NOVEL NEXT Chapter 37: The dark history
The room fell into a deep and weighted silence, leaving only the voice of the old man, Obsidar, to echo softly like a fading hymn of times of yore. His tones carried in their weight the gravity of wisdom, each word steeped in the richness of age and the scars of experience.
The breaths of everyone in that room, their eyes upon him, their hearts paused-but not really-as if to take the toll of history he was going to narrate. Dances of shadows wove upon the wall their restless forms mimicked by the restlessness hung in the air while the old man stood erect, solemn, a monument weathered by time itself.
"This event happened in the early times of civilization, a hundred years after the death of the Ancestor," Obsidar began, his voice heavy, every word etched by the passage of time. "Strange beings showed up-things no bigger than stone missiles. Their existence was a mystery, as clear as crystal yet shrouded in mystery. Evidently, they were two different races.
One gave off a faint dark energy, which was not overtly threatening, yet it was sinister-a lurking shadow in the calm. The other race shone bright and serene, as if they were the embodiments of light. It seemed as though these two races had been born from opposing origins-light and shadow, calm and chaos-yet they united. Two oppositions united by a common enemy.
"They came into our sequestered world, treading air as if insects caught between planes of dimension. They knew so much more of us than we did of them, a grim reminder of just how illiterate we were within this closed world." By then, each clans had just finished rejoicing over the third generation of primordials reaching their mature age. That group included your father, Zephyrion, from our clan, and Nihara, your mother. He gave a slight, respectful inclination of his head toward Nihara.
As the admission of new members occurs once every thirty thousand years, the total population of the primordial race of all clans barely reached one hundred. Yet these beings-these invaders-came in hundreds, no, thousands. To say the least, they were endless. We, novices then, tore them apart so easily during the beginning of that battle. But they kept on coming without their numbers ever being depleted. And for every one that fell, another replaced it, stepping through doors closed and sealed as if from some eternal tide.
"Even as we fought valiantly, victory evaded us. These invaders decided when and where the battle began. They controlled the flow of the war. And yet, something strange happened toward the end. In seventy-two thousand years of war, despite their seemingly endless numbers, they managed to kill only nine primordials. Nine, out of all of us. At first, we thought this was a simple invasion. But as time passed, we realized a deeper motive. The nine primordials who fell were taken. Their bodies, their very essence, disappeared without a trace. To this day, their fate remains a mystery."
Obsidar stopped, and his voice dropped to silence as he let the weight of tragedy settle over the room, like a smothering fog. Unsaid sorrow hung in the air, a plaint to the past that lay fresh in their hearts.
I understand, he said, stepping forward while his voice fell soft like the first break of dawn. I might not be able to touch the depth of your pain, but I can feel the weight of it, he told the old man in quiet, consoling motions. It's okay to grieve for what has been.
As he spoke, though, Nyxander's grin faltered. Something didn't feel right. He pivoted his head, the sharp gaze scanning the faces around him. He saw the profound sadness etched upon their expressions-except for Vacuros, whose face was unreadable, like a mask shrouded in shadow. A prickling sense of unease crept over him. "Wait… is that not all?" he asked, turning to Obsidar, whose solemn nod sent a ripple of tension through the room.
"That's right," Obsidar said in a low, grim voice. "The war was only the beginning of the curse to befall our race. Since then, any newly born primordial upon finding such beings, would just turn into air and vanish. Three weeks ago, we again received new family… and then lost, like always. You two are the remaining ones, out of what was originally thirty-six, for the generations of the primordial race.".
Before he could continue, a sudden surge of energy, searing and bright, erupted from Nyxander, churning through the room like a storm tearing across the face of a calm sea. His face twisted in a sinister smirk, a fierce and untamed darkness radiating from him like smoke from a raging fire.
Those bastards," he muttered, his voice low but full of venom. "Just when I thought I could focus on living a peaceful, lazy life, they still dare to poke their noses into this sealed world.
Nihara stepped forward, her motherly presence a soothing balm to the crackling tension. She laid a soft hand on his head, speaking in a low, steady tone. "You don't need to worry. You've already overcome your coming of age."
Realizing his slip-up, Nyxander breathed in deep and inhaled the unruly energy back into himself, the tide retreating from the shore. "Sorry," he said, composed but firm of tone. "I got carried away."
"We understand," Obsidar replied, firm yet understanding. "We all feel the same fire." Yet his eyes remained with Nyxander in silent contemplation, as if he could feel some stir of purpose brewing in his core.
Nyxander's smirk returned, but this time, it was laced with a quiet resolve. "No, you're wrong about something," he said, his voice cutting through the tension in the room like a blade.
Obsidar's brows furrowed. "Wrong? About what?"
"You said that everyone who encountered those beings disappeared," Nyxander began, his voice calm but carrying a weight that drew every gaze to him.
Obsidar nodded cautiously. "Yes, that's how it has always been."
Nyxander's smoldering gaze caught on the elder. "Nay," he growled, his voice low, even, and steady. "I once met a group of them when I snuck out of the castle…