Chapter Five — A Dream and an Evolution
Darkness pulsed like a heartbeat.
Then shapes bled into existence—blurry, wavering, as if painted on water.
The first sensation that reached Azeroth was wrongness—a suffocating nausea that curled in his gut—followed by pain as though his whole body was covered in cuts and bruises.
—indeed, it was. Old wounds layered over new ones, drawing a crude map of hurt along his hunger-thin skin.
Then came the chains.
Thick, cold, heavy chains that held him bound—wrists, ankles and neck all.
Figures encircled him, their faces indistinct, melting in and out of focus. They wore rough, primitive garments—animal hides stitched with crude twine, feathers braided into their hair, bone beads rattled softly whenever they moved.
"…the sacrifice…"
"…oh great one…"
"…bring him…"
Their voices overlapped in eerie, underwater echoes.
Azeroth wasn't quite sure if he was standing. Or lying. Or floating.
Nothing felt real.
Hands—too many hands—gripped him.
He couldn't see their fingers.
Only the impressions they left behind.
Cold. Callused. Rough with primitive life.
He was dragged toward a stone slab perched at the edge of a cliff.
Strange symbols crawled across its surface, glowing faintly. They writhed like living ink, shifting when he tried to focus on them.
Above, the sky churned violently.
Clouds twisted inward, spiraling toward a single point where moonlight poured down like a divine spotlight.
Something descended.
Something vast, oppressive and impossible.
Its presence bent the very atmosphere around itself. Its shadow stretched far beyond form, swallowing the world around it.
Every time he tried to focus on it, its form stuttered —
scales, smoke, glowing eyes, a vast maw—
Each detail flickered between clarity and abstraction.
And then—finally—it stabilized.
His thoughts froze.
It's… was dragon.
Understanding came to his mind uninvited.
This was a dream.
—it could only be a dream.
The dragon before him, Zorghum—an ancient beast worshipped as a god by the people of this land.
Each year, they offered it a sacrifice.
A living human.
This year—
Him.
The ground rumbled as it landed.
The air trembled, warping like fabric pulled too tight, stretching the scenery until it dissolved and reformed again—reminding him that this was only a dream.
But as if to contradict that,
The heat of its breath washed over him—hot enough to scorch, cold enough to freeze.
That should have been impossible.
He tried to speak—
but no sound left his mouth.
The dragon leaned closer.
Its eyes, golden and depthless stabilized for a heartbeat.
Just one.
Then the jaws opened —
darkness rushed forward—
And swallowed him whole.
——————
Azeroth jolted awake with a tiny gasp, heart hammering wildly inside his infant chest.
He sat up, eyes wide open in fear. the fading echoes of the dream clinging to him like cobwebs.
Only, it didn't feel like a dream at all.
Dreams didn't leave your soul trembling in dread.
If he had to describe, he would say it felt more like a memory than anything else.
Especially the moment when the dragon's gaze solidified, he could have sworn those eyes were looking at him with disdain.
Before he could unravel his racing thoughts, the door opened.
"Oh hey, sleepyhead. You finally decided to wake up, huh?"
His older sister—Alina, stepped in with a bright smile.
Azeroth blinked toward the window.
Evening light painted the room gold and shadow.
His grandfather had visited in the early hours of the morning which meant he slept the whole day.
He turned back toward his sister—and found her frozen with her mouth open and eyes wide open.
He looked down on himself, only then did he notice he was 'sitting'.
Not wobbling or tilting, nor was he propped.
Sitting.
Strength hummed under his skin. His tiny limbs felt... more alive. More responsive. He raised his hands, moving them about slowly.
They trembled, but still obeyed.
He pushed himself upright trying to stand but his body protested greatly and his bones felt like they were lined with lead. Yet, he pushed through with great will and was succeeding.
He might have—
If his sister hadn't screamed.
"MOM!"
He flinched, lost balance, and toppled backward like a startled turtle.
———
Years passed.
Seasons shifted.
And Azeroth grew.
Seven years later—
In the training hall—the same hall where he'd first watched soldiers in awe—a young boy swung a wooden sword lined with faint, glowing sigils.
Each movement flowed into the next—clean, swift, heavy with purpose.
Sweat dripped from his bare torso. His breathing was measured, controlled, being only slightly strained.
Suddenly he froze.
The air stilled, as though holding its breath.
A shockwave burst from his body—an invisible pulse that rattled the walls and sent dust scattering.
Soldiers turned toward him, wide-eyed.
"By the legends..."
"Did he just—?"
"Monster...."
Azeroth barely heard them.
White aura burst from his body, roaring like wildfire. And in the depths of his being, something impossible began taking shape.
His eyes snapped open.
The aura surged brighter.
He moved.
The wooden sword carved through the air in a blur, dragging a gust of wind behind it. His steps grew lighter, faster, until he danced—a deadly, beautiful rhythm. Ferocious strikes flowed seamlessly into graceful arcs, the air parting with ease as though the world's energy itself resonated with each movement.
The spectating soldiers gradually fell into a trance as they watched.
When he finally stopped, the hall was silent.
The soldiers finally snapped out of their daze and rushed forward.
"Young master—congratulations on your evolution!"
"Truly unbelievable—!"
"Mon—"
He waved them off with a wide grin. He couldn't help it—he too was in a great mood.
That was when a massive man shoved through the crowd.
"HOHO! Well done, brat! You finally pulled it off!" his booming voice echoed.
Azeroth winced and clapped his hands over his ears. "Uncle Bran, can you not yell directly into my soul?"
Bran ignored him completely — obviously heard it, yet choosing not to care.
Classic Bran.
"Quick," Bran said instead, eyes gleaming, "check your status! Let's see what trait you awakened!"
Azeroth rolled his eyes at the man's childish excitement—but complied.
With a soft mental tug, a semi-transparent panel shimmered into existence before him.
And then—
He froze.
———
[STATUS]
Name: #######
Race: #######
Age: 7
Rank: common (low)
Trait: absolute
Sub-trait: devour
—————
[STATS]
Physique: 0.2
Soul: 0.5
———
Azeroth's mind blanked.
This wasn't normal.
Not even remotely.
First off, what happened to his name and race?
Why were they just in static?
And what's with his trait? And what even was a sub trait?
He must have spent a long time in his thoughts because Bran suddenly leaned in, eyes sparkling with impatience.
"Well? What'd you get, kid?"
Azeroth's mouth felt dry.
What should he say here?
What could he say?
Because whatever this "Absolute" trait was...
He had a feeling that he should never speak of it out loud.
…at least not anytime soon.