Chapter 18 18: Teaser(Contains Spoilers)

This is not a chapter, but more like a future plot teaser I have prepared for you guys. It contains a big spoiler , and a glimpse of what is to come. This is still about 50 chapters away or so. I have been stiching together a all new timeline and connecting events from old era and new . So far, it's looking good and shaping up nicely. Be warned, after reading this, you might suffer from a case of intense craving for more chapters , but they won't arrive fast enough. You might throw your phone, smash your keyboards, but the damage will be done.... Muhahaha . . . . . . Btw, tomorrow I'll post a bit late. Super tired, need sleep. . . . . . . . . Still not going back? That's hell you're walking into. . . . . . . . Aight, there you go. Don't say I didn't warn ya.. . . . In a far distant future.... A cold wind blew across the mountain, sharp and unforgiving. The air was thin, and the sky above was pale and still. Snow rested on the rocks nearby, untouched by anything living. On a patch of flattened ground near the edge of a cliff, a young man sat alone on a bed of thorns. His body trembled slightly, but he didn't move. His breathing was slow, steady, even as blood ran from his back and legs. The thorns pierced through the thin layer of cloth he wore and dug deep into his skin. Every breath hurt. Every second that passed was another moment of pain. But he didn't cry out. He didn't scream. His face was pale, jaw clenched tightly. His black hair was damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead. His lips were pressed into a thin line, and his fists rested on his knees, knuckles white from how tightly they were clenched. He was meditating. Or trying to. But his mind wasn't calm. All he could think about was pain. Not just the pain in his body, but the pain in his heart. The despair. The helplessness. The anger that came after. All of it boiled inside him, and no matter how hard he tried to push it down, it stayed there, burning quietly, always ready to rise. He wanted revenge. He wanted justice. And more than anything, he wanted to never feel powerless again. Behind him, quiet footsteps approached. They barely made a sound, but the young man heard them. A calm voice spoke. "Ignoring pain isn't salvation, my dear disciple." The voice was gentle but full of wisdom, carrying across the cold wind like it didn't care about the weather. "You must accept it. Embrace it. And move on, even if it tries to hold you back. You can't live in the past forever." The young man didn't turn his head. He kept his eyes shut, kept his breath steady, but his jaw tightened more. He spoke through gritted teeth. "I don't want to move on," he said. "I want to remember. I want to take everything I felt, everything I lost, and turn it into strength. That's why I begged for your teaching. I want to make it into a weapon for justice." The man who stood behind him said nothing for a moment. He looked young, maybe a bit older than the boy in front of him. His face was smooth, without a single wrinkle. But his eyes were old. Not just tired—but full of things seen, things learned, and things let go. His hair was white as snow, and he wore simple robes, plain and a little worn from time. He wore a reddish sunglass that hid his serene eyes. He finally spoke after a while. "No one saves us but ourselves," he said. "No one can, and no one may. We ourselves must walk the path." He stepped forward, his hands behind his back. "I am just a wandering soul. I can't save you from yourself." The young man opened his eyes then. His gaze was sharp and full of fire. "I don't wish to be saved," he said. "I want to become something more than just a person. I want to be a symbol. I want them all to feel the pain I felt. The fear. The veangence. That's the path I've chosen to walk." The older man walked up beside him, then slowly reached out and ruffled the young man's hair with one hand. His touch was gentle. Soft. "Remember this always," he said, his voice steady and kind. "Hatred does not end with more hatred. Only with love. That's the eternal rule." The young man scrunched his eyebrows but didn't interrupt. "Don't blind yourself with grief. Don't let hatred guide you. And don't stay attached to what's already gone." He looked up at the cloudy sky above them. "The root of suffering is attachment," he said. "Don't live in the past. Don't dream only of the future. Focus your mind on the present. On what's in front of you." Then he turned back to the young man. There was a small, gentle smile on his face. It was full of radiance, and it carried warmth. "I believe you can find the light," he said softly. "Even with the darkness you carry, even with the past you've lived, you will find your way. I have faith in you, my precious disciple." For a moment, it felt like the wind itself grew warmer. Like the whole world brightened just a little. The quiet, peaceful strength in his smile seemed to push back against the cold around them. As if the world has achieved Nirvana. The young man looked away, blinking quickly. His eyes were wet. He didn't want to cry, not here, not now. But the warmth in his mentor's voice reached a part of him that he'd tried to lock away for a long time. It hurt, but it also felt like something inside him was loosening. Not breaking, just unburdened. He remembered clearly, the day this man found him. He had escaped from his old mentor who betrayed his trust, broken and bleeding, barely able to walk. He should have died. He thought he would. But this man had found him lying at the foot of the mountain and carried him here. He fed him. Treated his wounds. Watched over him while he slept. Never once asked for anything in return. The young man had tried to repay him. He'd offered money, services, even to take him to his home and gift him generously. But the man had only laughed and said, "I'm already the wealthiest man in the world." And somehow, it hadn't felt like a joke. There was something different about him, something hard to explain. He looked like a man in his early Thirties, but he spoke with the wisdom of someone far older. And people listened to him. The villagers below the mountain respected him deeply. Even though they had very little, they always brought him offerings—vegetables, fruit, even handmade blankets. Even children would rush to share their sweets with him. They bowed to him with respect when they saw him, not because they were told to, but because they wanted to. They smiled when they saw him, every single time. A pure smile of joy and peace. The young man wiped his eyes quickly with the back of his hand and sniffed, pretending nothing had happened. He didn't turn around. He stared straight ahead. "Master," he said after a moment as if nothing happened. "You still haven't stopped pretending to be Buddha, have you? You're stealing his quotes again. You should start coming up with your own lines." The older man froze for a second. Then the soft smile disappeared. A small vein popped on his forehead. Without a word, he smacked the young man lightly on the top of the head. "Ow," the boy muttered, rubbing it. The man turned away and began walking off, hands behind his back as he grumbled. "Stupid brats these days... No respect for their elders. People would kill to have me offer a lesson to them ." The young man stood up slowly, wincing as the thorns pulled out of his skin. Blood dripped from his legs and soaked the thorns beneath. He took a deep breath, then let it out as he started walking away. His steps were slow but steady. His back straight. yet he couldn't stop himself from watching his mentor's back that alway gave him a glimpse of hope. As he walked away, the bed of thorns remained behind, stained with red. The blood had spread outward, drop by drop, until it formed a small, strange shape. If someone had looked closely... they might have noticed. It looked like the shape of a bat. **** So , Savior's identity is revealed kinda, although many already guessed it. I have gone for the Record of Ragnarok version of Buddha, he just looks so cool!