The Invincible Young Master

Harmony… Peace… Power… These three things defined the domain of the gods, the peak of strength, the highest realm of existence.

That was until the Flood came.

Strange, mindless creatures began to emerge from an abyss. Tentacles, countless and writhing, stretched endlessly from these beings, each one as strong as the divinities themselves.

They came like a relentless tide. Unstoppable. Endless.

That event was called the Flood, a world-ending catastrophe that devoured everything.

Not even the divine beings, who stood above all, worshipped and revered, were spared.

Divinities fell. Entire realms crumbled.

The God's domain, once untouchable, was torn apart.

In the clash of immortals and gods, it was the mortals who suffered the most. The pain and loss they endured went beyond words.

The divine beings, once the protectors of mortals, could do nothing against this overwhelming force. Mortal lives were lost in numbers too great to comprehend.

But in this dark time, a mortal boy, just one among many, began to rise.

Slowly, he gained the attention of the divinities.

He grew in strength, and eventually, he became one of them. He led the charge against the Flood, uniting the divinities under one banner.

The war raged for ages, but with the help of a secret treasure forged by the combined power of all divinities, they sealed the abyss and forever stopped the Flood.

"Why did the Flood come?" a young boy asked, his voice cutting through the quiet that had settled over the square. "What did they want?"

The storyteller, an old man with a wry smile, chuckled softly. His voice was deep, almost playful.

"Ah, young one," he replied, his eyes twinkling, "that's a tale for another day."

The crowd groaned, some laughing at the storyteller's clever way of dodging the question.

Most of them were young adventurers, scholars, and curious townsfolk, leaning in to hear more.

The boy who asked, however, wasn't so easily satisfied. "But-" Continue reading on M-V-L

"Patience," the storyteller interrupted with a gentle smile. "Every story has its pace. The answers will come... if you're willing to wait."

As the glow stones brightened with the deepening night, the crowd began to scatter, their heads still filled with visions of divinities, floods, and mortal boys becoming legends in times of despair.

The old storyteller watched them leave, his eyes still sparkling with untold secrets.

With a sigh, he weighed the pouch of coins in his hand, his mind already drifting to the next story he would tell.

His hands moved slowly as he folded the worn fabric of his traveling pack, each motion deliberate and unhurried.

The faint light from the glowstones cast shadows on his weathered face, making him seem like a part of the quiet night. His body, slightly hunched with age, carried the weight of countless years and endless stories.

It wasn't until he sensed a change in the stillness of the square that he noticed a figure nearby.

Without raising his head, he muttered under his breath, "…It's you."

Standing just beyond the glowstone's light was a striking youth. His purple hair shimmered like the evening sky, and his pristine white robes, embroidered with intricate patterns, marked him as someone of wealth and status, a far cry from an ordinary traveler.

As he continued packing, the youth stepped closer, his movements careful and respectful.

"Old sir, do you recognize me?" His tone was polite, his voice soft but confident.

The old man only gave a quiet grunt of acknowledgment. "Hm."

"I am Zarak, a disciple of the Serene Sky Holy Land," the youth introduced himself, pride evident in his voice, though he remained humble. "My master has spoken of you."

Another "Hm" was all the response Zarak received, as the old man kept packing, unimpressed by titles or lineage.

"Master said," Zarak continued, "that you're a storyteller who travels the world, sharing unique tales that are filled with wisdom, with truths few dare to tell."

The old man muttered another noncommittal sound, not particularly moved by the praise.

Zarak, undeterred, continued. "Tonight, after hearing your story of the Flood and the divine battles, I feel as if my eyes have been opened. Those stories are unlike anything I've ever heard."

At this, the old storyteller finally stopped.

Slowly, he turned to face Zarak, his eyes deep and unreadable. For a long moment, he said nothing, simply studying the young man with a look that revealed little.

Finally, in a low, rough voice, the old man spoke. "You seem to be someone who enjoys stories."

Zarak nodded slightly, offering a respectful bow. "Yes, old sir. Stories are more than words; they hold truths, lessons, and even warnings."

The old man nodded, his gaze still fixed on the young man.

"That's true," he said. "But remember, stories are only fragments of the truth. They rarely show the whole picture."

Zarak's smile faltered, sensing something deeper in the old man's words. "What do you mean by that?"

"It's not something you need to worry about," the old storyteller replied, brushing the question aside. But after a pause, he added thoughtfully, "Though I'm going against my own principles by saying this… I'll give you a bit of advice. The thing you're searching for, it's not here."

Zarak blinked, caught off guard. "Not here?"

"Leave this place." The old man warned.

Zarak stood frozen under the dim glow of the flickering light, the old storyteller's cryptic words still ringing in his mind.

As the old man's footsteps echoed into the night, they seemed louder than anything else in the quiet square.

Confusion clouded Zarak's thoughts, torn between wanting to chase after the old man for more answers and not knowing where he should go next.

"Leave… but where?" Zarak muttered to himself, his brow creasing with uncertainty.

He reached inside his robes, pulling out a small crystal that shimmered faintly in the glowstone's light.

Narrowing his eyes, he stared at it, waiting for some kind of reaction. But the crystal remained still, dull, and lifeless in his palm. His heart sank.

"This crystal brought me here... and now it's no longer glowing," he whispered.

The crystal had been a sacred item, entrusted to him by the Holy Lord of the Serene Sky Holy Land.

Its sole purpose was to guide him to the one he sought, the girl. It had led him here, to the Dwight state in this mortal empire.

But now, its light had faded, and his target was nowhere to be found.

Zarak clenched his fist around the crystal, trying to contain the frustration building beneath his calm exterior.

The seal was weakening, and time was running out. The fate of the Holy Land and perhaps this empire depended on him finding her before it was too late.

Zarak tucked the crystal back into his pocket and hurried after the old storyteller, who was now almost disappearing into the shadows.

"Wait!" Zarak called out, desperation creeping into his voice. "Old sir, wait!"

The old man's pace slowed, and after a moment, he stopped.

He turned to face Zarak, his expression calm.

He remained silent as Zarak approached, panting slightly but maintaining composure.

"Where should I go, then?" Zarak asked, urgency in his voice. "If what I seek isn't here, where can I find it? Please, old sir, tell me."

The old storyteller studied Zarak for a long, quiet moment, his gaze piercing as though he could see beyond the young man's questions. Finally, with a soft sigh, he spoke.

"Follow me," the old man said in a low voice. "Perhaps, along the way, you will find what you're searching for."

Zarak blinked, surprised by the offer. "Follow you? Where?"

"To the Imperial Capital,"