Chaosbound: Elarith Chronicles

The Journey to Find Chaos

They had survived for thousands of years, always in shadow, always watching, always hiding. They had built their silent empire, growing their influence in the southern territories, yet none of it mattered. The Luminaries and Athenari still existed—their creators, their hunters, their enemies—those who had shaped their endless suffering—still thrived. For a race born of ancient agony, perpetually hunted, true existence felt like an impossible dream. And so, a decision, whispered through the Abyssals' vast, hidden networks, was made: they would seek the Chaos God. Not for war. Not for destruction. For salvation. If they could find him—perhaps they could finally belong, finally be whole, free from the crushing weight of their past.

The Chaos Weaver—The Steward of a Lost God

The Abyssals poured every conceivable resource into the search, stretching their insidious influence across every continent. They hunted for the faintest traces, the most fleeting remnants, the barest whispers of Chaos itself. And then, after millennia of relentless pursuit, they found it—not the Chaos God, but something else entirely: a being waiting, watching, timeless. The Chaos Weaver. A spirit. A seer. A steward. Yet emphatically, not a god. Not a creator. Only an observer, bound to watch but never to interfere.

She materialized before them, her presence a quiet force that resonated deeply within their very essence, shaking the Abyssals to their core despite their ancient resilience. Her voice, clear and unwavering, carried the stark weight of a truth that could not be ignored. "Those who seek the Chaos God," she began, her words cutting through the anticipation, "I am sorry to tell you, but he is no more."

The declaration struck them like a physical blow, shattering everything. The Abyssals, a collective presence of disbelief and refusal, stood utterly frozen, a silent monument to devastation. The very air around them grew heavy with their unspoken anguish. But the Chaos Weaver continued, her gaze steady. "He has ceased to exist." She paused, allowing the truth to settle before adding, "I am a steward spirit left by the Chaos God—created to watch, never to act, bound to witness but never to change the course of this world."

And yet—she understood. She knew the depths of their longing, knew precisely why they had come. And though she could not grant them the god they desperately sought, she could offer something else. Something fragile, yet enduring: hope.

The Last Essence of Chaos

"Do not despair," she murmured, her voice carrying not a trace of pity, but a profound understanding that seemed to reach into their ancient souls. "There is hope for your salvation."

And then, with a subtle gesture, she presented it. A fragment. A shimmering remnant. A piece of the divine essence, left behind by Chaos itself—the only tangible thing that remained of their lost god. She offered it, placing its fate irrevocably in their hands, for she was not permitted to intervene further. "Take it. I will leave it to your care."

The Abyssals accepted the essence. Not with joy, for their grief was too profound. Not with triumph, for their path remained uncertain. They accepted it with a new, somber purpose. They vowed to find the one who could wield its raw power—the vessel of chaos, the chosen soul who would lead them to salvation. And so, the search began anew, a grim undertaking born from shattered hope and unyielding resolve.

The Abyssals' Search for Salvation

For centuries, the Abyssals waited, their entire existence now centered on the belief that their salvation lay in the hands of a single vessel—a being strong enough to wield the potent divine essence left behind by the Chaos God. Their leader took the first, agonizing step, planting the essence into one potential vessel after another, experimenting, waiting, hoping against hope. Each one failed. Consumed by chaos, their forms twisted into grotesque parodies. Shattered by the uncontainable energy, their very existence torn apart. Rendered irrevocably incompatible. Thousands of years passed, marked by countless failures, but none had survived the crucible of the essence. With each crushing disappointment, the Abyssals grew stronger, wiser in their despair, and increasingly desperate. They continued to hide within the southern territories, consolidating their influence, meticulously preparing for a war they knew was inevitable. But their fundamental purpose remained incomplete, a gaping void in their collective being. And none felt this profound despair more acutely than Erynos.

Erynos' Search for Peace

After the Abyssals' encounter with the Chaos Weaver, something profound shifted within Erynos. He had survived for far too long, consumed too much life, too much essence, and had lost himself completely in the crushing weight of a guilt that never faded, a burden he could no longer bear. So, drawn by an irresistible pull, he sought her again.

"I seek guidance," he whispered, his ancient voice thin with desperation as he stood before the Weaver.

The Chaos Weaver watched him, her ethereal presence unshaken, her eyes carrying knowledge that transcended time, seeing the truth of his suffering.

"I care for my siblings," he admitted, his voice trembling now with truths he had never dared to speak aloud. "But I do not wish to consume anymore. It has broken me. I see their memories. I live their regrets. And I do not wish to continue this way." A long, shuddering breath escaped him. "I seek death." His raw words hung in the profound silence of the mountain air.

Then, the Chaos Weaver answered, her voice a balm to his tormented spirit. "There are others like you who have sought the Chaos God, not for power, but for an end to their own suffering. Perhaps you seek peace—away from this world, away from the hunger that defines your kind. There is a void, a world unlike this one, created by the Chaos God himself." Her gaze held his. "Do you wish to enter it?"

Erynos listened, his ancient presence steadying, his mind slowly unraveling the immense implications of the offer. "What is this place?"

"It is a space—a Mystic Mountain." She described it, her words painting a vision of tranquility: "A realm outside existence. A world untouched by hunger, by suffering, by malice. A place of stillness, where the echoes of conflict cannot reach."

And in that moment, Erynos knew—he had found his answer. The weight of millennia seemed to lift. "Take me there."

The Chaos Weaver lifted her hand, a gesture of quiet guidance, leading him toward the threshold—toward something beyond mortal comprehension, a gate to pure serenity. And then, with a final, yearning breath, Erynos was gone. Lost to history. To time. To a peace he had yearned for since his very creation.

Aurel's Awakening—His Own Purpose

The vision shattered, the memories unraveled like discarded threads, and suddenly—Aurel was back. His breath was steady, his body grounded once more in his own reality, but his mind was irrevocably altered—changed by every agonizing moment he had witnessed. The Abyssals' suffering was undeniably real. Their desperate search for salvation had stretched beyond the very concept of time. Their longing for a god, for purpose, was undeniable.

And yet—it did not matter to him.

"Is that it?" he muttered, a cold clarity settling over him. "I have only seen their suffering." Aurel's gaze hardened, his thoughts sharpening into an unyielding resolve. He felt a detached pity for Erynos; he understood his torment, his retreat into peace. But he did not, for a single moment, feel compelled to help. The Abyssals were still monsters. Still killers. And Aurel did not seek to save them.

What struck him most profoundly was the Malice Bloom itself—the twisted core of suffering, the insidious force that had birthed the Abyssals through corruption, through malicious manipulation, through the abhorrent arrogance of the Athenari. The Chaos God had created it. The Athenari had tainted it. And now—it needed to end.

Aurel's eyes shone with a fierce, newfound resolve. "I must destroy the Malice Bloom. And those who control it." Not for salvation. Not for some fabled destiny. Not for the Abyssals. For himself.

Aurel's Rejection of the Abyssals

He had felt Erynos' sorrow, a phantom echo in his mind, but he did not share it. He had witnessed their longing, seen the depths of their ancient yearning, but he did not embrace it.

"I will not be your savior," he declared, his voice cutting through the silence of his thoughts. "To hell with your kind." His words echoed, unrelenting, a defiant refusal of the immense burden they wished to place upon him. The Abyssals had spent centuries believing in Thyranthe—the Child of Chaos, the destined vessel who would lead them to salvation. But Aurel did not care for their salvation. He did not believe in their blind faith. He did not believe in their deluded vision. He did not belong to them.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

And yet—he saw opportunity. The Abyssals hated the Athenari with a boundless, ancient fury. They possessed immense power, vast influence, and cunning strategic minds. If they wished for war, if they wished to strike, he would use them. "The Athenari have played around for too long. Someone must stop them."

And so—he declared war. Not for the Abyssals. Not for the world. For himself. To end the Malice Bloom for good, and crush any who stood in his way.

The Path Forward

Aurel exhaled, the sound a soft rasp in the quiet depths of his pocket dimension, his thoughts weaving together like chaotic threads. Eryn had lost Erynos' memories—or rather, Erynos had willfully released them, allowing his new incarnation to forge a life entirely his own. Aurel understood this profound act of self-liberation. Eryn was no longer a remnant; he was his own unique being, a new genesis. And with that crucial realization, Aurel allowed himself to focus completely on the burgeoning chaos within and around him.

Breaking Free from Expectation

He had absorbed an overwhelming amount of information—his mind overflowing with knowledge about the Malice Bloom, the Abyssals, the Athenari's grave sins, and the Chaos Weaver's startling revelations. But none of it changed his fundamental truth, his core principle. "I won't be used." He clenched a fist, the resolve hardening in him. "I won't use them."

The Abyssals, he knew, expected something from him—to be led, to be guided, to be given a clear direction by the vessel they had spent centuries waiting for. But Aurel had absolutely no intention of being their prophet, their savior. If they proved useful, fine. If they had information he could exploit, he would take it. But he would not lead their war. He would not become their champion. "I should at least tell them that," he mused, a flicker of pragmatic honesty in his gaze.

Rindel & Eryn's Training—Establishing Their Hideout

He turned toward his creations, who waited patiently nearby—Rindel, ever the silent, imposing warrior, and Eryn, still discovering the vastness of his own burgeoning nature. "You two will stay here for a while," Aurel instructed, his voice firm. "This is our hideout. I will keep you hidden while you train."

Eryn tilted his head slightly, his gaze thoughtful as he considered his own nascent power before finally speaking. "Master, I believe I am not a fighter like you or Rindel. My abilities are that of a mage—I nuke and blast." And then, without another word, he demonstrated. His form shifted, dark energy spiraling violently around him, crackling with raw power. Spheres of pure, unbridled chaos, each throbbing with destructive potential, floated in the air like miniature celestial bodies.

Aurel observed in genuine awe, a stark, undeniable force emanating from Eryn that made the air itself thrum. "Your power... You're strong," he murmured, a rare admission of surprise. "I forgot—you were born from an Abyssal's core." He nodded, satisfied with the sheer destructive potential before him. "Keep training. Keep discovering." A wry smile touched his lips. "I'll get back to you."

And with that, he left them behind in the secure, hidden dimension, stepping forward into the unknown once more.

The First Step—Leaving the Mystic Mountain

The world shifted around him. The profound tranquility of the Mystic Mountain—eerily silent, timeless, eternal—was now behind him, its quiet peace already receding from his senses. But as the familiar chaos of reality began to assert itself, he faced the immediate question he had carefully avoided. A simple, yet daunting thought filled his mind: "How do I get out of here?"

Chapter XX: The Weaver's Call

Aurel walked, his steps firm yet uncertain, tracing the endless, unchanging expanse of the Mystic Mountain. The ageless ground felt strangely soft beneath his boots. For hours—or perhaps longer, for time held no meaning here—he searched, his senses sharp, his instincts guiding him, yet the elusive exit never revealed itself. The vast, serene emptiness stretched on, mocking his efforts.

The Silence of Chaos

He activated his Chaos Field, expecting its familiar ripple to expand, to grasp the edges of the mountain and map his surroundings with his inherent power. But nothing happened. The field, usually an extension of his will, felt muted, suffocated, as if compressed by an unseen force. His power, his very ability to shape chaos—rendered utterly useless. A flicker of frustration, a sensation he rarely felt, sparked within him. "Something is preventing me from using it." He tried again, pushing harder, forcing his will against the pervasive stillness—nothing.

The stark realization settled in, a cold, undeniable truth. "This place was made by the Chaos God himself." He muttered, the words barely a breath. "I can't impose my will here. His authority overwhelms mine." For the first time, Aurel acknowledged a power demonstrably greater than his own. And surprisingly, he did not fight it. He felt no anger, only a grudging respect. "I won't force it—it is a God's authority, after all."

The Labyrinth of Eternity

The more he walked, the more the landscape blurred into an unnerving repetition. Identical rock formations, the same ancient, unmoving trees. Was he moving forward at all? Or was he trapped in an impossible loop, a prisoner of the mountain's boundless nature? "This place has no end," he concluded, his voice flat. He took another step—and found himself precisely back where he had started. A surge of irritation, mixed with a chilling sense of entrapment, washed over him. "What trickery is this?" The Mystic Mountain was not bound to time, to space, to logic—only to the remnants of Chaos itself, imbued with a will beyond his comprehension. And for Aurel—that meant he was utterly, hopelessly lost.

The Voice in the Silence

Then—a whisper. It began as a quiet, ethereal hum, drifting through the profound stillness like a breeze that carried no wind, yet still stirred the air around him. Then, words, soft but distinct. "Child of Chaos."

Aurel froze, every instinct flaring, his senses suddenly alive to the unseen presence. The voice wrapped itself around his thoughts, curling into the deepest recesses of his mind. It was unsettling, yet undeniably magnetic. The whisper grew louder, more distinct—soft but commanding, distant yet strangely personal. "Child of Chaos... Come to me."

And he knew this voice. Not from direct experience, not from meeting her in person, but from the vivid, lingering echoes of Erynos' memory. The Chaos Weaver.

The Unwilling Meeting

He hesitated, a deep-seated reluctance rising within him. He had no desire to meet her—not now, not yet. He had his own path, his own agenda. She was not an enemy. She was not a savior. She was only a witness—an entity bound by observation, never interference, a cosmic bystander.

But he had no choice. The voice was a silken tether, drawing him in. "I should follow her voice," he conceded, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. He had ignored her presence, avoided her, in Erynos' memories. Now—she was actively calling him. And in the endless, labyrinthine depths of the Mystic Mountain, there was no escaping her reach. Aurel walked forward, a grim determination setting his jaw, toward the voice, toward the inevitable, toward the unknown.

The Hut in the Heart of Chaos

After hours of walking, tracing the precise direction of the voice that now pulsed like a beacon in his mind, Aurel finally saw it. A structure that felt utterly out of place in this timeless, ethereal realm: a simple hut. Wooden, unassuming—the kind an old woman might live in, nestled behind a small, well-tended garden with a modest wooden gate. He halted, observing it carefully, a strange mix of disbelief and curiosity swirling within him. "A hut? What is this thing doing here?" Its mundane appearance was almost jarring against the backdrop of divine authority.

Did she truly live in there? The voice continued to call to him, its origin clear now—it was coming from inside the deceptively ordinary dwelling. Then—movement. A boy stood outside the gate, waiting patiently, as if he had been expecting Aurel all along.

"Hello, Aurel," the boy greeted warmly, his smile easy and disarmingly cheerful. He looked around thirteen, radiating an unexpected aura of warmth that Aurel had never anticipated finding in a place like this. "My name is Whiz. Sybris is waiting for you inside. I will escort you."

The realization hit Aurel: there were others in this world besides Erynos, and beings of pure Chaos. He hadn't truly considered it before. But now, in the face of such simple, undeniable reality, he did not question it. He simply followed Whiz, stepping beyond the humble gate, past the neat garden, and into the presence of the Chaos Weaver herself.

The Seer Who Watches All

Inside the humble hut, the air was surprisingly pleasant, smelling faintly of herbs and, indeed, tea. A woman sat comfortably, her back to the entrance, a delicate teacup held between her fingers. She was beautiful, appearing no older than her early thirties, her demeanor radiating a profound calm and unruffled relaxation—not at all the dark, foreboding, or omnipotent figure Aurel had expected from the steward of a lost god.

"Hello, Aurel." Her voice was graceful, yet imbued with an unwavering certainty. "I'm Sybris. This young man here is Whiz—I believe he has already introduced himself."

Whiz, standing by the door, grinned, looking immensely proud. "I am Miss Sybris' errand boy!" And then—he simply vanished. Aurel's eyes widened, his instincts bracing for an unexpected strike, a sudden attack—but there was none. Whiz simply reappeared beside Sybris, unharmed, unfazed, a playful glint in his eye.

Sybris giggled, a soft, pleasant sound, her amusement barely hidden as she observed Aurel's momentary alarm. "Whiz here helps me with daily tasks," she explained, a slight wave of her hand.

Aurel exhaled, regaining his composure, his mind still trying to process the boy's effortless teleportation. "You are the Chaos Weaver?" he asked, his voice carefully neutral. "I saw you in Erynos' memory."

Sybris gently set down her teacup, her gaze direct. "Yes. I have lived in this mountain for a very long time—even before the time of gods. The Chaos God left me here as a caretaker, though he also left me with Whiz." Her hand rested briefly on Whiz's shoulder. "We are both creatures created by the Chaos God himself." She studied Aurel carefully, her eyes seemingly seeing through him. "I'm sure you have questions. We have time—I would like to chat. Would you like a cup of tea?"

Aurel shook his head, refusing without hesitation. "I don't like tea." His skepticism, though unvoiced, was palpable. He had expected a god's servant to be something vast, something incomprehensible, something radiating immense power and ancient wisdom. But here sat a woman who exuded nothing of the sort—a presence so utterly normal, so mundanely pleasant, that it felt jarringly unnatural in this place. He would not assume anything about her.

"What are you?" he pressed, his gaze piercing.

Sybris answered without hesitation, her expression serene. "I am what you would call a steward of a god. A seer. A watcher. I have no authority—I simply observe. Every god has one." She sipped her tea. "We are like their secretaries—keeping them updated on the world, processing the cosmic paperwork, if you will." A small, ironic smile touched her lips. "But the Chaos God was distant, detached from both this realm and the other gods."

Aurel's expression darkened slightly, a shadow crossing his face. "You said they're gone?" he questioned, the weight of the implications settling in. "All of them?"

Sybris nodded, her expression neutral, unwavering. "Yes. Just like the Chaos God."