The air, thick with the scent of rain-soaked earth and ancient magic, hummed with a promise Tomba had finally fulfilled. Strapped to his back, the Weapons of Yek, pulsating with an almost imperceptible hum, felt heavier than just steel and myth. He had traversed treacherous mountains, navigated forgotten forests, and faced trials that would break lesser men. All for this – to protect Keibuikeiroiba, the village of the half-man, half-tiger beastmen who had taken him in, and the myriad creatures, the spectral Arf, the playful spirits, who coexisted within its sacred bounds.
But as he emerged from the dense forest canopy, the hum of the Weapons turned to a chilling throb. Smoke, thick and acrid, clawed at the sky where the familiar wooden palisade of Keibuikeiroiba should have stood. The joyous roars of cubs at play, the melodic calls of the Arf, the ethereal whispers of spirits – all were replaced by screams. Human screams, yes, but also the guttural growls of the Keibuikeiroiba, the pained yelps of the Arf, the fading moans of spirits.
His heart, which moments ago had swelled with triumph, now constricted into a cold, hard knot. He ran, the Weapons jarring against his spine, faster than a man should be able to. The scene that unfolded before him ripped the breath from his lungs. Humans. Humans, with their crude swords and flaming torches, hacking at the magnificent frames of the tiger-men, slaughtering the innocent Arf, dispelling the gentle spirits. Among the slain, he saw faces he knew – the fierce old shamaness who had taught him how to read the stars, the playful cubs he’d shared dried meat with, the wise Elder who had healed his wounds.
Memories, vivid and heart-wrenching, flashed before his eyes: the first time a Keibuikeiroiba child had trustingly offered him a berry, the warmth of their communal fires, the shared laughter under a moonlit sky. These creatures, labeled 'beasts' by the outside world, had shown him more compassion, more true humanity, than any human he had ever known.
A primal scream tore from his throat, raw and anguished. Rage, pure and incandescent, ignited within him, burning away everything but the desire for retribution. Tears, hot and bitter, streamed down his face, blurring the horrific tableau before him. "What's the point?!" he roared, his voice cracking with despair. "What's the point of protecting humans when they are even worse than the beastmen and spirits they are so afraid of? They are the true monsters!"
The Weapons of Yek thrummed, eager for blood. He was about to unleash their devastating power, to repay every drop of Keibuikeiroiba blood with a torrent of human despair, when a weak, familiar voice cut through the inferno of his rage.
"Tomba... you have to calm down..."
He spun around. The leader of Keibuikeiroiba, old and scarred, lay slumped against a burning hut, a gaping wound in his side. His fur was matted with blood, his eyes, usually so vibrant, now dull with pain, but still held that unwavering wisdom.
"Don't... harm the humans," the leader gasped, coughing. "Not all are the same... Good and evil... reside in all beings. With the power you are given... you should try to change them... not harm them. Got it?"
Tomba stood frozen, his rage warring with the profound wisdom in the dying leader's words. Broken, utterly broken, yet he understood. The leader, in his final moments, still preached peace, still saw hope where Tomba saw only darkness.
A month later, the world trembled. The ancient prophecies proved true; the demons awoke. From the deepest chasms and forgotten crypts, they rose, an insatiable tide of darkness, hunting humans and beasts alike. True to the dying leader's wishes, Tomba stood firm. The Weapons of Yek, once meant for internal conflict, now became instruments of salvation. Alone, he faced legions, his body a blur of motion, his spirit a beacon against the encroaching night. For three grueling months, he traversed the shattered lands, tirelessly slaying demons, protecting fleeing refugees, whether human or beast, and in doing so, came into contact with countless desperate souls, witnessing firsthand the myriad facets of fear, courage, and despair. Finally, after a brutal, protracted battle that left landscapes scarred and mountains reshaped, he confronted the Demon Lord and ended its reign.
The world began to breathe again. Exhausted but with a flickering ember of hope that perhaps he had made a difference, he made his way back to the scarred remains of the Keibuikeiroiba village. He had saved them from the demons, he thought, a fragile smile touching his lips. He would help them rebuild.
But when he arrived, the air was still. Too still. There were no survivors, no hidden pockets of refugees, no faint heartbeats. The remnants of the structures, the scattered bones, the lingering scent of ash and fear confirmed it. In his absence, while he fought to protect everyone, the humans had returned. They had systematically purged the last of the Keibuikeiroiba, the Arf, the spirits – every last one.
It was his breaking point. The leader's words, the months of selfless battle, the hope he had clung to, shattered into a million irreparable pieces. This was not the cycle of good and evil; this was pure, unadulterated hatred.
He confronted the nearest human settlements, not with the Weapons, but with a plea, a demand for explanation. "Why?" he asked, his voice raw. "Why, when I fought for all of us?" But all he received was hatred, eyes filled with fear and revulsion, and the cold, unyielding push of their rejection. They branded him a demon, a monster, despite his efforts. He remembered the faint whispers of legend, of the last wielder of the Yek weapon, who had also been pushed away by the very people he sought to protect.
But he wasn't giving up. Not yet. His heart was a desolate landscape, but his mind, sharp and analytical, demanded answers. If humanity itself held only fear and hate, then who held the truth? Who decided right from wrong? He would ask God.
He began his journey, not just across the land of Manipur, but across the entire world, seeking a means to communicate with the divine. He traveled through the myriad states of India, a kaleidoscopic tapestry of cultures, traditions, and spiritual beliefs. He met ascetics on mountain peaks, priests in ancient temples, tribal shamans in forgotten forests. He immersed himself in their rituals, their prayers, their diverse interpretations of the divine. Yet, God remained silent, elusive. It was as if a celestial observer watched, staying just out of Tomba’s reach, demanding something unseen, an understanding yet to be grasped. He realized there wasn't just one God, but countless variations, countless paths to the ultimate.
His journey led him further east. As he crossed into China, a sense of wonder, tinged with a strange familiarity, began to stir within him. He imagined the ancient masters from the manhwa and manga he used to devour in another life, before this one. Before he had been reincarnated onto this world, this age, by God after his death as a cancer patient, fading away in a sterile hospital bed. The thought was a fleeting, bittersweet pang, grounding him even as it expanded his reality.
He planned to travel to as many lands as possible, to absorb every truth, every perspective. And then, finally, he stood atop a majestic mountain, the biting wind whipping through his hair, the vast expanse of China unfolding beneath him. The towering peaks, the swirling mists, the endless plains stitched with ancient rivers – it was a new world in his eyes, a world still filled with questions, but also with an unsettling, breathtaking beauty.
