Long ago, the land of the Hundred Tribes was raw and untamed—scarred by storms, shaken by quakes, and broken by endless invasions. Life was harsh, uncertain, fragile. With little knowledge of the world, the people feared every strange phenomenon—lightning, thunder, the howl of the wind—believing them punishments from wrathful gods. To make sense of it, they wove tales: nursery rhymes and chants, myths and legends of fire and water, thunder and earth, wind and sky...

"Aucera bore a pouch of a hundred eggs. From them hatched a hundred children, strong and radiant. Fifty followed their mother into the mountains and founded Varland. The other fifty followed their father, Lacien, into the sea. The eldest son who remained with Aucera became the first king—the forefather of His Majesty..."

The children sat with their chins in their hands, spellbound by Elder Hakar's voice.

"Pfft!" Dovian burst out, unable to contain himself. "You're telling me that hot-tempered... I mean, His Majesty is descended from a Dragon God and a Fairy Maiden? Haha... That's funny!"

He doubled over, slapping the ground, laughter shaking his thin frame. But no one joined him. The other children sat stiff and silent, eyes cool as stone. Only Prince Lorak leaned in with a wary grin.

"Dovian... What if His Majesty hears you?"

"What's there to fear?" Dovian shrugged. "It's obviously made-up. You actually believe it?"

A deep voice cut in:

"Oh? Then tell me, child—what do you know?"

Dovian looked up. Elder Hakar was watching him with a calm but firm gaze. The boy fell quiet. After a long moment, the elder's expression softened.

"Legends are legends," Hakar said gently. "Perhaps true, perhaps not. That is not their purpose. What matters is this: you come from a noble line, the children of a proud people. Do you understand?"

The children nodded, their eyes shining with conviction. Even Dovian—hesitant, restless—gave a reluctant nod. Hakar saw the flicker of doubt and allowed himself a chuckle.

"Still... the part about hatching from eggs?" He smiled wryly. "I'm not so sure of that either."

This time, Lorak burst out laughing. The rest soon followed. Hakar gazed at them fondly, his eyes glinting with something distant and tender—memories of his own grandson. 

Back then, the boy had been about these children's age. But he was gone, like so many others in the great flood that had swallowed Foliath, the capital of Varland.

That flood had been merciless. It swept through the city and vanished just as suddenly, leaving behind silence and devastation. For days afterward, the people made offerings to the Water God, pleading for mercy, for safe passage for the dead.

Even years later, that disaster still haunted them.

***

It had been a day of endless rain. The river swelled, swollen with rage, roaring down from the highlands. It tore through the fields, ripping homes from their roots, sweeping bodies into its maw. Screams broke against the storm, lost in the torrent.

"Find survivors! Send more boats—now!"

On a vessel fighting the current, King Hugan stood tall, a broad-shouldered titan against the storm. His voice thundered louder than the rain.

"Your Majesty, it's too dangerous!" General Zaren barked, his dark hair plastered to his face. "Let me take over!"

"Hmph. Relax. I'm not so easy to drown."

The King's tone was dry. Zaren fell silent, chastened.

Hugan turned sharply. "Master Hakar! Anyone seriously injured?"

Hakar, drenched but unbowed, raised his head. His eyes, though tired, still burned with quiet wisdom.

"Most are just cold and weak, Your Majesty. A few scrapes and bruises—but they'll survive."

"Good. Get them to safety," Hugan nodded. "We're not done. We'll find your grandson too."

Hakar bowed silently. His face was tight with anxiety.

___

Elsewhere in the flood, a family of three clung together. The father staggered, chest-deep in the torrent, his body trembling with exhaustion. One hand held his son aloft on his shoulders, the other clutched his wife's arm. The mother, pale and shaking, gripped the boy's fingers.

"Dad! Mom! I'm scared!" seven-year-old Dovian cried.

"It's all right," his mother whispered. "We're right here."

"We'll make it—just a bit more and—"

A monstrous wave crashed over them before his father could finish. All three were dragged under.

Dovian barely had time to panic before he was hauled above the surface again. But the fingers holding his had slipped away. He caught a glimpse of his mother's head bobbing in the current—then she was gone.

Rain masked the tears he couldn't even cry.

His father held on—barely—one hand clutching his son, the other gripping a drifting log, with no strength left to grieve his wife.

"Hold tight, Dovian!" he gasped. "Don't—let—go—"

The flood showed no mercy. His father's arm grew numb. His grip slipped.

His last breath was a prayer to the Gods—to save the boy.

Tossed by the current. Struggling to breathe. Slammed against rocks. Numb with cold. Too weak to swim. Dovian had no idea how long he drifted. At one point, his hand brushed something soft. Desperate, he grabbed on and lifted his head.

Dead eyes stared back at him.

A drowned corpse.

He screamed and let go. The flood took him again.

"What a horrible death," he thought. "Slow. Painful. Endless."

"Why haven't I died yet?"

The river answered with a whirlpool, vast and merciless, spinning like a monstrous throat, sucking everything in.

"This is it," he thought, closing his eyes. "This is where I die."

___

Somewhere downstream, a shout rose above the storm.

"Over here! A child—pull him up!"

Two men on the port side leaned far over the railing, their arms plunging into the brown torrent. After a brutal struggle against the current, they hauled a limp, waterlogged body aboard—a boy, small and frail, no older than seven. His skin was ashen, his lips blue.

Hakar's heart lurched. In an instant, he was beside them, dropping to his knees.
"Move!" His voice cracked, rough and desperate.

He tilted the boy's head back, pressing his ear close to the mouth. No breath. No heartbeat. His hands moved frantically—pressing the chest, forcing air into the boy's lungs, again and again.

"Come on... come back... please..." His voice broke, and he tried harder, ignoring the ache in his arms. Time bled away like water through his fingers.

Nothing.

The world narrowed to the still face before him. Rain streaked down his weathered cheeks, mingling with the tears he could no longer hold back.

"My boy..." Hakar gathered the boy into his arms, the cry ripping from him, ragged and shaking. "My grandson... Nooo!"

The wail tore through the wind, hollowing the hearts of everyone aboard. The crew stood frozen, heads bowed. The storm roared as a cruel accompaniment to the people's grief. The river rushed on, indifferent to the lives it had stolen.

___

Peace.
Stillness.
Silence.

Dovian no longer felt the current. He was floating, weightless, no longer cold. No longer afraid.

Curious, he opened his eyes.

He was deep beneath the surface.

But it was strange—the water wasn't wild or muddy anymore. It was clear. Calm. Serene. He braced himself for that choking feeling, for the pain of drowning. But they didn't come.

He wasn't even breathing.

"Am I... dead?" he thought.

"Not yet."

The voice resonated through the deep, at once distant and within. Like wind through mountains, like a stream over stone.

"You are not dead."

"Who's there?"  Dovian's turned, searching for the source.

"We are what you call the Gods."

"What?" Dovian blinked, dazed.

"Child, listen. You have been chosen. You will be the voice between Gods and men. Only you, among the Hundred Tribes, shall hear us."

As our final envoy, we grant you five gifts: fire, water, earth, wind, and thunder. Wield them well."

The voice faded.

The calm water around Dovian began to churn. The flood returned. The waves screamed. The cold stabbed through his bones again. 

His vision blurred. He was sinking...