Chapter 1 Olam Ha-Ba

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𝕱rom the east comes the light, and from the west comes the shadows. In a land of chaos made from a never ending cycle of anger, in a soil that never seemed to be devoid of blood and sins, covered of the dust of the very corpses that lead troops of humans to their death. On this very soil was being hewn a trench to receive the very monarch who led beings to the deadly sins of wars. Ominous clouds were overlooking the regal obsequies, a whistle like sound could be heard from the gelid gale and a lead-hued mist of the morning enveloped a congregation resembling more to carcases. Not so far from the crowd, musical strains were emanating from a far-off, strains that could nearly depict the lamentation of the populace, so sorrowful was the music. A mournful spectacle.

A silent filled of sorrow surrounded a requiem held for the royal's sinful corpse.

On the west side of the hollow stood shadowy mourners, their heads cast downward in reverence for their last monarch, their faces were plagued by lamentable feares. Their eyes bereft of souls, their souls torn by the very blades that rent the flesh of the guiltless. Their back's were bowed because of the burden of their slaughters. On the east side of the hollow, the grieving royal families and noble houses were sitting on velvet chairs placed on a drapped platform. In contrary to the populace, their gazes were up and their faces were dry. The royal family was attired only of black colors to showcase their mourning hearts, contrasting with their gold locks. The lone face of the heir was plagued by tears, not tears of grief and sorrow but of fear. For the salvation of this day and the days that has yet to come, the sins of the last monarch became his, the bloodied hands of the last shall become his own. His once proud posture, now stooped beneath the weight of the responsibility he inherited as a newly crowned monarch. And as his own lips quavered, the royal pontiff's mouth opened for words that could only slay his heart. Thus putting an end to the ambient silence overlooking the crowd.

"Beloved followers of the faith, we gather here today to mourn the passing of the last monarch, a leader who devoted their life to the service of their people and the betterment of our kingdom. We bid farewell to a soul that was kind, just, and wise, a person who left an indelible mark on the history of our land and on the hearts of those who knew them." Said the pope in a solemn tone for the people.

But amidst the throng of mourners, chattering and whispers had raised. Some having pity for the last monarch and some words held grudges against him. But the next moment, only one man mustered the bravery to vocalize. It was a dusky man's words that had rent the air, his voice resounding loudly, whilst others whispered them only in thought.

"A monarch who left indelible marks on the hearts of his people, sullied by his sins and the blood of our offsprings !!!"

The newly crowned monarch's hands did quake, and he casted his gaze toward the pontiff, seeking his response to the unlettered man's words. Yet to his amazement, the pontiff continued his oration as if the remarks of the base and uninformed man were nothing but malevolent whispers.

"Let us pray for the monarch's soul, for the comfort of their family, and for the continuation of the kingdom in the wake of their passing. May the Lord bless us all, and may the spirit of the monarch rest in peace. Amen."

The crowd who was filled of chattering was now silenced to only chant for the last monarch.

"Exoriente lux, mors certa, hora incerta. Memento mori. Exoriente lux, mors certa, hora incerta. Memento mori. Exoriente lux, mors certa, hora incerta. Memento mori. Exoriente lux, mors certa, hora incerta. Memento mori. Exoriente lux, mors certa, hora incerta. Memento mori. Exoriente lux, mors certa, hora incerta. Memento mori. Exoriente lux, mors certa, hora incerta. Memento mori."

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And slowly, on the other side of the soil, somewhere far but also closer than what we would have thought. Everything switched to a place that we could only locate if one knew the world had another side, the same as the other side of a coin. And just like the chants for the deceased monarch arises on one side of the coin, on the other side the choirs of soulless shadows did rise, but for the awakening of another. From the abyss of death, life springs forth, and from life's abundance, death claims its due. For nothing is taken without being returned, and for life to bloom, something must be given in exchange - a spirit for a spirit. Slowly hands started clapping in unison, producing a rustling sound, their feet striking the ground in perfect harmony.

"Exoriente lux, mors certa, hora incerta. Memento mori. Exoriente lux, mors certa, hora incerta. Memento mori. Exoriente lux, mors certa, hora incerta. Memento mori. Exoriente lux, mors certa, hora incerta. Memento mori. Exoriente lux, mors certa, hora incerta. Memento mori. Exoriente lux, mors certa, hora incerta. Memento mori. Exoriente lux, mors certa, hora incerta. Memento mori. Exoriente lux, mors certa, hora incerta. Memento mori. Exoriente lux, mors certa, hora incerta. Memento mori. Exoriente lux, mors certa, hora incerta. Memento mori. Exoriente lux, mors certa, hora incerta. Memento mori. Exoriente lux, mors certa, hora incerta. Memento mori. Exoriente lux, mors certa, hora incerta. Memento mori. Exoriente lux, mors certa, hora incerta. Memento mori."

From the west comes the shadows, and from the east comes the light. In a realm of wrath and woe, formed of flesh and bone, where neither beginning nor ending existed, but beings were wrought, not begot. In this land came the being who was nore born nore dead, the one who had no beginning but shall bring the ending. The one who couldn't be plagued by tears but shall plague civilizations. He was no less but the harbinger of doom, the one who will harbor the face of light but will lurk in the shadows. He rises from the blood and ashes as the dark pontiff's words surrounded his very being.

"Beloved followers of the deadly sins, we convene here on this day to celebrate the advent of the harbinger of destruction and wrath, the entity who shall dedicate his existence to the worship of death and the advancement of bloodshed. Hearken, blood of my blood, vice of my vice. May the final hour mark the dawning of a new era!"

The harbinger of doom who was once curled up on himself like a fetus, hatched from his shell. Splinters stabbing the hearts of the followers and the pontiff's face. Pools of blood formed as bodies were drained of their life-force, and the harbinger's feet slowly descended upon the crimson peak of the lifeless. His eyes were closed, but as his feet were slowly engulfed by the scarlet fluid, he opened them. Only those who beheld this day can recount that his irises held within them the agony, not his own, but of those who would cross his path.

And from blood begot the beginning to the end.