Chains of the Godslayer

The world was cruel, indifferent, and unyielding—lessons he learned before he could speak. The old man who saved him offered no comfort, only purpose. His voice was sharp as steel, his teachings harsher still, carving strength and survival into the boy's fragile body.

"You were abandoned by fate, cursed by the heavens," the old man would say, his gaze cold and unflinching. "You owe this world nothing. If you want freedom, carve it out with your strength."

By six years old, the boy could crush stones with his hands. By eight, he could hunt beasts with nothing but a dull blade. But these victories came at a cost. The invisible chains of the curse pulsed beneath his skin, each success met with a punishment—pain so sharp it felt like his soul would tear apart. Yet he endured, his will growing sharper with each trial.

The curse was both his tormentor and his greatest teacher. It made every breath, every movement, a struggle, but it also forced him to surpass limits others never dreamed of.

"A shackle that bites the hardest," the old man once said, "is the one that forces you to grow."

---

The boy knew nothing of family or love. His memories began in the forest, beneath the old man's unrelenting gaze. The only warmth he knew came from the fire they built each night—a flickering light in a world of shadows.

On his ninth birthday, the old man led him deep into the wilderness. They walked for hours until they reached a clearing. At its center stood a tree unlike any other, its gnarled branches stretching skyward like grasping hands. Its bark was blackened and cracked, as though it had been struck by lightning countless times.

"This," the old man said, his voice low and reverent, "is the Tree of Wills. It grows only where the heavens have been defied. Its roots drink rebellion; its branches thrive on defiance. Today, you will plant your own."

The boy furrowed his brow, confusion flickering across his face. Before he could ask what the old man meant, his chest erupted in pain.

He collapsed to his knees, gasping for air as golden light erupted from his body. The chains of the curse, dormant for years, awakened violently. They tightened around his soul, squeezing until it felt like his very existence would shatter.

The boy's screams echoed through the clearing. The chains burned like molten iron under his skin, their glowing patterns searing his flesh from the inside out. His vision blurred, the world reduced to a haze of agony.

"Good," the old man said, stepping back. His voice was calm, almost detached. "Let it crush you. Let it burn. And when you think you can't take it anymore, fight."

The boy clawed at the ground, his nails splitting against the dirt. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth as he bit his lip to keep from crying out again. The chains tightened further, coiling around his spirit like a noose.

"You're more than the curse," the old man said, his words cutting through the haze of pain. "You're the spark that will burn it away. Prove it."

A distant voice whispered at the edge of the boy's mind, faint but unyielding. "Stand… or kneel forever."

The boy screamed, his cry raw and guttural, as he pushed himself up inch by inch. His arms trembled, his muscles straining under the invisible weight. The chains resisted, their grip tightening with every movement, but he refused to fall.

Minutes passed like hours. His vision darkened, but the whisper grew louder, drowning out the pain. With one final surge of strength, he slammed his fist into the ground.

The earth split beneath him, a shockwave rippling through the clearing. The chains shuddered, their grip loosening for the first time. The pain receded, leaving his body trembling but free.

The old man's lips curled into a faint smile. "That's enough for today. But remember, boy—chains don't shatter all at once. They break piece by piece, link by link."

The boy collapsed to the ground, his body too weak to move, but his eyes burned with a new light. He looked up at the Tree of Wills, its ancient branches swaying in the wind, and made a silent vow.

"One day," he thought, "I'll break every chain."

---

That night, the old man handed him a small, rusted blade. Its edge was dull, its hilt cracked, clearly no weapon for a warrior.

"This is yours now," the old man said, his tone grave. "A blade is a reflection of its wielder. This one's weak, dull, and fragile—just like you. But with time and effort, even the dullest blade can cut through the heavens."

The boy stared at the blade, its weight heavy in his small hands. He didn't know if the old man's words were true, but he swore to prove them right.

As he sat by the fire, the wind carried the faint scent of ash and blood. The old man's gaze drifted to the sky, where distant stars shimmered like shards of broken glass.

"They'll come for you one day," the old man said, almost to himself. "The heavens don't leave loose ends. But when they do, you'll be ready."

The boy didn't respond, but a flicker of rebellion burned in his eyes.

"I'll take a name," he thought. "Not today, not yet. But one day, when I'm strong enough, I'll carve it into the heavens for everyone to see."