Tale of a Hedonistic wizard

Then, without warning, several red dots—flaming meteors—pierced through the clouds, falling toward the earth like omens from the gods themselves.

Jaegar noticed them and said, "What is that?"n/ô/vel/b//jn dot c//om

The meteors streaked across the sky, casting long shadows over the field.

Jaegar felt a rush of adrenaline surge through him as the fiery orbs drew closer and closer to the ground. It was as if the very heavens were raining destruction upon them.

Angelina's eyes narrowed her expression one of deep concern.

***

Somewhere far away in the northern part, the sky was ablaze with falling stars—no, not stars, but meteors. Fiery trails of destruction streaked down from the heavens, each one landing with a deafening roar, sending shockwaves across the land. The once-mighty mountain that stood tall over the lands had been utterly ravaged.

Lava-like flames spewed from deep cracks in the earth; the ground burnt and scarred as if the gods themselves had smote it. The air was thick with the scent of ash and sulphur, and the wind howled, carrying the distant echoes of the world's torment.

And yet, amidst the chaos and ruin, a lone figure stood—unbowed.

The young man was weathered, his face marked by the trials of his long journey. His clothes were torn and tattered, barely clinging to his lean frame. His once-dark hair hung in dishevelled strands, matted with dirt, sweat, and blood. He gripped a sword tightly in his hand, its blade gleaming faintly against the darkening horizon, as though it, too, sensed the divine power in the air.

He had crossed the great five seas and battled the horrors of the six treacherous mountains, all to stand here, in this desolate place, surrounded by fire and destruction. His chest heaved with the weight of his exhaustion, yet his gaze remained fixed ahead, unwavering.

There was a purpose here, one that transcended his mortal understanding—a force that pulled him forward, beckoning him toward his destiny.

The meteors rained down, but they did not touch him.

Where the earth cracked and burnt, where stones turned to molten rock, he stood untouched, protected by something far beyond himself. His eyes gleamed with a quiet determination as he sank to one knee, his sword planted firmly into the scorched ground beneath him.

It was then that the heavens shifted.

In the blink of an eye, a portal formed before him—an ethereal, swirling mass of light and shadow. Its edges shimmered with hues of silver and gold, and from within, an old man emerged, dressed in robes of deep citrine.

His robe was rich and elegant, adorned with cryptic symbols embroidered into the fine fabric that hung from his shoulders to his waist. There was an aura of immense power around him, ancient and wise, like one who had seen the rise and fall of empires.

Behind him, several armoured figures stepped forward—each clad in armour of canary yellow, their gleaming helmets obscuring their faces. Their armour shimmered like the sun itself, an almost blinding brilliance amidst the darkness of the scene.

The old man's steps were slow and deliberate as he approached the young man. His weathered face, lined with age, held a calm authority.

He stood before the kneeling figure, his gaze soft but unreadable, as though weighing the immense significance of this moment.

The armoured men, their presence imposing, bowed low in unison as the old man raised his hand.

"We greet the light, Daunblad," the old man spoke, his voice resonant and deep, a sound that seemed to echo through the very earth. His eyes flicked to the sword in the young man's hand, a glimmer of recognition flashing across his features. "The bearer of the Xeborh."

The young man's grip on the sword tightened instinctively. This was the blade of legends, said to be crafted by the divine smiths of the Hyliejorrt, a relic that had passed through the hands of heroes.

The ground beneath them still burnt with the remnants of the meteor strike, and the skies still smouldered with crimson fire, but in the presence of the old man and his retinue, there was a strange calm.

The young man said nothing, still kneeling, still clutching the hilt of the Xeborh. He felt the weight of destiny settle on his shoulders like a mantle, heavy yet fitting. This was the moment he had been preparing for his entire life.

Every step, every trial, every sacrifice had led to this.

"The Xeborh recognizes you as its master," the old man said softly, his voice filled with reverence. "And with it, you will lead the armies of the heavens against the encroaching darkness."

One of the armoured men stepped forward, his canary-yellow armour catching the light of the dying meteors. He held a banner—a symbol of the divine, its gold threads woven into the shape of a blazing sun surrounded by stars. He planted it into the earth beside the young man, a declaration of the celestial forces now aligned with him.

The old man's hand reached out, resting lightly on the young man's bowed head. "Rise, child of light. The time has come."

With a slow, deliberate movement, the young man stood, pulling the Xeborh from the scorched ground.

***

Back at the farmhouse, Jaegar and Angelina stood side by side, staring in the direction of the horizon where the meteors had vanished. The crimson sky, still faintly lit by the aftermath, left a heavy sense of foreboding.

"Heavens' will..." she breathed, her eyes filled with a dawning realization.

"What?" Jaegar asked.

Angelina, with her sharp, calculated gaze. "It's the dawn of the seeds of fate."

"The seeds of fate? What are they?"

Angelina stood quietly for a moment, watching the fading trails in the sky; her thoughts clouded with the implications of what they had witnessed. She could sense Jaegar's unease, his confusion mixing with the remnants of awe from what he had seen.

Turning to him, she softened her tone, though her words carried the same weight of the revelations to come.