NOVEL NEXT Chapter 3: We Who Care We Who Suffer
A gentle, motherly voice echoed around him. The boy found himself transformed, his body reverting to that of an infant in the arms of a warm, nurturing woman. She cradled him close, her gaze tender. Removing her breast from her robes, she offered it to him, but he cried, struggling against her touch. Undeterred, she began to hum, her voice soft and soothing as she rocked him. Her song was haunting, the lyrics laden with sorrow.
"We who suffer most carry the future within us," she sang, her voice heavy. "We who love without reservation bear the world's hatred in our wombs, drawing forth suffering as we nurture. How deeply we care, even as it compounds our suffering."
The boy's cries subsided, and slowly, he latched onto her breast, drinking in the warmth of her presence. Her song continued, and the boy listened, his heart aching. He could hear the cries of countless children mingling with her voice, each note stirring something deep within him. All he could see was his mother's face, veiled in sorrow. He couldn't make out her features clearly, but he saw her suffering, felt the weight of her love. Overwhelmed, he joined her song, his small voice forceful but filled with tender conviction.
"We who suffer the most, love the most," he sang. "We who care deeply, love deeply."
The woman smiled and continued to rock him, her melody blending with his, until the boy drifted into a peaceful slumber. She whispered, "Who is next?"
From behind her, a man with a hammer called out, "I'll take him." He reached for the boy, leaving only a hammer in his tiny left hand, which quickly faded into his grip.
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The rhythmic sound of hammer strikes rang out—*Ting! Ting! Ting!*—and the heat of a raging fire stirred the boy from his slumber. Opening his eyes, he found himself in a smithy, surrounded by flames and metal. Across from him stood a short, burly man, hammering away at a red-hot sword with an intensity that radiated through the workshop. The boy noticed patterns in the strikes, feeling the rhythm as though it were another song.
The man placed the sword back in the flames and looked at the boy, motioning toward the bellows. The boy moved to it instinctively, pumping air into the flames until the heat intensified. With a gruff nod, the smith signaled him to stop and pulled out a six-foot-long greatsword, its metal glowing a fierce red. In his hand, the boy felt a hammer appear. He struck quickly, but the man scoffed, pulling the sword away, then resumed hammering with controlled, deliberate blows.
"Metal has no enemies, boy," the smith intoned, not looking up. "Steel sees no status. It has no master, and no king commands it. Not even the smith truly dominates the metal."
Before the boy could respond, a booming laugh erupted from behind him, and a massive fist sent him flying through the air.
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The boy landed in a sprawling arena, dazed. As he struggled to his feet, he saw a towering figure with a giant axe and bare chest standing before him. "Come now, boy!" the warrior bellowed. "Choose a weapon, and fight!"
Weapons materialized around him, and the boy instinctively grabbed a sword. But as he raised it, the man's fist shattered it with one blow, sending him flying once more.
The boy groaned, frustration building. He reached out again, his fingers closing around an axe handle. "An axe, huh?" the warrior mused, charging at him once more. But before the boy could swing, the axe shattered, and he was sent sprawling once again.
Determined, the boy scanned the arena and spotted a red-hot greatsword. Without hesitation, he grabbed the burning blade, letting out a scream as the searing metal scorched his hands. But he held firm, locking eyes with the warrior as he raised the sword. The man's laughter turned into a fierce roar, and he charged again.
The boy met his charge, his scream turning into a defiant war cry as he swung the heavy sword. Their weapons clashed, and this time, the sword held. The boy dodged as the warrior swung an axe toward his head, barely avoiding the deadly blow. A loud clang echoed as their weapons met, sending sparks flying.
With a laugh, the warrior stopped, grabbing the boy by the shoulder to steady him. "Good fight, boy. Remember, we do not fight to kill; we fight to fight. There is no honor, no justice in battle—only the fight itself. Do not let them fool you. Never let them glorify your fighting."
With that, the arena faded, and darkness engulfed him.
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A voice came from the darkness, calm and wise. "Don't worry, boy. He means well. Our world is not peaceful. Many say they fight in our name, but they only justify their own depravity. War, pillaging, suffering—they flourish in our lands. We watched, powerless to intervene… until you came along."
The boy recognized the voice as the one who had called him "Prince of the Lost" before. "You know hate, suffering, and fear as few do," the voice continued. "We do not ask you to change humanity. Teach them. Teach them to fear something beyond one another."
Silence fell, wrapping him in its stillness. Finally, the boy spoke, his voice thoughtful. "Humans are complex. We build and destroy, love and hate. But we're blinded by ambition, clouded by revenge. You ask me to go down there and change them—"
The voice chuckled softly. "No, child. We do not expect you to change them. We ask only that you teach them what you know. Show them what lies beyond fear, beyond hate. The world teeters on the brink, haunted by an army of the dead. Let the living fear that which is beyond them, and perhaps… they will learn to fear each other less."
The boy nodded, understanding at last. In the darkness, he could no longer see or speak. There was only silence, vast and profound.