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Notes: (Nilstilar, 2024-10-12)

“

Pü reopened his eyelids, mask against bark, mouth full of soot and blood. Despite the violence of the shock, the flow of life-saving Sap directed against the concussion had achieved its goal. He had regained consciousness. Awareness of his surroundings. Awareness of his left side, totally crushed under a colossal block of wood. What had happened? How many seconds had he been unconscious? Then, the image of Niï's body came back to him. In suspension. Above the ruins of the Ceremonial Square. The leg of one of the insectoid creatures stuck in the abdomen. And then this gigantic piece of bark, obscuring the sky and crushing him head-on. Totally stuck and unable to turn around, Pü tried to call his brother. Unfortunately, only a hoarse whistle came from his crushed throat, at once drowned in a pool of blood. No one heard him, yet he continued, chanting his brother's name like a mantra, hoping to summon him. Hoping that summoning would help him to ignore the immense pain that was bruising him. Partly compressed under several hundred pounds of wood, he was flooding his left side with Sap, even if it meant weakening the right side. The work of regeneration was inordinate, so much each movement that he carried out to extirpate himself from his tomb opened a little more his fractures, tore a little more his wounds, mixed a little more the splinters of his armor with his fluids. He had lost consciousness for only a few seconds. He couldn't have survived any longer, he was sure. There was still time. His brother had already freed himself from the creature's grasp, he was sure.

Finally, after several excruciating minutes, Pü managed to free himself from his coffin. No sooner was he freed than he fell into the pit, mask first, without even having time to look around. His mutilated, half-naked body crashed into a pile of chitin, and another image came back to him. In his memory, he and his companions had cleaned up Ceremonial Square after the creatures' first assault. So how could it be filled with carcasses again? Yet he had only been unconscious for a few seconds. Stunned and drained, he crawled for a few meters, between pieces of charred carapaces. How long, really, had he been unconscious? His father, brother and uncle, where were they? With his view blocked by the mound of cold carcasses, the young Zorai made his way to the pile that towered above all the others. He had to get some height. His body bruised, still unable to stand, he began to climb it. The climb was long and difficult, but he finally managed to grab the cranial nozzle of the kinrey that topped the mass grave. One of those who had skewered his brother. And as he pulled himself up to the top with a final effort, his gaze shifted to the other end of the pit, and his life toppled. As deep as his wounds were, the sprouting of his mask was still the most physically painful thing he had ever experienced. But nothing had ever prepared him for the sight of his father and uncle's pierced bodies, chest to chest, mask to mask. They were nailed to the wall of the pit by a huge severed leg. From its bluish color, he knew it belonged to the commander of the creatures his elders had faced. First Ke'val, then his father, then the wall. The Shadow had sacrificed himself to save the Black Mask… In vain. The two greatest warriors of the tribe were now dead. Transfixed by what he hoped was only a hallucination, Pü did not react. But the vision persisted. Realizing that everything he was seeing was real, he was unable to take the shock and fell asleep inside himself. What little innocence he had left was shattered along with his reason.

It was standing in front of Grandmother Bä-Bä's hut, at the top of the village, far from the pit, that Pü regained full consciousness. Standing and staggering. Feverish. Nauseous. With drool on his lips and a glassy look in his eyes, he looked around, totally disoriented. He could not see, he could not hear and he smelled death. Death. All around him. On him. The smell of guts, the acrid smell of monsters, the smell of dead flesh. Inside him. The taste of bile, the taste of blood, the taste of tears. The pain. Around him, on him, in him. In his flesh, in his heart. The pain of some, the pain of others. The smell of nothing, the taste of the end. The memories. In him. The happy ones, the sad ones. The memory of the dead. Those of yesterday and today. His uncle, his father, and all those he had passed on the way back to the hut. That is, all of them. Because all of them were only memories. All of them! The children, the elders. All of them! All of them! All of them! Death, on him. In his hands. His brother's head, in his hands. Cold. Fallen on the side of the road, found between several heads. Those of children and elders. The head of his brother, of this brother he had abandoned, whom he had not saved. The head of his brother. Grimacing, bloody, with a cracked mask. The head of his protective big brother, who had comforted him with an "I love you" before sacrificing himself. His loving big brother, who, before throwing himself into the pit, had ordered him to find their mother. Their mother, whom they loved so much. Their mother, who would wake him up from this nightmare with a snap of her fingers.

Covered in blood and vomit, trembling and wavering, Pue staggered toward the hut, clutching Niï's head to his heart. He passed the curtains and his chest heaved. Grandmother Bä-Bä was watching him, kneeling on the ground at the bedside of Looï, who also had her mask turned toward him. The young Zorai ran to the two hominas and collapsed on his mother. He laid his brother's cold head on the bed and cuddled his mask against his mother. His tears flowed freely as he hiccupped:

"Mo… Mom… Father, Ke'val and Niï… they are dead… I couldn't save them… I… I couldn't do anything… Niï went to help them without me… I was his Shadow, I should have followed him too! But… But he didn't want to! He said that the Prophecy was false, that he would never be Black Mask, that the visions of Grandmother were lies! He… He told me I had to go up and protect you, but… but a piece of the stump fell on me… I… I shouldn't have agreed, I… I should have joined them… I… I hate myself, Mom, I hate myself! I want to die! I want to forget everything! I want to disappear…. Help me! Help me mom!"

The young Zorai sobbed for a few seconds, waiting for maternal comfort. Instead, a rough hand was placed on his bare shoulder and a hoarse voice answered him:

"It's too late Pü, I'm sorry. I tried to keep her alive as long as possible."

Pü gagged and turned his mask to Grandmother Bä-Bä.

"Too… too late? What… what do you mean, Grandmother?" he stammered, before looking at his mother. He had rushed at her without observing her first. Looï's mask was still facing the entrance to the hut. He passed his hands under its nape and made it turn to face him. It was so beautiful. So smooth. So cold. Too cold.

Pü screamed like he'd never screamed before. He cried like he had never cried before. He died ten times, a hundred times, a thousand times. If Grandmother Bä-Bä let his despair show, she never broke contact. She held his shoulder tightly and, without his knowing it, magically kept his mind from sinking for good. Minutes passed, and the screams gradually turned into moans. He had given everything. He had lost everything. He was an empty shell. Barely conscious. Barely alive.

"My child, look at me," breathed Grandmother Bä-Bä as she gave him a final burst of vitality.

Pü turned his mask towards her mechanically, his gaze off. The witch, already very old, seemed to have gained several years at once.

"My last hour is near, but before that you must listen to me."

"Grandmother… Please… Not you… Don't leave me… I don't want to be alone… I can't…."

"I know Pü, but there lies your destiny… You are the new Black Mask, you are the Sacred Warrior. You will never be alone, for around you, whether you like it or not, the crowd will gather…""

With each of her words, the old woman grew in years. Under Pü's fingers, the skin on her hand seemed to evaporate. It had always been said that she was older than Zoran's oldest sages. That she was no more aging since a long time ago. As if she and Death had been waiting for this moment forever. As if both had signed a pact, and that finally, the time had come to settle the score.

"The… The new Black Mask? It… It had to be Niï, Grandmother. But… But, because of me…."

"No, Pü. You have always been destined to become Black Mask, Niï was only your Shadow. A few months after his birth, your mother announced that he would one day become Black Mask, and also be the First Crusader. In reality, the dice predicted that Niï would die for him, like so many others. And one year before you were born, Ma-Duk revealed me the identity of the Sacred Warrior: the future child of Looï and Sang Fu-Tao, you. So, at their request, Looi met the Kamis, and a few months later, you were born, Pü. Tonight, the Shadows, as their duties have forever demanded, sacrificed themselves for the Black Masks."

"But... why? I… I don't want, Grandmother. I never believed in it. I can't carry this burden…."

"I know that, my child, I know it so well…. By my lie, I wanted to protect you. To protect us. But in the end, the fate Ma-Duk has in store for you seems inevitable…. By naming Niï as the future Black Mask and Sacred Warrior, I thought I could reverse the course of things, in vain…. You are a nice boy Pü. You are so good. So make me lie. Free them from Her. Then free yourself from Him. In the hope of Happy Days…."

"To... to free myself? The… Happy Days? Everyone is dead, Grandmother… Happy Days don't exist… This world is so cruel… I want to die…."

The tears began to flow down Pü's mask again.

"Happy Days for others, Pü, not for you. For the hominkind…."

"Grandmother, I do not...."

Under Pü's fingers, there was nothing but bone now. The gaunt skin had turned gray. Only her eyes, through her cracked mask, still glowed with life.

"Listen to me Pü, I have not much longer to go…. Don't mourn the dead, mourn the living instead. For this plague has not only affected our stump, but all of Atys…. No one could have predicted this cataclysm. Not me, not even the Kamis. Your father was mistaken, this event was not a kamic trial. My child, today the cards have been completely reshuffled…. This is a chance. A chance to fight the Sacred War your way…. Preserving your own free will. So take the dice, the dagger, the tebori and the amber cube containing the secrets of the Black Cult…. Take them and go find your companions of destiny…."

Dust began to fall from the witch's body and rise into the air like incense. Pü stood up and put his hand under his ancestor's head. Her tears fell on Grandmother Bä-Bä's decrepit mask and mingled with the ash. The flames in her eyes flickered, then faded.

"Don't leave me, Grandmother... I need help."

The flames in the grandmother's eyes flared up again, and she abruptly straightened her head. Her expression had changed dramatically. She seemed to be animated with a new vitality.

"Listen to me! You must find them. You must find the Fyros then the Matissa. Listen to me Kal! Find Damakian and Rory! Find them! Without them, you will not be able to fight the Sacred War!"

A chill ran down Pü's spine. That voice. That voice, that voice that had spoken those words. It was not Grandmother Bä-Bä's. The witch began to convulse and chant incomprehensible words. Her eyes rolled back in their sockets. Pü held her wrist tightly and put his other hand behind her head to support her.

"Kal? Pull yourself together, Grandmother, don't abandon me! I am Pü! Remember?!"

Pü tried to calm the old woman, but the trance continued for a few seconds before finally stopping on its own. Silence fell, and the dying, lethargic, homina stared into Pü's eyes again. She was eying him, dumbfounded. Drawing on her last bit of strength, she raised a skeletal arm and touched her throat. She whispered.

"This name… Whose is it? And these memories… are they real?"

Pü stared at her in turn, full of incomprehension. And without his knowing why, a stunned look appeared behind the mask of the venerable Zorai. She sank to the ground, almost smiling. Pü went with her and leaned toward her.

"Oh… I see… I see, my child…. Everything repeats itself, for nothing is certain…. He is groping…. He is doubting, himself too…. Courage, Pü…. Courage…. You will find a way, I trust you…."

All at once, her skin disintegrated into a cloud of ashes, leaving behind only a cartilaginous mask and a worn skeleton. A worn skeleton, the body of his mother and the head of his brother.

-–—o§O§o—–-

"Boy, wake up."

"Pü Fu-Tao, wake up!"

"Damn it, I know you can hear me! Pull yourself together, boy!"

Pü opened his eyelids. With a blank stare, he swept the interior of the hut. No one was there. He was alone. He hunched a little more against his mother's swollen body, clutching his brother's bloodless head to his heart.

"If you think you can ignore me forever, then you don't know my tenacity! Get up and attend to the funeral rites of your loved ones. Your flesh belongs to you, you have the right to defile it. But you cannot dishonor theirs by leaving them to decay!"

Pü stood up and looked around again. He had heard that melodious, masculine voice before. That low, slightly haughty tone. That stern way of speaking. Severe but fair.

"That's it. Raise your head my boy, straighten up! That famous night, Life did not spare you. But Death did. And as shattered as you are, you don't desire it, I saw that in you."

No one. There was definitely no one. Pü gripped the horns of his mask.

"That's it, I'm going insane, I hear voices," he thought.

"You're not insane, boy. Everyone hears voices. Every morning, when you wake up, when you are reluctant to leave your bed, a voice brings you motivation. When you set your jewelry, another helps you focus. Everyone hears voices. One's own voice, foreign voices, voices of gods… So what does it matter? What matters is the advise the voice provides. And here I ardently advise you to stand up!"

Without understanding why, Pü obeyed. Mechanically, he stood up. He was nauseous, his legs were numb and he smelled of urine and carrion. How many days had he been lying here? He was hungry and thirsty. Still holding his mask, he swept the large room with his eyes once more.

"You're not real, you're just a voice in my head!"

"Of course I am a voice in your head, I am not hidden behind a curtain! But tell me, why should that mean I'm not real?"

Pü remained silent for a few moments. The voice was trying to confuse him. There was a blank, then he resumed.

"Who are you, if you are real?"

"Ah, that's an interesting question. Although we met a few years ago, my memory will only come back to you when you don't need me anymore. In the meantime, you know what you have to do: prepare the funeral rite for your loved ones. But first of all, please, wash up!"

And again, Pü obeyed. The days that followed were a strange and terrible time. At times, aware of the cruel reality, the young Zorai went through depressive episodes, accompanied by panic attacks. During these moments, the voice was of considerable help. It kept him from sinking. These difficult episodes were interspersed with phases where, as if outside himself, Pü would mechanically get on with the task. He found and embalmed the one hundred and fifty-eight bodies of the one hundred and fifty-eight members of the tribe. He collected the one hundred and fifty-eight seeds of life and froze them in a single cube of amber. He carefully removed the one hundred and thirty-one masks from the faces of the one hundred and thirty-one adults before covering them with a protective layer of amber. He cleaned the village's places of worship, including the Ceremonial Square. He restored and straightened the broken totem pole, on which only the masks of those who had respected the precepts of the Black Cult of Ma-Duk all their lives were fixed, and covered it with new masks. His father's, uncle's, brother's, Grandma Bä-Bä's and mother's masks were on top when he was done, but to him, they were all heroes now. Finally, he put the tiara he had made for his mother before the invasion on her mask and buried the amber cube at the base of the totem pole.

When the fateful moment of the tattoo arrived, Pü was almost relieved. He knew that the ordeal would be painful, perhaps even more so than the growing of the mask. Perhaps enough, therefore, to make him forget, forever (or at least for a few moments) this terrible night. If only… He looked at his mask, still so white, in the reflection of a basin of water. Holding the tebori with his left hand and holding his chin with the one mutilated seven years earlier by the Matis general Sirgio di Rolo, he applied the tip of the tool, previously soaked in charcoal ink, against his thumb. The object consisted of a thin taleng rod to which a row of thin amber needles was attached. Pü carefully wedged the point between his thumb and chin. He was ready. He took a deep breath, and with a precise gesture, executed a sharp movement to perforate the cartilage. A powerful flash of pain crossed his spine. Removing the tool, he leaned over the basin: a new little black pigment now adorned the bottom of his mask. He still had so much to tattoo. So much to suffer. So much to forget. Suffer to forget. Yes, he wanted to. Just for that, he was ready to become Black Mask. Intoxicated with pain, Pü covered his entire mask in only a few hours, without ever stopping. He was thrown back into the twilight abyss that had revealed itself to him during the ceremony of his mask's growth, more than seven years before. The same bubbling void. The same liturgical chants of his ancestors. That same Black Kami, who was taking him to the depths of the world. That same sparkling heart, located at the center of Atys, which was irrigating with a primordial energy every chip of wood and piece of flesh that was within its reach. Ma-Duk, the unspeakable.

When he regained consciousness, his senses still numb from the pain, Pü did not even bother to consult his reflection in the basin. He gathered his belongings and, without taking the time to meditate one last time in front of the memorial totem, sealed the entrances to the stump with explosives, so that no one could ever enter it again. For the first time in many days, and for the last time in his life, Pü was to leave his home. At this terrible thought, his heartbeat quickened.

"Calm down, my boy, I'm here," he heard the stern voice that had once awakened him from his desperate torpor.

"I don't know what to do…. Grandmother Bä-Bä, on the verge of death, even though she seemed to have fallen into a delirium, commanded me to find a Fyros and a Matissa first," answered Pü in a trembling voice.

"Your ancestor urged you to travel, so travel! Westward, over the Great Mountain, to Trykoth, the magnificent region of the Lakes, whose waters stretch as far as the eye can see! Then further north on the coast, to Karavia, the Holy City, built on the site of the meeting between Jena and Zachini, the first king of the Matis! Then to the east, on the high green plateaus of the Kingdom of Matia, where you have already had the opportunity to get lost! And finally to the northwest, beyond the Munshia, into the arid boreal regions and deep canyons of the Fyros desert… But if I were you, I would start by visiting Zoran in search of survivors."

Pü, as if anaesthetized by the magnitude of the task before him, did not pick up on the heresy and focused solely on the end of the tirade. Zoran, the capital of the Zorai people. He wondered what had happened to the rest of his people. Zoran may have been protected from homin attacks by thick walls, but there was nothing to keep it from an attack from the depths. More importantly, if even the strongest warriors of her tribe had given up the ghost, how could the regular Zorai Theocracy guard be expected to have repelled the scourge? Hope was all he had left. Pü raised his head and looked around. The jungle was strangely quiet. No crickets chirping. Nor birds singing. Nor distant howls of predators. Only that characteristic acrid smell, which would forever mark his nightmares. Life seemed to have died out forever, and in the distance, monsters seemed to teem. Pü, his throat tight, tried to concentrate on something else:

"Why are you helping me?"

"Because, my boy, our souls are linked," the voice answered calmly.

Pü swallowed.

"Still won't tell me who you are?"

The voice turned to laughter.

"If you haven't figured it out, you still need me. All good things come to those who wait, my boy."

The Black Mask breathed a sigh of relief. He didn't want to know. He didn't want to be alone. Everything. Everything but loneliness.

  Belenor Nebius, narrator

Portal The Great Library
Zoraï's Portal

Notes from the author
Hello dear readers. I am Belenor Nebius, Fyros of sap, author of The Sacred War, scribe of the Disciples of the Black Cult of Ma-Duk and unfailing friend of Pü Fu-Tao. With this ninth chapter, the first part of our story ends. Opened when Pü was only a few months old, it ends with the cataclysmic event that ravaged the Old Lands in year 2481 of Jena., later known as the Great Swarming. I had to wait many years before Pü dared to tell me about his childhood. As you can imagine, this period revived painful memories in him. Indeed, while I have been able, during our discussions, to guess some happy, tender past moments, the violent events were the ones he was speking of with the most accuracy, hence the dark atmosphere of these early chapters.
The following part will tell the story of the journey of the Black Mask, which is just as dark, his encounters with those who will become his allies or his enemies, and ultimately, with me. I will never forget this moment, which transformed me irreversibly. At this point in your reading, Pü is looking for a Fyros and a Matissa. The more erudite among you will have noticed the names Damakian, Rory, and even Kalbatcha. If these names probably do not evoke anything to most of you, their mention may have puzzled some of you. Let them know that I understand their feelings completely. They were mine when, already old and finally arrived on the New Lands, I met by chance some of these homins, who in many points, reminded me of the group that Pü, me and so many others had formed once. Homins that we had never met, and whose names had been revealed to us, long before they were born. Was it a coincidence, a cruel joke, or the very embodiment of fate? Even today, as I write these few words, I cannot say. But as you will see later, this strangeness is only one of the many that punctuated our journey, and which in so many different ways link our past to your present. Ma-Duk watches over each fragment of matter of Atys, and beyond space and time, weaves between them the web of his Great Work.