New World

The term 'villain' carries a weighty connotation, often reserved for individuals who brazenly defy the bounds of law, morality, and societal norms, people who leave a trail of malevolence and destruction in their wake, their only legacy a black mark in history; men and women that can only be surmised with a single word. Tristan Nash, a name that resonated ominously in the latter half of the calendar year 2054, was one such person who embodied this archetype. With an intellect that surpassed ordinary bounds and an engineering brilliance that bordered on the supernatural, Nash orchestrated a sequence of events that swiftly catapulted him to the top of the global most-wanted lists.

His vision for the world extended beyond mere chaos; it was a calculated plan that if seen through to completion would have obliterated corruption, dismantled what he deemed as baseless logic and annihilated barbaric laws that harmed innocent people. In his skewed perspective, the remnants of humanity would be forcibly united either under him or against him, paving the way for a new era of peace and prosperity. For four relentless years, the world found itself ensnared in a brutal struggle, with nations and rebel forces locked in ceaseless combat against the relentless onslaught of Nash's metallic legions.

The year 2058 heralded a pivotal moment in the ongoing conflict. In the late spring, a daring and desperate alliance managed to breach Nash's formidable frontlines. This marked the beginning of the end for the self-proclaimed visionary, and in a daring "Hail Mary" maneuver, orchestrated to cut off the proverbial snake's head and bring an end to the protracted war, the forces opposing Nash successfully executed him.

-

"I died, again" a voice whispered into the void. Its mournful words reverberated through the infinite emptiness before it.

As it surveyed the desolate landscape, the realization set in that it hovered weightlessly above an expanse of blackened, scorched sand. The horizon stretched out, adorned with the bones of obsidian trees that stood as haunting sentinels in the dimly lit realm. A muted glow emanated from an unseen moon, an eerie all-encompassing radiance that illuminated the barren terrain.

There was a familiarity to the scene, but the entity struggled to grasp the elusive memories that attached to the reasons as to why. It sensed a spectral connection to the place, a recurrent dance with the echoes of its own existence. Attempts to retrieve the threads of memory were akin to catching smoke, leaving behind only a residual frustration. Yet from the attempts a name whispered through the recesses of its consciousness, labelling this haunting domain as the "Desert of the End."

"I've been here before" In the air hung a tension, as if the very essence of the place carried the weight of countless forgotten encounters. Each step, or rather, each ethereal drift above the burnt sands, was a reluctant reunion with a past it could not fully reclaim. The landscape, marked by the desolation of time, seemed to conceal mysteries that were inaccessible to anyone who could venture into the domain.

The being, devoid of any specific purpose other than the act of mere existence and enduring patience, existed on the precipice of nothingness, manifesting as an intricate dance of swirling, inky energies that spun ceaselessly like an eternal storm.

The currents of energy that enveloped this formless entity resembled delicate wisps of cotton, each silky thread representing an indispensable fragment of itself. However, its entire being was continually being attacked by the unrelenting grasp of the surrounding void, every moment was a non-stop assault, trying to diminish, reduce, and devour the fragile tendrils of energy that made up its form. Despite the persistent attacks, the energies remained resilient, consistently being drawn back toward the entity's core.

Each struggle against the encroaching darkness exacted a toll, sending waves of exhaustion through the being. Those moments of fatigue threatened a permanent end, yet the entity persisted, always finding the strength to continue and face the next wave of attacks.

"How long must I endure this?" The sourceless voice whimpered, if this was how it was going to exist from now on, its resistance to the never-ending assaults on its existence would be futile. As the words echoed into the celestial abyss, the speaker's gaze was drawn upward to the mesmerizing spectacle of swirling maelstroms.

Black stars, each a minuscule yet ominous dot in the cosmic fabric, exuded an intent that transcended mere luminescence. Their purpose was a silent scream, one could feel an unspoken voracious hunger, an insatiable appetite to devour all that lay within their grasp.

"What's going on?" It queried as its consciousness filled with an indistinct light that blinded it and filled it with renewed energy, its fatigue already a distant memory.

-

The soul's essence started to take shape inside the womb of another as the cosmic cycle began anew. There was a significant shift during the rebirth process, and as the rush of life took hold, fractured memories of past lives began to take hold. The being twitched with ferocity as it felt its previous selves, his once boundless knowledge, talents and genius, for a moment all within reach. They'd relive old lives in a matter of milliseconds, each thought and memory a precious gift that may serve in its new life, yet just as quickly as those flashes of previous lives came, those same memories would begin to fade. It refused to be robbed as countless times before, a mental noose latching onto every key detail it could. The tighter it gripped the more its mind raced with flashes of its lives lived, each existence a slurry of joy and pain, each account burning experiences into its new tiny body.

It had lived countless lives across many worlds, memories of martial artists channeling ungodly energies, swords clad in magic slaying creatures several times larger than itself, and invading monsters from other realms causing untold destruction. Each life was fighting for dominance, an unending stream of memories that crescendoed with its last life, the visionary Tristan, and suddenly it all collapsed into silence and their eyes sprang open with the sound of shears, a single snip that separated a mother from her child..

A young girl, presumed to be the wet nurse, enveloped them, who now possessed the delicate form of the newborn. The young girl of approximately 14 years, possessed mousy brown hair that framed her innocent face, while her vibrant green eyes sparkled with curiosity at the new life. As the girl emerged from the cocoon of linen sheets that had shielded the private moment, she stepped gracefully to the side of the mother.

With a sense of pride and joy radiating from her, the wet nurse proudly presented the healthy baby to the mother. An exchange between the two women was carried out in a language yet unknown to the tiny being, a language woven with the unspoken threads of maternal affection and whispered promises of a future filled with love and care. Although the words themselves remained a mystery to the newborn, the beaming smiles on their faces spoke volumes.

The bright smile that adorned the mother's face illuminated the room, a testament to the overwhelming happiness that surged within her. Her loving gaze fixated on the tiny features of her baby, absorbing every detail as if etching them into her heart. In a soft, gentle tone, barely above a whisper, she spoke the child's name.

"Eamon", a newborn boy, barely a few minutes old, held an endearing charm that belied his tender age. A relatively diminutive figure, he sported a delicate tuft of dark hair atop his tiny head. His eyes, a captivating shade of bright green, sparkled with a gleam of intelligence that seemed to defy the mere moments he had spent in this world.

Eamon's eyes radiated an innate curiosity, absorbing the surrounding world with innocent wonder, yet there was also an unmistakable sense of awareness in those luminous orbs, a silent promise of potential and possibilities yet to unfold.

-

As Eamon allowed his gaze to sweep across his surroundings, he couldn't help but assess the humble commoner's hut he now occupied. This modest and unassuming dwelling spoke volumes about the economic constraints that shaped the lives of its inhabitants. Likely crafted from the most accessible materials at hand, the structure stood as a testament to the ingenuity of its builders.

The hut's walls, made of worn wood, carefully hammered iron nails held the building together. Pelts adorned the interior, offering both insulation against the elements and a rustic charm to the otherwise simple abode.

As Eamon absorbed the details of the hovel, he couldn't escape the realization that within these walls he would spend his early years, the hut contained no second room, the necessities, from bed to living area, were all in the same space, the concept of privacy a foreign concept in this new world.