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- NO.200+SOUTIEN
"Magic is believing in yourself, if you can do that, you can make anything happen." Ikaris, a genius student admired, exploited, and hated all his life for his brilliance, suddenly finds himself transmigrated into The Forsaken Lands, a fantasy world of myriad species born with the ability to use magic with imagination as their only limit. Alas, this gift carries a curse. The more you use it, the closer you are to death. After thousands of years of decline, the Free Races are fast approaching their demise, their survival threatened by this curse and an enemy that will not rest until it has devoured them all. Literally. Former allies and enemies, prey and predators are now cornered behind a huge wall, forced to collaborate to resist their invader. But can so much resentment and hatred be washed away so easily? Can predators and prey really overcome their instincts in the face of a common foe? Follow him on his journey from an ordinary human to a shining existence that will overturn the order established since the dawn of time. From an innocent soul to a merciless demon. From a human to something else. ----- Discord link: https://discord.gg/d8udP7Q
"Ah, what's this we've got here? A strip-bare whelp traipsing alone through the Forsaken Lands?" A voice rumbled with unrestrained mirth.
"Heh, lucky you, Tuari. Seems our little Lanu can keep her blood this month. But the kid looks rough... I doubt we'll get much from him." A second voice, harsher and more grating, added to the jest.
A fresh wave of laughter and bawdy commentary swept over the group. The cruel timbre of the laughter was mostly male, but there were some women's voices threaded through.
Their reckless humor stemmed from their own precarious existence. Tragically, the boy at the center of their crude jests was unable to parse the meaning in their words.
'What the fuck are they yammering about? Not a word makes sense. What in hell's name is this language?'
The stark-naked boy, barely fourteen or fifteen, stood like a deer in their sights. His face was a stoic mask, but inside, he was a tempest of fear.
His skin was pallid, slick with sweat. His features were unremarkable—neither ugly nor handsome—with a slender build and a sharp angularity to his face. His standout features were his raven-black hair and eyes of the same hue, sparkling with a keen intellect.
His body was marred by blisters and haphazardly healed burns. A gaping wound, the length of a dagger, bled freely just inches below his heart.
If his wounds weren't treated soon, the boy wouldn't live to see the dawn.
A spark. A light of boundless purity—that was his first sight in this world. With his eyes still closed, his consciousness as fragile as a flame in a gusty wind, the light had dazzled him. When he had finally opened his eyes, the light was gone, but he still felt its presence.
In the place of that spark, a lush jungle and a group of men and women adorned with tribal markings and ornaments swam into view. Each of them looked rough, their skin seamed and sunburned, their youthful vitality belied by their weary appearance. All of them shared the dark circles under their eyes and an almost sickly gauntness—a sign of anemia or malnutrition, perhaps.
The boy would have been less scared if they weren't all a head or two taller than him. He hadn't yet realized that he was the one who had shrunk. That they were armed with spears, bows, and primitive axes had absolutely nothing to do with his trembling...
As the natives argued heatedly in a language he didn't comprehend, the boy felt weakness creeping in, his lifeblood ebbing away.
"... Help," he croaked, despair washing over him. His feeble voice would be barely audible to his own ears, let alone these savages who didn't share his language.
If his mind hadn't been clouded by pain and fear, he would have bolted, not pled for help. His name was a faint memory, and his past, before arriving in this forsaken place, was all but a blur.
"Hmm, Koko, I think he said something..." Tuari's eyebrows rose in surprise.
But while he had heard the boy, he hadn't understood the words.
"Surrender, boy, and no harm will come to you. You just need to... cooperate a bit." A native woman, her attire a leafy crown and little else, spoke in honeyed tones. But her sugared words belied a malevolent smile revealing a row of yellowed teeth, which sent the boy's hair standing on end.
'I-I need to run.'
As the thought coursed through his mind, the radiant Spark before his eyes flared, its fleeting brilliance making him question his senses.
His legs reflexively jerked, but it was a belated effort. His sight blurred, his consciousness spiraled downwards into that familiar abyss of torment and despair.
This time, however, there was a subtle change. Unbeknownst to him, the pain that wracked his body was subtly ebbing.
Thud.
His eyes rolled back, he fell face-first, like a marionette whose strings had been severed.
"Doli, the boy's been so charmed by you he's fainted. Or perhaps your breath's even more wretched than I remember, hahaha!" A barbarian chortled at his jest.
A chorus of laughter responded to his mockery. Doli, scantily-clad, shot them a poisonous glance. Yet her sulking only amplified their amusement.
"Enough with your jests! The boy's losing blood! What'll you tell Malia if he dies before the sacrifice? Will you take his place?"
Her words cut through their mirth. Despite their roughened demeanor, the threat of replacing the boy filled them with dread.
"Doli is right. Back to our duties. If the other teams fall short, we might be rewarded."
The one who spoke was an elder barbarian, the only one wielding a bronze sword among them. Like the rest, he was gaunt and weathered. Yet the respect others accorded him was genuine.
Unconscious to the world around him, the teenager's wounds were hastily stitched, dressed with a poultice of native herbs. Then Tuari, the warrior, hoisted him onto his shoulder as if he was no heavier than a sack of potatoes, and trudged towards the village.
Moments later.
SPLASH!
A bucket of icy water jerked the boy back to reality, the biting cold numbing his wounds momentarily. As he winced from the tug on his stitches, he drew the villagers' attention.
Encircled by the watchful eyes, he finally grasped his surroundings. Or more precisely, where he no longer was.
This was a run-down village, and even that seemed a generous term.
At first sight, it was merely a dirt patch, permeated by the stench of excrement and urine, adorned with animal-hide tents. In the village's heart stood two yurts, their size a rival to his old Earth bedroom.
A humble thatch-roofed cottage, built from stacked stones and wood, reigned from a small hillock overlooking the primitive sprawl. Its doorless entrance was guarded by a pitiful excuse for an altar.
It was a square of four wooden stakes, adorned with a shaggy fur pelt. Beneath it, a pile of stones that vaguely resembled a crude tomb, marked by a wooden stele no larger than a brick. But it was as good as a scrap of bark, for nothing was etched on it.
Now, he was bound like the others before this altar, surrounded by a motley group of healthier-looking individuals of varying ages. Like him, they were naked, but to his surprise, one of them was muttering in English.
Relief washed over him. At least he wasn't alone in this nightmare. Or was it reality? The gnawing uncertainty threatened to unmoor his sanity.
About 80 or 90 villagers encircled the prisoners, their expressions a cocktail of sadistic delight and relief, eager to witness their impending fates.
Abruptly, silence descended. Soon after, a pair of women emerged from the village's solitary thatched cottage.
The first was small, her white hair matching her skeletal figure, each wrinkle a testament to eons past. To the horror of the onlookers, she was scantily clad like the rest of the villagers, her drooping breasts exposed to the scorching sun.
The second woman was a stark contrast. Young, beautiful, her athletic build accentuated by the gentle curve of her hips, her skin bronzed yet supple. Her angelic face was not pallid like the other villagers, her lips and rosy cheeks radiated health. She had almond-shaped eyes of an unusual yellow-orange hue, a waterfall of silky chestnut hair cascading down her shoulders. She appeared no older than sixteen. And surprisingly, she was even shorter than the boy.
The male prisoners perked up at her sight. Alas, the only native they wished to see naked was the only one decently dressed in a sunflower yellow ensemble. She was barefoot like the others, but this only enhanced her enchanting allure.
The pair made their way to the altar, the younger woman whispering something to the elder after a cursory glance at the captives. The old woman raised her palms towards them, chanting in an indecipherable tongue.
"Gari gori, goru, giri..."
The captives were baffled.
'What the hell are you prattling, crone?'
Then, a miracle unfolded.
The archaic chant ended, and a rush of foreign knowledge flooded his mind. A moment later, the old woman's nasal announcement left him shocked.
"It's done."
'I can understand her!'
Confusion and disbelief rippled through the captives. The boy, a staunch agnostic, dared not consider the boundless implications of this realization.
This was magic.
As the reality sank in, he reluctantly accepted his circumstances. If he had been transported to a world where magic was a reality, maybe it wasn't entirely disastrous.
Meanwhile, the young woman approached the captives. She stopped before the burliest man and asked gently,
"What is your name?"
Her voice was sweet and melodious, honey to their ears.
"Thomas."
She nodded thoughtfully, then moved on to the next.
"And you?"
"Anton."
"Hmm..."
The cycle continued until she stood before the boy. A flicker of disgust marred her face at his sallow complexion and his grievous wounds.
"What is your name?
"Ikaris. My name is Ikaris."
"Hmm..."
Ikaris watched as she returned to the old shaman and pointed at several of the sturdy men, the English-speaking captive among them. He felt a shameful sense of happiness as he realized he wasn't among the chosen.
Once the selection was complete, a group of warriors herded the chosen men towards the altar, where a large wooden bowl awaited them. An ominous silence loomed over the village, and instinctively, the selected men foresaw their impending doom.
One of them began to protest.
"I-I don't want to do this. Let me go!"
His pleas fell on deaf ears. For his defiance, he was the first to set an example. He was forced to kneel before the bowl, his wrists slashed, blood gushing into the bowl below.
"Aaaaarrgh!"
Ikaris involuntarily shut his eyes. But to his surprise, the agonized screams ended abruptly. Not the eerie silence of sudden death, but the quiet realization of an unwarranted panic.
Well, more or less.
After the initial flow of blood, the gory process was halted. Their wounds were dressed, leaving them in a state of surprised relief. The barbarians weren't going to slaughter them after all.
The bowl filled, Ikaris braced himself for a grand finale – a shamanic ritual, a tribal dance, or perhaps a throaty song. But it never came.
They were left bound under the searing sun in the village square for the remainder of the day. Then, as dusk approached, the chilling reason behind this act unveiled itself.
