Semga, majestic and mysterious, stepped out of the shimmering portal, finding himself in the very heart of a mountain that had been carefully rebuilt and adapted into a vast underground base. His appearance did not go unnoticed. Several figures clad in uniforms immediately approached, their faces lighting up with a mixture of relief and deep reverence.
— "Oh, great Semga! We have waited so long for your return!" — one of them exclaimed, his voice trembling with excitement as he bowed respectfully, his head nearly touching the ground. Others followed his example, their bows so low it seemed they were ready to prostrate themselves.
Semga, whose presence filled the space with a certain primal power, stopped them with a gesture.
— "Stop this humiliation," — he said, his voice deep and resonating, but without a trace of arrogance, only weariness. — "Be normal people. I don't need such displays." — His words, spoken with such power that they seemed to shake the air, quickly made them straighten up, their faces expressing a mixture of embarrassment and fear.
— "We are ready to provide any assistance, sir," — another hastily offered, trying to fix the situation. — "Our resources, our warriors – everything is at your service."
Semga only shook his head, his gaze fixed somewhere in the distance, as if he saw something inaccessible to mere mortals.
— "A prophecy is a prophecy," — he said, and in these words sounded an unshakeable resolve bordering on fatalism. — "I will go alone. Such is my destiny, and no one can change its course." — His refusal was final, non-negotiable, and they, understanding this, retreated, leaving him in solitude.
Outside, to everyone who saw him, Semga was the embodiment of power and steadfastness, a figure inspiring awe and respect. His stride was firm, his gaze piercing, and his aura terrifying. However, inside, behind this mask of strength, a storm of doubts and torments raged. "Why do I need this?" — he silently asked himself. "Does this Orb, this ancient artifact, really not deceive me? Is it not leading me down a false path?" These thoughts, like sharp needles, pricked his consciousness, but he brushed them aside, knowing that now was not the time for weakness.
Despite the inner struggle, he exited the mountain, leaving behind its cool, stone vaults, and headed into the city. It was a city captured and rebuilt by the joint efforts of humans, dwarves, and elves – the only three races inhabiting Sangaria. Its streets were full of life, but this life was ambiguous. Walking along the cobbled streets, Semga saw many drunkards lying in ditches or sitting against walls, their faces swollen and red. But he also noticed good moments: the laughter of children playing in the square, the animated conversations of merchants, the aroma of freshly baked bread wafting from the bakeries. The city was alive, despite all its flaws.
Passing one especially tattered drunkard who sat leaning against a tavern wall, Semga heard a raspy voice.
— "Hey, kind man! Spare a coin for a poor wanderer?" — the drunkard muttered, extending a dirty, trembling hand. His eyes, cloudy and bloodshot, struggled to focus on Semga.
Semga stopped, his gaze calm but penetrating.
— "Why do you drink?" — he asked, his voice devoid of judgment, only pure curiosity.
The drunkard froze for a moment, as if the question had caught him off guard.
— "To drown my conscience," — he replied, his voice dropping slightly, a note of bitterness slipping through.
— "Conscience of what?" — Semga clarified, his gaze never leaving the drunkard's face.
The drunkard grew thoughtful, his brows furrowing as if he were trying to remember something very important but elusive. He scratched the back of his head, his gaze wandering, and then, after a long pause, he blurted out:
— "The conscience of the fact that I drink." — There was no irony or self-flagellation in his words, only a bitter statement of fact.
Semga walked past in silence, leaving the drunkard to his reflections. The man shouted something after him, some incoherent words, but Semga paid no attention. He knew that many people were little different from animals, driven by instincts and momentary desires. Perhaps he himself was the same. But if he thinks that he is the same, does that make him different? This thought, like a thin thread, pulled through his consciousness, forcing him to ponder the nature of human existence and his own place in this world.
Semga thought a lot during his journey, his mind occupied with deep reflections on fate, choice, the nature of good and evil. He left the city gates, leaving behind its noisy streets and bustle, and set out into unknown and dangerous lands. He didn't want this very much, but the prophecy, like an invisible hand, led him forward, to his destination, to his fate. And he, despite all his doubts and torments, was ready to accept it.
A few hours after starting his journey, Semga found himself in a vast, silent field, the very field where fate brought him face to face with his sworn enemies. This place was littered with the countless bodies of fallen warriors – humans and elves, whose lives had been cut short in a brutal struggle. Amidst this grim landscape, as if carved from stone, three Wolf-kin rose. Their powerful figures were clad in chainmail and sturdy armor reflecting the dim light of the setting sun. One of them was incredibly black, his eyes burning with a sinister red fire, and his body was covered in terrifying scars, each of which seemed to tell a story of countless battles. The second Wolf-kin was less dark, his fur having a greyish tint, and no such frightening marks were visible on his body. The third was dazzlingly white, like freshly fallen snow, and his eyes shone with a beautiful, piercing blue color, contrasting with the general gloom of the scene.
They communicated among themselves in their own incomprehensible language, which Semga could not decipher. Their speech sounded strange, like a set of sharp, guttural sounds capable, it seemed, of breaking the tongue of anyone who tried to repeat it. In the midst of their heated dialogues, interrupted by the eating of the flesh of elves (for some reason they didn't touch humans, leaving their bodies intact), they finally noticed Semga, who was watching them closely from a distance. He studied them with genuine interest, for this was the first time he had seen creatures like them.
As soon as Semga was noticed, the three Wolf-kin, as if on command, stood up in sync; their movements were honed and precise, like those of clones. They instantly drew their swords from their scabbards. The most terrifying of them, the black Wolf-kin, also had a magnificent shield decorated with a dragon emblem, which gave him an even more fearsome appearance. Semga, in turn, also drew his sword, its blade gleaming in the twilight. Then he put on his helmet, completely hiding his face. He was fully clad in heavy armor, which could not be said of the Wolf-kin, who had exposed areas of their bodies, including their heads, making them vulnerable.
The wolves remained silent, their eyes fixed on Semga, but this silence was only the calm before the storm. Suddenly, with a wild roar, they rushed at him. The battle began. The Wolf-kin acted with striking coordination, their movements perfectly synchronized as if they were a single organism. They rained a hail of blows down on Semga, their swords ringing against his armor, leaving deep dents and scratches. Despite Semga's power and protection, the wolves managed to inflict significant damage; their attacks were so precise and strong that even his sturdy armor could not fully withstand the onslaught.
However, Semga was an experienced warrior. He waited for the moment, analyzing their movements, and finally delivered a decisive blow. His sword pierced the head of the eldest and most terrifying of the Wolf-kin – the black one. The death of their leader was a shock to the remaining two. The wolves froze, their eyes widening in horror and disbelief; they seemed to fall into a stupor, unable to believe what had happened.
Semga did not hesitate, taking advantage of their confusion. He instantly attacked the white wolf, decapitating him with one precise movement. Blood gushed onto the ground, staining the snow-white fur a crimson color. The grey wolf, left alone, let out a heart-wrenching howl, full of pain and despair. He began to cry, his eyes filling with tears, and his body shaking with sobs.
In that moment, Semga realized something deep and tragic. They were not just Wolf-kin, not just partners fighting side by side. They were brothers. Real, blood brothers, bound by inseparable ties. This thought struck him to the core. He thought to himself: they were brothers, they loved each other, and he, Semga, had just taken their lives, tearing their family bonds apart.
The middle brother, the grey wolf, consumed by grief and rage, rushed at Semga. Their fight was fierce and desperate. They exchanged blows, their bodies colliding with a dull thud. In the heat of the battle, the grey wolf managed to knock the sword out of Semga's hands, leaving him unarmed. But Semga did not give up. He instantly switched to hand-to-hand combat, his fists raining down on the wolf with incredible force. He beat him until he was knocked out, collapsing lifelessly to the ground. Without wasting a second, Semga picked up the grey wolf's sword and finished him off, putting an end to his suffering.
Semga did not feel sadness about their death. Rather, he felt something else, something deeper – a feeling related to the concept of family. He himself never had a true family, the kind that gives love, support, and a sense of belonging. He had always been alone, and this battle, this tragedy of the Wolf-kin brothers, made him think about what he had been deprived of. He stood among the dead bodies, surrounded by silence, and a strange, bitter realization was born in his soul. He had destroyed a family that he himself never had, and this left a deep, indelible mark in his heart. He understood that his actions were necessary for survival, but this did not take away the bitterness of knowing that he had destroyed something so precious.
The field, once filled with the cries of battle and the groans of the dying, was now plunged into an eerie silence, broken only by the light rustle of the wind passing over the bodies of the fallen. Semga looked around. Around him lay the corpses of humans and elves, their eyes fixed on the void, and their faces frozen in grimaces of pain and horror. And among them – the three mighty Wolf-kin, whose lives had ended under his sword. Their powerful bodies, so recently full of rage and strength, were now lifeless, their fur matted with blood, and their eyes extinguished.
Semga slowly lowered his sword, its blade stained with blood. He felt a weight in his chest, not sadness, but something more complex. It was the realization that he, a warrior accustomed to death and destruction, had encountered something that went beyond an ordinary battle. He saw in these Wolf-kin not just enemies, but beings bound by deep ties, similar to those that bind people. And this made him think about his own life, about his loneliness, about the fact that he never knew the warmth and support of a real family.
He ran his hand over his helmet, his fingers feeling the cold metal. In his memory, fragments of memories of his own childhood surfaced, of how he grew up without parents, without brothers and sisters, always alone, always forced to rely only on himself. He was a warrior, his life was dedicated to battles, but even in his harsh heart there was a place for reflections on human (or, in this case, Wolf-kin) connections.
Semga understood that his actions were justified. These Wolf-kin were his enemies, they attacked him, and he defended himself. But this did not take away from the fact that he had destroyed a family. He was the cause of their grief, their loss. And this realization left a deep, indelible mark in his soul. He was a warrior, but he was also a man capable of compassion, of understanding someone else's pain.
He raised his eyes to the sky, where the first stars were already beginning to appear. Night was falling on the battlefield, enveloping it in darkness and silence. Semga stood alone among the dead, his thoughts were heavy, and his heart was filled with complex, contradictory feelings. He was the victor, but this victory brought him no joy. It brought only the bitter realization that in a world where violence and death reign, even the strongest bonds can be broken in an instant. He slowly moved forward, leaving the battlefield behind.
22 years ago.
Semga, still very young, sat in his old but spacious house, which seemed huge to him compared to what awaited him in the future. In the bedroom, shrouded in morning silence, his mother slept peacefully, and in the kitchen, lost in his thoughts, sat his father, sipping something from a mug. It was early morning, the dawn had barely broken, and Semga, waking up next to his mother, went into the kitchen to join his father. He sat down nearby, looking around, and his gaze slid over the many fishing accessories scattered around. Semga always knew that his father was an avid fisherman, and it was in honor of the fish, as he himself joked, that he was named. Good-natured Semga, still not suspecting the coming events, was already going to go outside to enjoy the morning coolness, but at that moment a persistent knock sounded at the door. Father, putting down the mug, went to the door and opened it wide. And there stood... Two warriors, their figures contrasting sharply: one was large and heavy, and the second, on the contrary, was distinguished by an athletic build and pumped-up muscles.
— "Hello, what can I..." — Semga's father was already about to ask them a question, but his words froze on his lips when he noticed the revolutionary emblems on their clothes. He was overcome by a shiver, and in the same instant his heart was pierced by the sharp blade of the muscular warrior, who, without wasting a second, entered the house. Semga was in a state of the deepest shock, so strong that he could not utter a word. The warriors said something, laughed, but Semga could not make out a single sound because of the shock. He only caught a mention of someone named Err. In the same minute, the boy was noticed and, without thinking twice, knocked out with a heavy blow. He fell into a deep sleep that seemed endless.
Waking up, he found himself tied up, and his mother... they were doing something terrible to her right before his eyes. Semga cried, trying to free himself, and, to his own surprise, he succeeded. He quickly broke out of the bonds, using his incredible, hitherto unknown strength. The warriors were amazed, but the heavy one did not get distracted from his vile deed with his mother, and the muscular one quickly tried to stab Semga. However, Semga turned out to be no pushover. His eyes for some reason became red, although before they were brown... and he had slept for a long time, and it was not like an ordinary sleep. Semga, feeling an incredible surge of strength, quickly knocked the sword out of the warrior's hands and, grabbing a knife from the table, stabbed him several times in the neck. The heavy warrior quickly finished off his mother, but in the same second Semga threw the knife into his head, killing him on the spot. Semga lay in the house, surrounded by corpses, and cried, his red eyes filling with tears.
Even now, in the future, Semga does not know what happened to him then, why his eyes became red, but now, in adult life, they have become ordinary brown again, and he himself has become kinder. For, as he remembers, he survived for several years in the forest, and as a teenager he was taken into the army as a volunteer recruit, and almost all his life Semga fought. He had no conscience, like now, he killed and killed, he was cruel. When the revolution ended and the kingdom again seized the whole world, Semga went on a many-year leave, where he became less cruel. But something is changing with him now... returning to the battle, he felt that he was again becoming the old version of himself.
Semga, remembering those terrible events, often wondered about the nature of his suddenly manifested strength and the change in eye color. It was something inexplicable, beyond ordinary understanding. He remembered how after 그 night, filled with blood and despair, he found himself completely alone. The forest became his home, his refuge, where he learned to survive, relying only on himself. The years spent in the wild hardened him, made him stronger, but also left deep scars on his soul. He learned to hunt, build shelters, avoid dangers, and every day was a struggle for existence. During this period of his life, he was forced to be ruthless in order to survive, and this shaped his character.
When he reached adolescence, he, like many other young people, was called into the army. This was a period of great upheaval, when revolution swept the world and the kingdom fought to restore its power. Semga, already hardened by life in the forest, quickly settled into the military environment. His natural strength and cruelty, acquired in the struggle for survival, made him an effective warrior. He participated in many battles, and his name became associated with ruthlessness and efficiency. In those days he knew no mercy, his conscience was dulled by constant battles and the need to kill. He was a killing machine, an instrument in the hands of the command, and his actions were dictated only by the desire for victory and survival.
The revolution, which lasted for many years, finally came to an end. The kingdom, after bloody wars, managed to restore its power over the world. For Semga, this meant the end of his military career. He, like many other veterans, got the opportunity to retire. He took this chance to start a new life, away from the battlefields and constant violence. He went on a many-year leave, seeking to find peace and heal his emotional wounds. During this period, he tried to forget about his past, about the cruelty that was an integral part of his life. He traveled, met different people, and gradually his heart began to thaw. He became less cruel, more compassionate, and his brown eyes, which once for a moment (which lasted a decade or more) became red, returned to their usual color. He learned to appreciate peaceful life, the beauty of nature and simple human joys.
However, despite all his efforts, the past did not let go of him completely. Deep down, he always knew that old instincts could return. And so, when he was again called to battle, he felt the old, cruel version of himself awakening in him. Returning to the battlefield, the sound of swords, the cries of the fighters – all this awakened long-forgotten feelings in him. He felt his body tense, his instincts sharpen, and that cold glint that was inherent in him during the war years appear in his eyes again.
Vengeta, weary from the long day, went to sleep in the depths of a cool cave, where his thoughts continued to wander. He thought deeply about how the cruelty and harsh reality of life had gradually replaced his former, more naive youthful philosophy, filled with ideals and dreams—perhaps that is why he is becoming a pseudo-philosopher now.
Snore.