The fire crackled gently, casting flickering light upon the old man’s face as he leaned back slightly in his seat. His gaze drifted beyond the fmes, his expression thoughtful, almost distant, as if reaching into the depths of time itself.

  “The gods…” he began, his voice carrying the weight of forgotten history. “They were not born as we are. They did not emerge from the union of man and woman, nor were they shaped by mere destiny. No… they obtained their power from something far greater, something beyond mortal comprehension.”

  Melissa listened intently, drawn into his words as the firelight reflected in her curious eyes.

  “The True Source,” he continued, his tone reverent. “A fragment of the primal forces that shaped existence itself—Primal Chaos and Primal Creation. When the world was young, these forces cshed, and in the aftermath, their fragments were scattered across the nds. These fragments… they hold power beyond imagination. If one were lucky enough to find even a sliver of them—” He paused, narrowing his eyes. “No… luck is the wrong word. If one is chosen to find them, then with it comes a power so immense that none can truly predict what they might become. And with that power… the gods were born.”

  Melissa went on to wonder what would happen if someone who was born found one and acquired the power. Then what will the individual be?

  The old man sat in silence for a moment, the firelight flickering across his face as Melissa’s question lingered between them. His gaze met hers, a quiet intensity in his tired eyes before he slowly shook his head.

  “Yes… that could happen,” he admitted, his voice measured. “And yes, a person who attains such power would indeed be considered a god.”

  Melissa leaned forward, her curiosity burning as brightly as the fire before them. “Then what was the meaning of your statement that the gods were never born?” she pressed. “If all it takes is finding a fragment of the True Source, then anyone could ascend to godhood. That means gods are born—from chance, from discovery, from the fragments themselves.”

  The old man opened his mouth slightly as if to refute her cim, but no words came. He closed it again, his expression shifting from contemption to something more conflicted.

  Melissa saw it—the way his lips pressed together, the way his brow furrowed. He had no counter to her logic.

  A silence settled over them, broken only by the gentle crackle of the fire. The old man simply looked at her, unable to disapprove of her statement. It was not that she was wrong, but rather that her words had touched upon something he had never questioned before—or perhaps something he had once known but had long forgotten

  He exhaled slowly, as if the knowledge itself carried an unseen weight. The silence between them stretched for a moment, and then Melissa noticed something—his face had tensed. His brow furrowed, and a flicker of discomfort crossed his features. A sharp breath escaped his lips as he raised a hand to his temple.

  “Are you okay?” Melissa asked, leaning forward, concern etched in her voice. “You… you look like you’re in pain.”

  The old man hesitated, then waved a hand dismissively, offering a strained smile. “I’m fine,” he reassured her, though the stiffness in his posture said otherwise.

  But within his mind, a different thought surfaced, one that sent a shiver through his very being.

  "When… when were restrictions pced on me?"

  The realization nagged at the edges of his thoughts, subtle yet persistent. Something was obstructing him, dulling the memories buried within his past. The deeper he tried to reach, the more resistance he encountered—like an unseen weight pressing against his mind, keeping the truth just out of grasp.

  The old man let out a slow breath, his thoughts still tangled in the realization he couldn’t quite grasp. But he pushed it aside and continued, his voice steady once more.

  He continued.

  “The True Source of the 21 gods… it was sealed inside an artifact known as the Span Vase.”

  Melissa blinked. Then she furrowed her brows. Then she just stared at him, her expression twisting into a mix of disbelief and sheer bafflement.

  “Wait—what?” she said, tilting her head slightly. “The Span Vase? Who named it that?”

  The old man coughed, clearly caught off guard by the reaction. He gnced away, rubbing his chin. “Well… the vase was discovered by one of the gods of time. And, uh… he was never very good at naming things. But the name stuck, and over time, it simply became known as the Span Vase.”

  Melissa continued to stare at him, her lips slightly parted as if struggling to process what she’d just heard. Then she exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “You’re telling me the source of divine power—the thing that literally created gods—is sealed inside something called Span Vase because some ancient god had the naming sense of a child?”

  The old man merely gave a slow, knowing nod.

  Melissa groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “Unbelievable.

  The old man cleared his throat, regaining his composure after Melissa’s reaction. His voice grew steady once more as he continued, “Despite its name, the Span Vase is no ordinary artifact. It has always been guarded within this nd, kept deep inside the Echoing Encve—a pce shrouded in mystery and hidden from the eyes of ordinary people.”

  Melissa raised a brow, still somewhat hung up on the ridiculous name, but she chose to stay silent this time.

  “The Echoing Encve has remained a restricted area for centuries,” the old man went on. “Few even know of its true purpose, and even fewer have ever set foot within its boundaries. It is a pce of silence, where time itself seems to stretch and twist. The echoes of the past whisper through its halls, remnants of the gods who once walked this world. And at its heart, sealed away under yers of divine protection, rests the Span Vase.”

  Somewhere in Pentra, a few days ago...The dense forest was alive with the subtle sounds of movement—leaves rustling, twigs snapping underfoot, and the faint hum of insects in the thick night air. The group pushed forward, navigating the uneven terrain with wary steps, their surroundings shrouded in mist that clung to the trees like silent watchers.

  Vex let out an annoyed sigh, adjusting the weight of the gear strapped to his back. “Are you sure we’re moving in the right direction?”

  Nyx, walking just ahead, didn’t bother turning around. “This should be the right direction,” he replied, his voice calm but firm.

  Vex clicked his tongue. “Great. So, you’re not sure. You think it’s the right direction.” He gnced around, as if expecting something to emerge from the darkness. “Is that Adrak screwing with us again? I swear, if he—”

  Before he could finish, Orin spoke up from behind, his voice ced with frustration. “I just wish we brought some transport. With all our equipment not working in this damn pce, we’re basically dragging dead weight.”

  At that, Nyx suddenly stopped in his tracks. The air between them tensed.

  He turned sharply to Orin, his gaze burning with irritation. “Oh, just like st time? Leading Bone right back to us?”

  Orin’s expression flickered, something bitter creeping into his features. He exhaled heavily, shaking his head. “How was I supposed to know that one of the only people I trusted would sell me out?”

  Nyx’s fists clenched. “How were you supposed to know?” he echoed, stepping closer. “Do you know what would’ve happened to us if this job didn’t come through when it did? Do you?”

  The tension between them thickened, the weight of past mistakes and near-disasters pressing against the already suffocating forest air. The wind rustled through the branches, but it did nothing to cool the heat between them.

  Vex, sensing the conversation spiraling, muttered under his breath, “Here we go again…” . The tension was palpable, and Vex knew that this argument was far from over.

  Nyx’s gre didn’t waver as he took a step closer to Orin, his voice dropping into something colder, sharper. “You’ve always been a mistake,” he said, his words ced with years of built-up frustration. “Accepting you into this team? That was the worst decision we ever made. All you do is cause trouble. Every damn time.”

  Orin’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t say a word.

  “If it weren’t for Vex,” Nyx continued, voice seething, “I would’ve gotten rid of you a long time ago. And don’t even try to deny it—you add nothing to this team.”

  Orin flinched slightly at that, but before either of them could go further, Vex quickly stepped between them, hands raised. “Alright, that’s enough,” he said firmly, looking at Nyx first. “We don’t need this right now.” He turned slightly toward Orin before gncing back at Nyx. “We’re safe, aren’t we? Right now, we’re alive.”

  Nyx inhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers flexing as if he was debating whether to keep pushing the argument. But after a moment, he exhaled, stepping back slightly. His eyes flicked to Orin once more, and for a second, it seemed like he was about to say something else—perhaps another insult, perhaps something worse.

  But before he could, Tess suddenly spoke up.

  “Hey,” she called, drawing everyone’s attention away from the tension. She was standing a few steps ahead, her eyes locked onto something through the trees. “We’re here.”

  The group turned to look, and sure enough, past the thinning tree line, they could see it—the very location marked on their map. The realization settled over them, momentarily pushing aside the argument.

  They had arrived.

  NOTE

  Orin of Illusion—The Trickster Without MagicOrin was born in Illustion, a nd of whispers, shadows, and deception. Unlike other continents, Illustion had no great warriors, no mighty spellcasters, and no ancient bloodlines of power. Instead, its people relied on something far more unpredictable—trickery.

  Illusion was known as one of the strangest pces in the world. Its people cimed to see the dead, the yet-to-come, and things that never were. In truth, they had no real magic, only a mastery of deceit, misdirection, and fear. Through careful manipution of smoke, mirrors, and sleight of hand, they convinced outsiders that they could see beyond reality. But it was all a lie—a beautifully crafted lie that even they sometimes believed.

  The Man of a Thousand LiesOrin was a master of this deception. Raised among illusionists, fortune tellers, and chartans, he learnt early that power wasn’t about strength—it was about perception. A well-pced word, a hidden wire, or a fsh of light at the right moment could make people believe anything.

  He became a trickster, a performer, a con artist. He could vanish into thin air, change his face in seconds, and make people see what wasn’t there. He had no magic, yet people swore he was touched by the supernatural. In a world filled with warriors and sorcerers, Orin was a man with nothing but his wits—and that made him more dangerous than most.

  A Life of Smoke and ShadowsBut there was a problem with living in illusion for too long. When everything is a trick, what is real? Orin had spent his life lying, deceiving, and pying with perception. He had stolen, cheated, and talked his way out of countless dangers. But deep down, a part of him wondered…

  "If I take away the lies, the masks, and the tricks—what is left of me?" Would there be anything worth salvaging, or was he truly just a shell of deceit and manipution?

  Demeanor & Presence:Orin moves like a shadow, always light on his feet, never fully still. His voice is smooth, ced with amusement, as if he’s always in on some cosmic joke that no one else understands. He has the uncanny ability to make people question what they see, leaving them wondering whether he was ever truly there at all.

  Would you like me to tweak anything further?

  Physical Appearance:Height: 5'11" (180 cm)

  Build: Lean and athletic, built for agility rather than strength. His frame allows him to move with the grace of a performer, slipping in and out of sight with ease.

  Skin Tone: Light with a faint olive hue, hinting at his exotic origins.

  Facial Features: A sharp, angur face with high cheekbones and a slightly pointed chin, giving him a fox-like appearance. His smirk is ever-present, making it difficult to tell when he’s being serious.

  Eyes: A striking golden-amber hue that seems to shimmer under certain light, making it unclear whether it’s a trick of nature or an illusion of his own making. His gaze is both pyful and unsettling, as if he’s always seeing more than he lets on.

  Hair: Shoulder-length, dark brown with streaks of deep violet woven into the strands. It falls in yered waves, often half-tied in a loose ponytail, giving him a roguish charm.

  Attire & Accessories:Clothing: A long, flowing coat with intricate golden embroidery, designed to enhance his dramatic fir when performing tricks. The fabric shifts in color depending on the angle, pying tricks on the eyes.

  Shirt: A deep crimson, high-colred shirt, unbuttoned at the top for a rexed yet stylish look.

  Pants & Boots: Slim-fitting bck pants tucked into knee-high leather boots, built for speed and quiet movement.

  Gloves: Fingerless bck gloves, concealing hidden compartments filled with trick cards, smoke pellets, and other tools of deception.

  Accessories: A silver chain with a small crystal pendant—an heirloom said to contain a forgotten illusion. Multiple rings on his fingers, some real, others merely projections of light.