The old man lay on his sickbed, his breath shallow, his voice thin but steady. His rough hands, calloused not from battle but from a lifetime of farming, trembled slightly as he spoke. The faint evening light cast long shadows on the wooden walls, as though the room itself leaned in to listen.
"Humans have always been a ferocious race," he began, his eyes distant, reliving memories only he could see. "Always struggling, always fighting to survive, to thrive. Yet, for all our ambition, we have been equally ruthless and cruel."
He paused, his chest heaving, then continued, his voice growing softer. "They say we were made in God's image. That He, weary of His solitude, crafted us in an attempt to create another like Himself, The True Divine. We are relentless, iron-willed just like him. To us, He gave the gift of Mana and authority to command it."
As the old man spoke, the mischievous boy sitting by his side watched intently, absorbing each word as if it were precious. The boy's wide eyes reflected the flickering lamplight, glowing with a hunger for the stories of old.
"From that moment, aiming to meet his creator, to ease his loneliness and as an act of utmost devotion" the old man went on, "humans have sought ascension. To rise beyond mortality, to stand shoulder to shoulder with the divine. Many have reached close to that godhood. But none succeeded."
His frail fingers gripped the edge of the blanket as he recalled their fates. "Those closest to accession all perished. They gave their lives so others might live. They cast aside immortality, ambitions, their very lives for others. Some severed their own ambitions with the very swords they wielded to defend us. Others drowned their desires in the arcane, sacrificing their dreams for the sake of humanity."
The boy leaned forward, captivated. In his youthful mind, these distant heroes came alive giants among men who bore burdens far beyond their years.
"We call them many names," the old man whispered, his voice now almost a breath. "Defenders. Guardians. Angels of the Lord. Fools who dared too much. Meddlers who strayed where they should not. But no matter the name, there is one truth we all agree upon: they were heroes."
For a fleeting moment, the old man's eyes gleamed with the spark of his own long-abandoned dreams visions of adventures he never took, battles never fought, a love never found. The boy saw it, the brief return of vigor in those dim eyes, and something within him ignited. The boy bargained for the light inthe eyes of the old man with nothing to offer but the youthful dreams of a child called delusional by the village.
The old man noticed the light in the boy's gaze, brighter than his own had ever been. And in that moment, as if passing a torch, he let go. His eyes gently closed, a peaceful smile settling on his lips. The mischievous boy, who would one day change the world and become a mystery himself, sat in silence, the weight of the story settling into his heart.