Ragnarok of emel

They say, in the taverns of the North as well as in the alleys of Roman cities, a legend has traveled through the ages.

An island, they say, exists beyond the tumultuous seas. An island where the gods themselves reside: the island of Emel. There, no blood flows, no tears fall, and eternal peace reigns, like a dream offered to mortals. Warriors, poets, and kings have always hoped it was real. But centuries have buried the legend beneath the weight of wars, famines, and forgetfulness.

Until the day, in a distant land, a strange fruit was born. A fruit of ever-changing colors, of unreal beauty, which seemed to breathe on its own.

Whoever dared to taste it felt their blood burn and their flesh transform. A power comparable to that of the gods awakened within them. Then the people named this fruit: the Fruit of Emel, or the Fruit of the Gods.

And those who devoured it became more than men. They were called the Warriors of Emel.

Yet few still believe in these stories. Few mortals have ever seen a true Warrior of Emel with their own eyes.

And so, it is in this world, caught between myth and doubt, that our story begins…

---

In a small remote village, in the northern lands, a voice rose angrily in a modest wooden house.

— “Amal! Another fight?! Do you think I have nothing better to do than watch you come home every night with dust on your face and torn clothes?!”

Amal, ten years old, rolled her eyes, arms crossed, her mouth already ready to retort. She had long tangled black hair, sharp eyes, and an air of constant defiance. In her mother’s arms rested her baby brother, asleep against her chest.

— “But it’s not my fault, mom! It was Luck again who started it!” she protested, stamping her foot.

— “Luck, Luck, Luck… You only ever talk about him!” her mother sighed. “I’ve already told you not to respond to his provocations.”

— “But he annoys me! Always mocking me! What am I supposed to do?!”

— “Do not fight, Amal. That’s what you’re supposed to do.”

Amal looked away, annoyed. Her little brother stirred slightly, and their mother tightened her hold, exhausted.

— “You’re grounded tomorrow. That’s all.” she declared firmly.

At these words, Amal almost jumped.

— “What?! No, mom, please! Tomorrow we’re having a treasure hunt with everyone! I have to go, I must go!”

— “A treasure hunt?” her mother repeated wearily. “Do you think you’ll find jewels in the woods, maybe?”

— “But mom… I wanted to find something for dad! He’s coming back soon… and I wanted to give him a real treasure!”

A heavy silence fell. Amal’s mother sighed, tired but touched despite herself.

— “Your father doesn’t need a treasure. He just needs his daughter to stop fighting and causing me trouble.”

— “But… please…” Amal clasped her hands as if praying. Her eyes shone with determination.

Her mother hesitated, glanced at the dark roof of the house, then finally gave in.

— “Very well. But tomorrow, you listen to me before you leave. Understood?”

— “Promise!” Amal replied, jumping for joy.

---

The next day, as the first light of dawn barely touched the village, Amal leapt out of the house.

— “Amal! Wait, I wanted to tell you—!” her mother began.

But the girl had already vanished, running at full speed toward the woods. Her mother let out a long sigh.

— “What a hothead…” she murmured, rocking her baby.

---

In the heart of the woods, four children had gathered near an old oak tree.

Luck, eleven, tall for his age, with a realistic gaze and always ready to argue with Amal.

Turq, a frail boy also eleven, pale and fragile. He constantly wore the same wool scarf to protect against the cold.

And Lylia, twelve, the oldest, composed and thoughtful, but with a mischievous sparkle in her eyes, as if she enjoyed being drawn into adventures without ever going too far.

— “You’re late again, Amal!” Luck shouted as soon as she arrived. “Bet you got another beating from your mom!”

— “Say that again, will you!” Amal immediately snapped, stepping toward him. “Do you want me to deal with you now?!”

— “Always ready to punch, huh? You think you’re a warrior, but you cry first!” Luck retorted.

Amal clenched her fists, ready to leap at him.

— “Enough!” Lylia cut in, separating them. “You two are unbearable. We’re here for the treasure hunt, not for your bickering.”

— “Tch…” Amal grumbled, turning her head.

Turq, who had said nothing until then, raised his hand.

— “Listen… this time, it won’t be just a simple hunt. I found a… special place.”

— “What now?” Luck asked, skeptical.

— “Follow me. You’ll see.”

After pushing aside thick vines and creeping bushes, they discovered a dark cavity hidden beneath the roots. Inside lay an old, beached boat—broken, but very real.

— “A… ship?! Here?!” exclaimed Lylia, her mouth agape.

— “But… how did it even get here?!” Amal’s eyes sparkled.

— “It looks… like a pirate ship,” said Turq, his voice strangely serious.

Amal was already eager to dash forward.

— “What are we waiting for?! Let’s go in!”

But before moving, she cast a worried glance at Turq.

— “Wait… are you sure you’ll be okay? This place is damp, dark… and you know you get sick easily…”

— “I’ll be fine,” Turq replied calmly. “We won’t stay long.”

— “If he says it’s okay, let’s trust him,” added Lylia, though a little uneasy.

They entered the wreck, the wood creaking under their steps. They searched for a long time, lifting planks, checking every corner. But there was nothing. Lylia finally sighed in boredom.

— “All that for nothing… there’s nothing here.”

— “That can’t be true! There must be something!” Luck grumbled, kicking an empty crate.

Meanwhile, Turq had stopped in front of the underground river that ran alongside the wreck. The water glimmered faintly, illuminated by luminescent plants growing along the walls. He was staring at something… but remained silent.

Amal, on the other hand, let out a triumphant shout.

— “Look!”

In her hand, she held a tarnished but beautiful gold necklace.

— “What?! You found that?!” Luck shouted, furious. “Why is it always you?!”

— “Because I’m the best, that’s all!” Amal replied with a provocative smile.

Lylia burst out laughing and congratulated Amal, while Luck fumed, swearing he would find a treasure too. Finally, the day ended, and the children parted ways. Amal returned home with Turq, the necklace clutched tightly in her hand.

---

At home, her mother and Turq’s older sister, Maï, were waiting.

— “Amal!” her mother shouted as she entered. “Do you think I don’t know where you’ve been?! And you, Turq! You know very well you’re fragile, why do you always go out?!”

Maï, wealthy and elegant despite her young age, frowned.

— “Turq, I don’t understand… I bought you every toy you wanted, the most expensive in town. What more do you want?!”

Turq shrugged, a small smile on his lips.

— “I’d like you to buy me… an Amal.”

Silence fell for a second. Then Amal’s mother burst out laughing.

— “Oh, that… You’ll never be able to buy her.”

— “What?!” Amal shouted, blushing like a tomato. “Nonsense!”

— “And why not?” Maï asked innocently, confused. “It should be possible… right?”

— “Never in my life!” Amal’s mother replied, laughing even harder.

Everyone laughed for a moment, and the tension dissipated.

Then Amal timidly showed the necklace she had found. Her mother’s eyes widened.

— “Amal… where did you find that?!”

— “In the ship, mom. I want to give it to dad when he comes back.”

Amal’s mother sighed, both worried and resigned.

— “Very well… but be careful, my daughter. Keep that necklace if that’s what you want. And now, to bed. Your father will be home soon.”

Amal smiled, clutching her treasure.

And in her child’s heart, she promised herself she would become strong enough to be worthy, to become a great warrior one day.

---

In the south of the great frontier, far from the peaceful village where Amal grew up, the earth trembled under the clash of weapons. The roar of men, the glint of swords, axes striking shields—all merged into deafening chaos. The battlefield was a sea of screams and blood, where every warrior fought as if the world would end that day.

Yet, apart from the tumult, in the cool shadow of a northern forest, two men watched.

One, with piercing eyes and a slender silhouette, was named Krone. A recognized strategist of the fortress, he was thoughtful, calculating, always seeking the flaw that would decide victory or defeat.

At his side stood a mountain of a man: Edem, a giant of two meters seventy, their most formidable asset.

Krone fixed his gaze on the battle, fingers gripping the hilt of his dagger.

— “Our men are tiring… If this continues, the Southerners will gain the upper hand.”

Edem crossed his arms and let out a deep sigh.

— “This war… always the same smell of blood and death. I’m tired, Krone. Tired of it all.”

The strategist slightly turned to him, a tired smile on his lips.

— “I know, my friend. But hold on. After this battle, the kingdom promised you two years of rest. You’ll finally see your family again.”

The giant turned his gaze away from the corpses littering the field. His dark, weary eyes briefly clouded with uncertainty.

— “I hope it’s not just lies…” he murmured.

Then, with a gesture, he lifted his immense iron armor. The plates clanged heavily with each movement, as if singing the march of destiny. He then seized his titanic sword, a blade so long and massive that no other man could have lifted it. To him, it was merely a natural extension of his arm.

His steps made the ground tremble as he left the forest’s shelter and entered the fray. Enemy warriors, seeing him, felt fear creep into their guts. Some instinctively stepped back, others shouted to bolster their courage.

— “It’s… him!” a Southern soldier choked. “The Giant… Edem!”

The Northern soldiers regained hope, galvanized by his mere presence.

Edem swung his sword in a broad arc. The very force of the blade made warriors stagger, and those it touched fell, swept away like straw. Another group dared approach him:

With a single sweep, he cleaved them, sending blood and steel flying.

The screams grew louder.

— “The Battlefield Razer!” some shouted. “Edem the Giant!”

But soon, from the South’s side, another roar arose. Their champion had entered the bloody arena.

A colossus, too, wielding not one but two massive axes. His eyes glinted with madness, and a terrifying smile split his bearded face.

— “Eneud…” Krone whispered in horror from the forest edge. “The Axe Madman.”

The Southern warrior tore through the ranks, indiscriminately slaughtering any enemy who dared cross his path.

Soon, his blazing eyes met Edem’s. A heavy silence fell over the battlefield, as if even the war itself held its breath.

Eneud raised an axe, pointing at his opponent.

— “Edem the Giant!” he roared. “I came here for you alone!”

Edem stepped forward, his gaze hard.

— “Then come, Eneud. Show me your madness.”

The clash was titanic.

Sword against axes. Metal against metal. Each strike shook the ground, rattled the air, shattered eardrums. The warriors on both sides ceased fighting, hypnotized by this legendary duel.

Edem thrust; Eneud parried with both blades. Eneud spun, his axes tracing a deadly arc, but Edem blocked with a powerful swing. Sparks flew, illuminating the awestruck faces.

Each impact sounded like thunder.

— “Harder!” Eneud shouted, drunk on combat. “Show me your true power!”

— “You want it? Then take it!” Edem yelled, bringing his blade down like a bolt of lightning.

After a titanic battle that seemed to last an eternity, Edem finally disarmed his opponent. His blade skimmed Eneud’s throat, who laughed despite the blood flowing from his bruised arms.

— “Magnificent…! Yes! That’s it! That’s what I was waiting for! Kill me, Edem! Give me the death I deserve and open the gates of Valhalla!”

Edem, panting, stared long at his rival. But instead of finishing him, he lowered his sword.

— “No.” he said firmly. “Dying now would be an insult to this battle.”

— “What?!” Eneud’s eyes widened.

— “You want a worthy fight? Then live. Heal your wounds. And next time we meet… we’ll continue where we left off.”

The Madman was silent for a second. Then his lips curled into a carnivorous smile.

— “Hah… Hahaha! Fine, Edem the Giant! I grant you this pact!”

Turning to his men, he shouted:

— “Fall back! The war can wait for our next battle!”

With these words, the Southern army retreated. The Northerners cheered, shouting victory, singing Edem’s name.

Krone joined his friend, grabbing his shoulder with emotion.

— “You saved our lands today, Edem. I swear it: you will have your rest. Two years, near your family.”

Edem nodded, but his gaze drifted toward the sky. He no longer thought of glory… only of peace.

---

Meanwhile, in a very different place, Amal stared at the necklace she had found in the wreck. Sitting by her window, she caressed the tarnished gold of the jewel, thinking of her father, away defending the North.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a gentle tap-tap on the glass.

She jumped. Outside, Turq stood, pale and fragile as always.

— “Turq?! What are you doing here?!” she whispered as she opened the window. “You should be at home! If Maï sees you, she’ll kill me!”

— “I wanted to see you,” he replied simply, with his usual calm.

— “You’re unbearable…” sighed Amal as she stepped outside. “You never take anything seriously.”

Turq gave a small smile.

— “Come. I found something. A treasure. I wanted to show you.”

Amal hesitated. She knew that Maï, her protective older sister, would be furious if she found out Turq had ventured outside again.

— “Turq… if she finds out, I’ll be in trouble.”

— “Don’t you trust me?” he asked softly, offering his hand.

She stared at him for a moment, her heart beating fast. Then she gave in.

— “…Alright. But if we get caught, I’ll say it was your idea!”

— “That’s fine with me.” he replied, laughing softly.

---

They went to the wreck’s cave. The damp air still smelled of moss and rotting wood. Amal frowned.

— “Okay, what do you want to show me?”

Without answering, Turq dashed toward the underground river and plunged abruptly.

— “TURQ!” Amal shouted, panicked. “You’re crazy! Get out, you’ll get sick!”

A few seconds later, he resurfaced, soaked and panting, but triumphant. In his arms, he held a small chest.

The metal of the lock gleamed with a silvery, faux-golden shine.

— “See?” he said with a mischievous grin. “I spotted it last time… but I wanted you to be there when I took it out.”

Amal, eyes wide, bit her lip.

— “You’re… completely reckless. But… thank you.”

Turq shook his head.

— “No. I should thank you. You gave me this scarf. It has always protected me. So I wanted to give you something in return.”

Amal, moved, took the chest he offered. Her hands trembled.

— “What’s inside?”

— “No idea. But given the place… maybe a real pirate treasure.”

Trembling, Amal opened the box. Inside lay a strange fruit. Its skin glowed with a soft, almost transparent light. Unintelligible inscriptions seemed to dance across its surface.

Turq frowned.

— “It’s… weird. I’ve never seen a fruit like this.”

But Amal, fascinated, reached out. Without thinking, she brought it to her mouth and took a bite.

She bit into the fruit. It tasted ordinary — like water. Yet when she swung her fist playfully at Turq, it landed with a weight and speed that startled her just a little. “Huh… that’s strange,” she whispered

— “AMAL!” Turq screamed, shocked. “What are you doing?!”

— “I… I couldn’t refuse a gift from my best friend!” she said, mouth full.

She swallowed, and her eyes widened.

— “What if it’s poisoned?” she stammered, coughing. “Why didn’t you tell me before?!”

Turq burst out laughing.

— “You’re truly incorrigible, Amal.”

Their laughter echoed in the cave, light and sincere. Yet, something had just changed.

---

A few days later, the news came: Turq was leaving the village. His health had worsened, and his sister Maï had decided to take him to the city, where she worked, hoping to find better care.

Amal, in tears, ran to him as he was about to leave.

— “You can’t leave me, Turq!” she sobbed, holding him tightly.

— “Amal…” he said weakly, a sad smile on his lips. “We will meet again. I promise.”

— “Really?” she asked, desperate.

— “Really.” he confirmed, placing a trembling hand on her shoulder. “When we meet again, I want to see how much you’ve grown.”

Amal nodded, eyes brimming with tears.

She watched him go, her heart tightening like never before.

And in her chest, the mysterious fruit she had eaten already began to whisper.

---

After the excitement over the chest and the mysterious fruit, life in the village returned to a calmer rhythm. Days passed simply and harshly: work in the fields, repairing nets, quiet laughter around a fire in the evenings. Amal grew up in this small world of wood and grass; she was still a child, but her gaze had changed—it carried determination.

One ordinary morning, the door of the house opened without warning. Edem had returned.

Shouts of surprise erupted: Amal’s mother dropped her work, the younger siblings rushed over, and Amal was lifted by a heavy hand that held her as if she were a feather. She laughed, breathless, wriggling in the embrace.

— “Papa!” she exclaimed, delighted, as the rest of the household pressed around the giant.

Edem set her down, holding her close once more, a broad but tired smile at the edge of his lips. He ran a hand over Amal’s head, looked at her mother, looked at the children with that mixture of gentleness and gravity that made him so paternal. When Amal handed him the necklace she had found, he took it, astonished.

— “Where did you find this?” Edem asked, eyes bright with genuine surprise.

— “Don’t worry, Papa, I’m a real treasure hunter. One day I’ll be strong like you.” Amal spoke with the certainty of a child—the certainty of someone who has yet to feel the weight of the world.

Edem chuckled, a small, light laugh, and placed a hand on his daughter’s shoulder.

— “Really?” His voice deepened. “Very well. Between the house and the hedge, there are stumps and roots. We will train.”

— “Now?” Amal exclaimed, bouncing with excitement.

— “Now,” Edem replied, with a firm but tender tone.

They stepped behind the house. The improvised training area smelled of packed earth. Amal took a wooden sword, gripping the handle as if it were real. She stood before her father, ready to show that she was more than just a child.

She attacked, frantic, rapid strikes—childish duel rage, the will to be recognized. Edem only had to move, parrying with his palm, sometimes deflecting the wood with the flat of his blade. He moved with the economy of motion of a warrior conserving his strength. Amal’s strikes became more precise; a new speed flowed through her gestures, faster, more exact. Edem shivered in surprise.

With a measured movement, he decided to show her something: the difference between power and promise. He left an opening, then anticipated, passing behind her. Amal turned quickly—and found only the imposing silhouette of her father in front of her, ready to stop her with a blow that seemed capable of splitting the earth. The combat froze; Edem’s movement halted at the last second. Amal stood stunned, panting, her heart racing.

Around them, her mother, little brother, and little sister watched in silence. The scene carried something sacred.

— “You… you’re incredible, Papa.” said Amal, still in shock. “You must have faced hundreds of enemies.” She smiled, admiringly.

Edem sat on a rock, wiping the sweat from his brow. His laughter faded into a sigh.

— “No. War is not what you imagine… It’s not feats to tell for glory. War devours men. It takes what you have best, Amal.”

— “Then why do you fight?” she asked, naive and curious.

— “To protect what must be protected. So that you can live.” Edem laid his manly hand on his daughter’s head. “You know, I once heard of an island when I was younger. The island of Emel. They say the gods rest there, and no one knows war. One day, perhaps… I will take your mother, you, your siblings. But it’s a legend.”

— “False?”

— “Maybe…” he said with a sad smile. “Maybe not.”

— “But it’s not important; let’s go back before your mother worries,” he added.

---

Days passed. One morning, a letter arrived for Edem, a sealed fold stamped with Krone’s seal. His expression darkened as he read it; a shadow passed over his eyes. He read aloud in a low voice, repeating the harsh words: “Vipers… target your village… claim the Fruit of Emel…”

The name sent a chill through him. Vipers: the most feared assassin, rumored to be not entirely human. Edem’s mind raced: if someone was seeking a Fruit of Emel in their village, it was either madness or proof such a fruit existed. Uncertainty made him ready for anything.

He set out on a long search, checking house by house, asking the village chief, exploring the forest, the pirate shipwreck cave. He ran his hands over every plank, every corner. Night fell, and he stopped empty-handed; his eyes again met the letter in his mind. If there was a fruit, it had to be found. If not, he had to prepare. Doubt gnawed at him.

Weeks passed. Despite everything, the village prepared the Warrior Festival—a long-standing tradition celebrating protection and strength, not for glory but for life. Amal, her mother, her little brother, and little sister prepared, combining fabrics and smiles. The scent of sweet bread floated, lamps were hung along the streets, the large table was set.

On the other side of the village, Luck did not join. He stayed with his father, the gatekeeper. He wanted to remain close to the man who held the threshold between the village and the unknown.

— “Papa, I’m big enough now. I can be a warrior, right?” Luck asked, trying to prove his worth.

Luck’s father smiled, compassionate but firm.

— “Being a warrior isn’t about size, son. It’s your mind, your composure… and the decision to protect when it’s needed. Go enjoy the festival instead.”

Luck hesitated, remaining by the gate, like a sentinel. Around him, the festival murmured softly: songs, laughter, the gentle joy of a cloudless night. Yet, in the distance, near the treeline, something emerged on the horizon: figures, horses, gleaming armor.

The dawn still carried a hint of summer the night had not fully erased, but tension rose like a shiver. The group approached the gate: mounted men, stern gazes, unhurried. Their leader dismounted. He carried a cold presence, a joyless smile.

— “I am Vipers. I demand passage.” His voice cut through the joy like a blade.

Luck’s father placed a hand on his blade and answered calmly:

— “You will not enter without the chief’s permission. Period.”

Vipers laughed mockingly, then stepped forward. Luck felt his muscles tense; he wanted to react. He stood in front of his father, fists clenched.

— “Papa! Let me… I can—” he began.

But when Luck met Vipers’ gaze, something icy clamped his throat, freezing him. A visceral fear paralyzed him: the first true fear, the kind remembered for a lifetime. He felt death drawing near, possible. His legs gave way; he sank to his knees, unable to move. His body felt cold as stone.

— “Step back, Luck,” his father commanded, but his words sounded weak, powerless. The boy did not move.

Around them, Vipers’ men watched, some drawing weapons, ready to fight. The situation teetered on the edge; the village could fall at any moment. Then, as if from nowhere, a figure appeared before the gate: Edem.

He had returned, armor worn for the last time—or at least for tonight. His heavy steps, impressive stature made the men recoil. He took his place before the entrance, imposing his authority by presence alone.

— “No one will pass these gates without facing me.” His voice carried the certainty of a rock.

Vipères turned, irritated and amused at the same time. He broke the silence with a sneer:

— “Very well. A duel. I was hoping for a spectacle anyway.”

Edem proposed the rules: if Vipères accepted and won, his men would pass without fatal injuries; if Edem won, Vipères and his men would leave without discussion. Edem clarified firmly: for him, victory meant cutting off Vipères’ leg. For Vipères, victory meant Edem’s death.

Vipères smiled, thrilled at the prospect of facing a legend. The men took positions, forming a circle around the makeshift arena.

The fight began.

Edem attacked heavily, each strike measured, honed by years of war; he struck, swept, sought to unbalance. Vipères, on the other hand, was the embodiment of agility: he parried, slipped, moved silently. No unnecessary noise, only metallic clinks, footsteps crushing dust. Vipères almost danced around Edem, taunting him, evading attacks that many would have considered unstoppable.

Cleverly, Edem devised a tactic: he left deliberately memorable moves, repeating them so Vipères would think he had discerned a pattern. He waited for a predictable strike, a certain gesture, to trap his opponent.

The plan seemed to work: Vipères eventually positioned himself on the intended trajectory. Edem concentrated all his strength for a strike to the foot, aimed to cut at the base, destabilize, bring him down. But at the very moment Edem’s blade fell, something impossible happened: Vipères, already mid-leap, altered his posture in the air as if guided by an unseen force. He adjusted his center of gravity, twisted, and landed as though time itself had bent for him. Edem sensed, in that movement, that he was facing no ordinary man.

Then Vipères drew his weapon. But it was no ordinary blade: the sheath seemed to contain… nothing? An absence that unsettled the eye. When the weapon appeared, the light flowing beneath the guard was not cold steel: it was a dark red glow, like liquefied blood, forming a blade. Edem instinctively stepped back.

A bitter certainty struck him: Vipères was not an ordinary assassin. He was—Edem dared only think—an Emel Warrior. Tales of the Fruits of Emel spoke of impossible powers. Vipères, brandishing his blade, demonstrated he could manipulate his own blood, turning it into a weapon. His body moved inhumanly, more a puppet of fluid and will than a man.

Vipères laughed, venom in his voice.

— “You see poorly, don’t you?” he said calmly. “It’s normal. Since birth, I have been called Vipères. My blood… it’s a curse. Like a viper’s, it burns. But thanks to the gods—or what little they drop—I’ve learned to turn it into strength.”

The crimson blade clashed; strikes rained faster, sharper. Edem took wounds—some cuts that strangely closed, others bleeding dark red. He felt a heat deep in his strength. The battle became a deadly dance; every movement was a test of both fighters’ lives.

Confident in his power, Vipères attacked more fiercely. Edem, despite his cunning, received scratches. At a critical moment, slightly overwhelmed, Edem felt his head throb. His vision dimmed—the fatigue, exertion, blood trickling down his temples; all this made his presence waver. Vipères smiled triumphantly, certain of victory.

Then, in an unexpected move, Vipères made a mistake. He came too close, intoxicated by the sensation of having the upper hand. Edem, who had provoked this closeness by taking a calculated risk himself, seized the opportunity. With a giant’s motion, he grabbed Vipères’ thigh and, in a sharp, brutal strike—an age-old blade—he cut. Vipères’ leg detached with a horrific sound. Blood gushed like a torrent, and the scene froze.

The men around cried out. Some rushed forward to intervene; others stepped back, terrified. Vipères screamed, but in that scream was also control: he clenched his hand, focused his will on his own wound, and his blood, obeying, stopped flowing. He gathered it, halting the hemorrhage through a manipulation of fluid that made flesh a poem of the supernatural. He stood there, leg severed, face still furious.

Panic filled the air for a moment; then Vipères, panting and injured, maintained his pride. He rose like a fallen king and spoke in a cold tone:

— “I keep my word. We leave. But understand, Edem: you have not defeated me. You have only touched a viper. It bites harder than you think.”

And they left. The riders and their men regrouped and retreated, carrying their limping leader. Vipères bore his wound like an emblem.

Edem remained standing, leaning on his own wound. He had succeeded in protecting the village, driving away the threat—at the cost of his body. He stood like a rock, but his strength left him. Blood flowed, breathing became heavy. Luck, unable to tear himself from what he had just witnessed, walked toward him, trembling.

— “Edem…” he stammered, taking an uncertain step.

Frozen by fear, Luck found himself thrust into action: he supported the giant, as best he could, with arms too thin for such a mass. Luck’s heart pounded; his face had hardened from trauma that would not soon fade.

— “Call the healer!” Luck’s father shouted, rushing to fetch help.

Around them, some villagers hurried, trembling hands bringing tunics, cloths, compresses. But Edem, the giant still standing, held on a few moments longer. He looked at Luck, then turned his heavy eyes toward the sky. There was something solemn in that gaze, a wordless farewell.

— “Protect… the village.” he murmured, voice barely a whisper. Luck watched, tears mixed with dirt, unable to speak.

Edem tilted his head, and his entire body collapsed like a tower giving way under its own weight. The arms that had lifted her so many times went slack. He lay there, in dust and blood, having given more than he could hold.

At the festival on the mountain, the villagers looked up for the night’s tradition: the sky ignited with shooting stars, a moment when everyone counted and admired the comets. Sparks streaked through the velvet black like a rain of silver. Children smiled, dazzled. Amal, among them, blinked.

An old woman sitting near her extended a wrinkled hand and murmured, as if foretelling:

— “When a star explodes like this in the sky, it is said to be a sign that a great warrior has passed.” Her voice trembled, as if she still heard the echo of an ancient world.

Amal didn’t understand immediately; she watched the sparkles, fascinated. Later, the news arrived like a cold wind: Edem the Giant had fallen near the gate. The scene was described in breathless, short words: the duel, the leg torn off, Vipères’ flight, Edem’s collapse. The festival, in a corner, continued quietly, but something had changed forever. The legend of a man, a father, a giant, had ended in silence—and the village, saved, was orphaned of a man who had given his life for them.

Luck stood frozen, his gaze empty, still holding the hand of the man who had given everything. That night, he had faced fear as a master and defeat as a mirror. His father ran for help; others brought blankets, women wept, children huddled. The old woman who spoke of the stars wept silently as the sky continued to glitter, indifferent.

Edem, in the final beats of his heart, spoke only a few weak sounds. The last images he retained were Amal’s silhouette, the faces of his children, the home he had loved. He had preserved what he could: the life of the village. His own legend extinguished with him, like a star burning and falling.

The night remained long, and tomorrow’s sun would bear the heavy task of naming the absence. But in the hearts of the villagers—in the small house where a girl had offered a necklace found on a ship—a promise was born: they would remember. One day, they would tell children, grandchildren, what had happened, so Edem’s strength would live beyond death; so Luck’s fear would transform: into learning, the seed of a future warrior.

And on the mountain, the last sparks faded. An old woman clasped Amal’s hand and whispered softly, as if to herself:

— “He is gone. But his name will remain.”

The village, saved by a fallen giant, withdrew, heavy-hearted but alive. The stars, silent witnesses above, continued to illuminate this world of men and legends.

End of chapiter 1