"A regrettable war, indeed."
"I was wondering if there would soon be prayers for those who died without their bodies being sent to the Gods."
"Yes… we had planned one to celebrate the arrival of the Missi Dominici."
"I fear that the explosion might have caused trouble for Nirl and his fighters… I pray for them every day, but the order of the Gods is so deep that it is impossible for us to even glimpse it…"
"My deepest condolences. Would you like a few prayers to be personally dedicated to them?"
"I would prefer to wait a little longer… just in case they come back."
"Of course."
"Life is sometimes so strange…" said Louis. "Some friends told me the Missi Dominici will soon come here, to check if everything is in order, and I began wondering what such people might think… those whose energy fills their entire being?"
"I'm sure you'll find them admirable."
"I hope so… it'll be my first time meeting them. My parents never wanted me to see them. Life goes by so fast… I want to pay them homage."
"Certainly."
They spoke for a while, and soon they found themselves in front of a notary, with witnesses, to ratify a property donation in exchange for masses said for his family and the people of Nirl.
That very evening, Louis returned to Nirl. He went directly to the inhabitants of the lands he had donated and told them:
"These lands now belong to Priest Tiuop, under the same customs. For the next time, the goods will need to be sent to Cleppé.
""But Cleppé is so far away," they said. "The journey will take us all day."
"Then continue giving them to me, and I will send them to him. Nothing will change for you, but you must remember that the master of these lands is now Priest Tiuop of Cleppé."
He returned home and sat down with a sigh.
"Thankfully, I made it back in time. It's always hard to pick the right moment in summer."
He sat cross-legged on his bed, closed his eyes, and felt the pure energy around him. It was everywhere, warm. He could sense it, but could only move a small part of it. It resisted, trembled, as if it had a will of its own. With enough force, one could rip it out and draw it in.
Soon, a current of pure energy entered his energy center, though much of it was lost along the way.
Louis continued for long minutes, and his eyes twitched. He eventually had to open them, his head aching. He breathed heavily, eyes wide, beads of sweat dripping from his flushed forehead. When he finally caught his breath, he wrote a few lines in his notebook about his energy state and the day's context.
Then, he opened the pouch that had contained the now-empty energy spheres and pulled out a batch of spheres filled with pure energy.
He took one, cupped it in both hands, and closed his eyes. A much more accessible energy entered his body—almost pre-digested—flowing in easily. He guided it toward his energy center and used the newly acquired energy to blend it with his own.
The process lasted a long time before stopping. At that moment, the original energy flow vanished, but was replaced by tiny little currents flowing outward from his energy center.
Exhausted, he laughed nervously.
"Are these your messages? For me, who should never have inherited? Words weren't enough, nor was focus. Even energy flees from me! Why? What mission do you want to pass on to me? Do you want our village to grow weaker still?!"
He stared wide-eyed for a long moment, then whispered:
"Am I just a transition in history? A mere transition?!"
Nothing. No answer. Louis was pale. His eyes didn't move. He stood up calmly and headed downstairs.
He stopped near the hearth, slowly cleared the table of its objects, then pushed it aside. With a sweep of his hand, he pulled away the dusty rug, revealing a large hatch. He lifted it, wedged the notch with a stick, grabbed a lamp, and descended.
The lamp's glow lit up stone stairs, revealing here and there a few cracks. After a few dozen steps, he arrived. In front of him, a gloomy room. He stepped forward. The light revealed a figure—then it became clear: a giant statue of a former servant of a deity.
At the bottom, an altar, from which he removed a clay tablet in an ancient language.
[I, Charles, King of Dhorkar, of Cleppé and of Senguire, restored the temple of the God Senguire and expanded it.]
There were other inscriptions, but Louis ignored them. He ran his hand over the tablet sadly.
"Charles, you who at my age had already killed an emperor as a Knight, who once ruled one of the greatest empires in history, who held several countries, who restored so many temples throughout your reign. What were you trying to prove with this message?"
The ancient renovators used to leave tablets recounting their deeds at the bottom of the temple—for the next great renovator. A person who would not appear for generations, to receive a message that only one being and perhaps a few of their followers might ever see.
"What was that passion that drove you to show it to everyone? People still talk about you even now."
A faint smile seemed to brush Louis's lips."I was raised on your stories. My father would tell them by the fire on long evenings, to me and the others. My parents named me based on your traits. Many others used those stories to scare children off the bad paths of their ancestors... My first son was a great admirer of yours…
Everyone I shared those stories with is dead. And the killing will go on, until the last. Aren't we all doomed to die? But how can we accept such absurdity?"
He stayed silent for a long time.
"Is this thing in my head a demonic creature? Or an artifact? Would it even make a difference? They'd kill or enslave me if I were corrupted. They'd rob and kill me if it's an artifact… And how could I blame them? At the end of the day…"
His hair showed signs of greying. His sight was fading. His strength was slowly leaving him.Soon, he would be just a corpse.
He took the tablet in his hands, his gaze lowered and sharpened.
He imagined the rage building, impure energy emerging slowly from his hands, breaking the tablet into pieces. The splinters, the illegible text falling into oblivion—just like his life, like every man's life.
Why—why had they been granted a legacy, a story? Why was he just an observer?
His gaze turned cruel, then hollow.The sensation of touch returned.
He first felt the fragility of this trace before him, which had nonetheless survived generations. Then came his body, and his eyes widened as all the pain he had deliberately ignored came flooding back.
That simple truth that children could live without even noticing, now caused him pain to feel.
The scene felt surreal, his thoughts wild. Almost petrified, ashamed, he gently placed the tablet back and promised himself to make a box or case to protect it. Then, as if to protect it from himself, he turned his head away.
To his left, he saw a door. His eyes fixated, and his body trembled.
His body seemed to recall scenes from childhood, his mind lost in an abyss where neither thoughts nor memories passed.
He knew—and he wanted to ignore it. That was easier. That was the sweetest revenge.
And yet, to ignore death was to accept it.
That realization made, he hurried up the stairs and closed the hatch behind him. Soon, no trace of his entry could be seen by anyone who might enter his home.