenged from the little they grew on the Count's land, only to be taken by others in the town—all in the name of "unity."

A mockery.

Her mother handled food not meant for mortal hands, and it brought her pain. Her father broke himself working the land, cracking earth to sow, to tend, to the growing, and to harvest the fulfilled. Every single act drained them, making them less of what they were supposed to be.

They worked harder than anyone, yet others feasted on the fruits of their labor.

All her family could do was watch in envy as others rewarded themselves for their toil.

They dared not show anger. They'd seen it backfire. Her father lost his ability to speak that day. They learned their lesson: never show dissatisfaction.

While her parents blamed the townsfolk, she blamed the ruling authority. His people suffered, and he never once showed his face.

That was then—when she could still feel. Now… she felt nothing.

Life moved on. They found fleeting happiness.

Then the surge came—every five years resetting their lives to zero. Homes destroyed, hard work erased.

They were lucky to survive each time. But this time was different.

Her parents paid with their lives.

She had to bury them herself.

She couldn't even cry for them. Couldn't curse the heavens or the so-called eternal flame, who had failed them.

She would hate him until her last breath.

She had had many thoughts, many plans, many plots. Now... the world felt dull. Empty.

Even as she stood before what might have been great power, she felt nothing.

She remembered that back then before her world went dark, kneeling at the fresh soil she used to bury them, she had done something

The earth had trembled at her touch. She seemed to hear the sky sing in sorrow alongside the many voices that had appeared then. But she felt nothing; she did not feel powerful.

Before her were two massive headstones, covered in shifting script she couldn't read. Every blink brought new patterns.

The one on the left was forged of material so dark it radiated darkness, yet its script was blinding and muted.

The other was ashen, with crimson script that burned like boiling blood.

She didn't understand what she was seeing. All she could do was stare at the phenomenon.

What was she supposed to do?

Believe she had become the eternal flame's favorite? That she had awakened greatness?

She felt a tug at her heart—but couldn't hear it.

It yearned for her name. It wept for her.

But everything was faint—close, yet distant. The world told her she wasn't ready. And so it took it all back.

Even the vision faded into darkness.

She awoke in an unfamiliar place.

Luxurious—more than anything she had ever seen.

She felt… clean. Her hair, her body—it was as if she had been reborn.

Her skin no longer stung. Her wounds were gone. Soft linens embraced her body, and warmth seeped into her bones. But inside... she was numb—just empty.

Yet nothing moved her.

She should have felt something. But there was nothing.

No gratitude. No awe. No fear.

She sensed a gaze upon her.

She didn't acknowledge it.

A voice broke the silence.

"Why are you so empty, little peasant?"

She should have marveled at the luxury surrounding her.

She should have trembled at the voice that spoke to her.

Instead, she stared—blankly at the moving scenery beyond the stained glass.

Not in defiance. Not in fear.

Just… nothing.

This is the Narrators POV if you havent noticed, is it going to be common later on i honestly do not know, but let us see how it plays out and how receptive you are of th concept.