Chapter 2: Mourning World

Amidst the vast reaches of the cosmos, the planet Solaris III—known to its people as Sol III—gracefully orbited its sun as the third planet. It was a world of serene beauty, where peace reigned, and harmony governed the lives of its inhabitants.

For generations, tranquillity prevailed across the land. Yet, in a single catastrophic event, everything was altered...

This event, now buried in the collective memory of the world, occurred over a century ago. It marked the unravelling of a new era for Sol III, where chaos seeped into every corner of life, and the once-stable foundations of society crumbled into ruin.

Disasters struck like unrelenting storms, shattering the land and leaving the old world in ruins. This era of profound loss, etched into every soul, became known as the First Lament.

One hundred and fifty-eight years ago, a surge of a very dissonant frequency rippled across the globe. Its force shook every living being, an agonizing resonance that left the world forever changed.

Grotesque stone spires erupted from the earth, which trembled as jagged X-shaped fissures split the land. From these unnatural cracks, a sickly yellow light seeped, casting an ominous glow.

The sky, once serene, transformed into a vast, inverted ocean—a haunting mirror above. Streaks of white light shot from the fissures, piercing the heavens and linking the ground to the unknown space: The Etheric Sea.

Strange frequencies soon filled the air, humming and pulsing from the Tacet Marks, as the fissures were later called.

From these ruptures emerged terrifying creatures, their forms ever-shifting, born of the chaotic energy left by the Waveworn Phenomenon. These horrors brought devastation, leaving carnage in their wake.

Yet amid the chaos, hope appeared. The Sentinels—ancient, immortal guardians—stood at the edges of civilization. Since time immemorial, they had watched over humanity, offering guidance, protection, and solace.

Throughout each era of humanity, they remained present, maintaining the delicate balance between existence and extinction.

But what of the civilizations without Sentinels? Without the wisdom of these ageless guardians, they crumbled, forgotten by history, their ashes scattered to the winds of time. These lost people never had a chance to rise above the disasters, facing the endless destruction alone.

Yet, life endures. When the Waveworn Phenomenon ravaged the land, its frequencies altered not only the world but humanity itself.

Some survivors emerged changed, their bodies bearing the same X-shaped Tacet Marks that scarred the earth. These individuals, known as Resonators, gained the ability to manipulate reality by resonating with hidden frequencies within objects.

Their power, called Resonance Ability or Forte, became an extension of their souls, shaped by their pasts, fears, and subconscious desires.

Later, these Resonators were classified under Rabelle's Curve: Natural, Mutant, Congenital, or Artificial. Their unique Resonance Spectrum Patterns mirrored their inner selves, determining their abilities and connection to unseen forces.

For some, this power offered hope, a chance to rise from the ruins of a shattered world. For others, it was a curse—a haunting reminder of what was lost, of a future that had slipped through their grasp.

Still... In the bleakest corners of the world, where Sentinels were absent and Resonators rare, despair lingered. These lands, still scarred by the First Lament, were haunted by the past, facing an uncertain future without their guardians.

As the First Lament receded into history, the world stood irrevocably altered. Fear took root in people's hearts, not only from the Tacet Discords (TDs) emerging from the X-shaped Tacet Marks but also the superhumans—Resonators— who walked amongst them.

Some Resonators used their powers to foster peace and unity, while others seized the chaos as an opportunity for dominance, reshaping the world to their desires.

In the aftermath, entire nations suffered, but none more so than Huanglong. Huanglong, devastated by the injury of one of their six Sentinels Jue, became a battleground of ambition and desperation as factions vied for control in the absence of their protector.

Among those vying for control were Fractsidus, an organization seeking to hasten the arrival of a "True Lament" by resurrecting the Threnodians and conducting horrific experiments, believing that merging with Tacet Discords is key to humanity's evolution.

The Ghost Hound, a group of mercenaries from the New Federation's lawless zones, also sought to exploit the chaos, driven solely by financial gain.

On the side of protection, the Midnight Rangers, Huanglong's military force led by General Jiyan, were stretched thin defending Jinzhou from external threats.

The Public Security Bureau worked tirelessly to maintain order amid the chaos. The Pioneer Association, a prestigious institution exploring dangerous lands and documenting the new reality, provided hope despite some controversial alliances.

The Black Shore remained a steadfast ally, hidden on a remote archipelago and shrouded in mystery. The Court of Savantae, once notorious for extreme experiments, now lay in ruins.

The Exiles, bandits and outcasts, roamed the fringes of society. Despite the desolation, Lollo Logistics continued their deliveries with their slogan—"We Promise, We Deliver!"—resonating through the remnants of a shattered world.

As these factions wove their intricate webs of power and survival, the fate of Huanglong—and possibly the world—hung precariously in the balance. Driven by visions of salvation or domination, each entity sought its path amid the chaos.

Yet, one question remained: "Who was truly responsible for the cataclysmic Lament that plunged the world into darkness? "

Few could answer the question except for the shadowy Fractsidus. They accused an elusive figure known only as "The Shepherd" as the true architect of the world's devastation.

According to them, they were the black sheep who defied "The Shepherd," seeking to defeat this entity and impose their twisted vision of peace.

However, their atrocious acts and astrocytic nature led many to dismiss their claims. Still... the question lingered... "Who was truly responsible?..."

"It remained a mystery," an elderly, husky voice said as Grandma Tang closed the book and faced the children around her. Her silver hair was tied in a neat bun, and her deep blue robe contrasted with her weathered skin.

The children, wide-eyed and full of questions, leaned in closer. "Grandma Tang," a little boy asked, his voice trembling with curiosity, "if The Shepherd was so powerful, why didn't he just take over everything himself?"

"The Shepherd was indeed powerful," Grandma Tang explained, "but he worked from the shadows, orchestrating chaos and discord rather than direct control. By causing the Lament, he reshaped the world without fighting every battle himself."

A little girl with pigtails raised her hand. "Did he have any special powers or magic that helped him do all this?"

Grandma Tang nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, The Shepherd possessed formidable abilities," she said seriously. "Some say he was a master of dark arts, able to influence the very fabric of reality."

She continued, "His powers were not just about physical strength but about bending the world to his will." Her tone grew grave. "He could harness fear and manipulate the essence of chaos, making him a truly daunting figure..."

As she explained, a sudden commotion outside interrupted her storytelling. A gruff voice called out, "They're here."

Grandma Tang's serene expression shifted to alertness. She stood up, moving steadily toward the entrance. The children's whispers faded as they felt the change in the air, their excitement giving way to unease.

Outside, the tension was palpable. A group of Exiles approached, their figures obscured by leather jackets and hazard masks. Leading them was a tall, imposing figure who immediately drew the crowd's attention.

He wore a sleeveless, high-collared jacket that fell to his calves, its black fabric with lighter accents fluttering with each step. Beneath it, he had a simple short-sleeved shirt and rugged grey pants with cargo pockets, secured by a belt loaded with pouches. Sturdy black combat boots completed his look.

A large sword strapped to his back caught the sunlight, its blade gleaming as he stood among the Exiles. His commanding presence drew a mix of fear and curiosity from the locals.

Grandma Tang approached the group, greeting the Exile leader with a simple "Hello." An irritated "Humph" escaped his lips before she gestured towards a secluded hut. Together, they headed to it, seeking privacy away from prying eyes.

In the privacy of their meeting, the Exile leader wasted no time. "So, what's the commission, old hag?" he asked with a blend of impatience and authority in his tone.

Grandma Tang met his gaze with calm resolve and handed him a slip with a photo of a young man, no older than sixteen, with dark navy hair and pale yellow eyes.

"Kill him," Grandma Tang's voice cut through the air, icy and resolute. Her eyes met the Exile Leader's as he scanned the boy's picture with contempt. "And what of the payment?" he demanded.

"I don't deal in Shell Credits," Grandma Tang replied calmly. Furious, the Exile Leader hurled his machete and snapped, "Do you take us for a charity?"

Unfazed, Grandma Tang shook her head. "I understand what motivates men like you," she said, producing a small black box. "You'll receive the payment once the task is done."

The Exile Leader's eyes sparkled with curiosity as Grandma Tang unveiled the contents of the box. Inside, nestled in velvet, was a marble-sized sphere of radiant gold, shimmering with an otherworldly brilliance. Delicate bands of light wove intricate patterns around it, pulsing with a gentle, ethereal glow.

The sphere, adorned with a star-shaped symbol, exuded celestial elegance, its ancient power stark against the room's shadowy confines. For a moment, the Exile Leader was taken aback, his breath catching in his throat.

Rising to his feet, he could barely contain his astonishment. "A Radiant Tide?" he stammered, awe and disbelief mixing. A fabled pill, its recipe lost to the annals of history, now lay before him.

The Exile Leader's face hardened. "Is that all?" he demanded, impatience edging his voice. Grandma Tang hesitated but nodded. He narrowed his eyes. "Why are you trying to kill that boy?"

Grandma Tang knew this was a trap. Revealing the true reason behind the boy's death would only lead to an increase in the fee, so she opted for a partial truth. "It was Lord Fractsidus who ordered it," she said, her voice steady but guarded.

The Exile Leader's gaze sharpened. "I've heard you don't follow Fractsidus."

Grandma Tang looked away, disgust evident. "I don't agree with their methods," she admitted. "But... they are our saviours, so I must respect them."

"Is that so?" the Exile Leader asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Belief or not, it's your choice," Grandma Tang replied calmly.

He pondered her words, then reached for the box. Grandma Tang quickly snapped it shut. "Complete the task first."

"Tch", annoyed, the Exile Leader muttered, "Cheapskate," but relented. "Fine. I'll say the job is done, but one of my men will stay behind to collect payment." He stood, preparing to leave, and glanced back at her. "Where is he?"

Grandma Tang gestured towards a twisted, wuthered tree situated in the centre of a lake, more precisely at the stream flowing down from a hilltop, merging into the lake. "Follow the upstream," she instructed. "He's there, letting cattle graze and fishing by the riverbank."

With that, the Exile Leader left the hut, casting a final glance at the stream flowing from the storm-darkened mountain. "One of you stay here. The rest, follow me," he commanded sharply.

As his men dispersed, he added, "Let's hunt a Shepherd, shall we?" His subordinates nodded and followed, their figures soon vanishing into the forest uphill.

Uphill, in a lush area where cattle grazed, a boy with navy hair and pale yellow eyes sat by the riverbank, fishing. He glanced up as the sky darkened with thick, brooding clouds, signalling an approaching storm.

'Hmm, I need to head back before the rain starts,' he thought, glancing nervously at the darkening sky. 

As he prepared to reel in his line, a disturbance in the river caught his eye—a man in a hazardous mask and dark leather jacket. Panic surged inside him as the thought struck: 'An Exile?'

Before he could react, the Exile moved with brutal efficiency, his blade flashing in a deadly arc and slashing deep into the boy's neck. The boy collapsed, blood mingling with the river's gentle current as his vision dimmed. Thunder rumbled closer, and the first raindrops began to fall.

The Exile stood over the boy, his mask hiding any trace of emotion. The other Exiles gathered around, their dark forms silhouetted against the darkening sky.

"Task's done," one said, glancing at the boy's lifeless body with grim satisfaction. "He was easy."

Another Exile adjusted his gear. "We should get back to base before the storm gets worse. The payment's next."

The leader nodded. "Let's collect our payment and leave. Make sure everything's in order. We don't want any complications."

"Yes, sir," the rest responded.

As the Exiles conversed, their voices grew muffled and distant. The boy's vision dimmed, his consciousness slipping away as he lay by the riverbank. His last coherent thought was a desperate plea for understanding, his gaze locked on the mingling of his blood with the river water.

The first raindrop fell from the darkened sky, landing gently on his face. The cool caress of the rain stood in stark contrast to his seething blood, rousing him from slumber as the sole sun vanished behind the gathering clouds. The storm's arrival felt like a cruel twist of fate—*Drip*

'What is this? ' questioned the boy, or rather, a consciousness, as he attempted to move.

An Exile, observing the boy's sudden movement with cold detachment, remarked, "Oh, this punk is still alive?"

The boy's eyes, wide with fear, confusion, and a deep sense of betrayal, searched the unfamiliar faces around him.

As the rain slowly descended, each drop served as a poignant reminder that the world he once knew was fading, morphing into an unrecognizable new reality.

Struggling to grasp his surroundings, he thought, 'Where is this place? '

Amidst the storm and his muddled thoughts, one question pierced through the haze: 'Who am I? '

As heavy fog clouded his mind, unfamiliar faces loomed above him. He tried to speak, to ask where he was, but...

"..." No words came.

Instead, a sharp, searing pain tore through his throat. Instinctively, his trembling hand shot to his neck.

The warmth he felt was unmistakable. Wet. Sticky. Pulling his hand away, the sight of his blood replaced confusion with dread.

'What's happening? ' Panic surged through him. His heart raced, and his hands trembled. But through the haze of fear and pain, one terrible truth crystallized: the masked figures standing before him were not there to help. They were his enemies.

'I need to escape,' the boy thought, panic surging through him as he frantically searched for a way out. The weight of the situation pressed heavily on him, driving him to act purely on instinct.

Just as he prepared to move, a masked assailant approached menacingly. Reacting before fully grasping the danger, the boy's fist struck the man's solar plexus. The impact was brutal, sending the attacker crumpling to the ground, gasping for breath.

In one swift motion, the boy grabbed the man's fallen weapon and drove the blade into the assailant's heart. As the first assailant fell, a profound silence ensued, with the remaining attackers standing in shock, frozen in disbelief.

Yet, it didn't prevail for long. The leader's voice shattered the stillness. "What are you doing? Get him!" The command jolted the remaining assailants into action.

Overwhelmed, the boy's eyes blazed with desperation. He dropped the weapon, his grip slack, and sprinted downstream. Each stride was fueled by adrenaline, his body a blur of motion. He didn't look back, driven solely by the urgent need to escape.

*splash-thud—splash-thud*

The rhythm of his footsteps and the pounding of his heart were the only sounds he could hear as he fled, determined to put as much distance between himself and his pursuers as possible.

Racing downstream, the boy's eyes darted for anything that might aid his escape. Amid the chaos, he spotted an old farmer's scythe against a weathered post. The weapon felt oddly familiar, stirring an unspoken connection within him.

Urgency surged through the boy as he seized the scythe. The moment his fingers gripped the handle, a spectral glow—greyish-black with streaks of white—began to emanate from his neck. The eerie light bathed the scythe, endowing it with an otherworldly presence.

The assailants, relentless in their pursuit, were closing in. But with the scythe in hand, the boy's movements became a deadly dance. As they closed in, the boy's instinct surged, and he hurled the scythe toward them.

Each strike was precise and chillingly graceful, the blade slicing through the air with a fluidity that belied his confusion. The scythe seemed to guide itself, driven by his desperation and the eerie power enveloping him.

One by one, the attackers fell, their attempts to capture him thwarted by the scythe's unexpected ferocity. The weapon, animated by the boy's frantic energy and the ghostly glow, cleaved through his enemies with a life of its own.

Yet despite his fierce defence, the chase continued. The remaining assailants, though fewer, pressed on with renewed fervour.

One assailant, breathing heavily and grimly determined, shouted, "Got you!" just before a decisive—*slash*—of the scythe silenced him. And his form collapsed into the churned blood of the stream.

Another attacker, fierce and commanding, barked, "You cannot run!" but was cut short by another sharp—*slash*. The scythe's precision ended his pursuit and added to the pool of fallen adversaries.

A third assailant, his frustration boiling, yelled, "Stop running, dammit!" Yet, his command was met with a vicious—*slash*—from the boy's scythe. The attacker fell, joining the others in the grim procession.

Each clash pushed the boy deeper into the shadows. The Exiles' cries resonated with each of his movements, a lethal ballet where every stroke altered the balance of fate.

As the boy fought, the scythe cleaved through his enemies, their blood mixing with the stream's flow. The water darkened and thickened, transforming into a grim procession of molten crimson.

The stream, rejuvenated by the blood, roared with renewed energy. Dark clouds expanded, stretching across the land and enveloping the world in their shadow.

As the final assailant collapsed, their leader arrived at the scene, surveying all his subordinates lying lifeless on the river, his rage shimmered. "YOU BASTARD!" he bellowed, his voice echoing with fury.

'I'll purge Yáng Niú village after this,' he internally seethed, already planning his next act of vengeance. The leader vowed to destroy the village where Grandma Tang lived once he dealt with the now-gasping boy.

Exhausted and gasping, the boy faced the leader with a mix of fear and desperation. His body shook, and his eyes silently pleaded. "Please don't hurt me," his lips moved in mute desperation, but no sound emerged.

'Ugh,' the boy recoiled in pain. The ache in his throat was a stark reminder of his inability to speak, and the burden of his silent plea weighed heavily upon him. Meanwhile, observing him, the leader's fury seemed only to simmer until it finally burst forth.

"RAAGH!"

Blinded by rage, the Exile leader charged at the boy. Despite his fatigue, the boy met the assault with fierce determination. The scythe flashed in the dim light, slicing through the air with deadly precision. Their weapons clashed in a whirlwind of steel and sparks.

The boy's movements were fluid and instinctual, each swing a desperate defence. The leader, relentless and calculated, pushed the boy into a defensive stance. Their struggle intensified, with the leader's strength overwhelming the boy.

In a decisive moment, the leader shattered the boy's scythe, the pieces scattering. In the process, however, he also destroyed his own blade.

The battle continued unabated, with the boy's breathing growing more laboured as he struggled to remain upright.

'Kugh!' the boy staggered. A wave of dizziness struck him. A sign of exhaustion which did not escape the notice of the exiled leader.

Seizing the moment, the leader grabbed the boy by the skull, lifting him off the ground with a cruel grip. The boy twisted and struggled, his eyes a mix of fear and defiance, hands reaching up to pry the leader's fingers away.

As the boy's hands fought to escape the Exile leader's grasp, a faint greyish glow emanating from a Tacet mark on his neck caught the leader's eye. Observing the mark, his expression shifted from anger to realization. "A resonator?" he murmured.

"Tch," he clicked his tongue in annoyance, noticing the boy's weak resonance. "Such a weakling made me lose all my subordinates. I will crush his skull."He resolved, tightening his grip, mustering more strength behind it.

*Grip*

Yet, the boy clamped down on the leader's forearm with surprising strength, just before he could deliver the final blow. The leader's eyes widened in shock as pain surged through his arm.

He struggled to understand this unexpected strength, frustration mounting as he wondered, 'Exactly what did that old hag commission us to fight against? '

Meanwhile, in Yáng Niú village, Grandma Tang navigated a small boat across a lake to a desolate land marked by a withering tree. She disembarked, thanked the boatman, and approached the dying tree. Softly, she murmured, "Will you save that child once again?"

To be continued...