Voidborn – Chapter 1: The Selection of Souls
The morning sun barely pierced through the haze that hung over Adarkwah Yadom city. Even at seven years old, Michael could feel the pulse of the world differently than other children. Today, he was not here to play or explore. Today, he was here to witness something that had not happened in centuries.
Before him loomed the legendary Matoyo Spaceship, known to all in whispers as A1 — a massive vessel, abandoned to time but sacred in history. Within its metallic corridors lay the bodies of the four greatest heroes of Earth's history: Zorvath, Kuma, Jaffrey, and Reya. Though dead, their names carried weight across galaxies. Their essence, their aura, still lingered, waiting for the rare soul capable of receiving it.
Michael's grandfather, a man whose presence alone commanded respect, guided him carefully toward the ship. "Remember, Michael," he said, his voice calm but firm, "what you are about to witness is not mere legend. These souls are ancient. To touch them, to even sense them, requires discipline. Watch carefully. Learn."
Michael's small hand clutched a tiny sphere — a ball he had been holding for comfort — as they entered the sacred chamber. The air was thick, tingling with spiritual energy. The ground beneath their feet seemed alive with the echoes of countless battles fought long before Michael had even been born.
The four heroes lay in eternal repose. Zorvath, the last-born son of the Zack Galaxy King, Zerathion Rex, was a warrior of unmatched versatility. Even in death, his aura radiated authority, blending telekinesis and close combat mastery. Beside him, Kuma, a close-combat fighter, radiated ferocity; Jaffrey and Reya, twins in spirit and power, emanated pure telekinetic mastery. Though the three had thousands of disciples in life, Zorvath himself had only ever chosen a hundred, a sign of how selective he truly was.
Michael's small eyes widened as the aura of the four heroes enveloped him. Each pulse of their lingering essence carried both weight and expectation. The air around him seemed alive, vibrating with power so immense it made the hair on his arms stand.
And then… he dropped the ball.
It rolled silently across the cold floor, coming to rest near Zorvath's body. Michael's heart thumped in panic. He reached for it, trembling.
As his fingers brushed the sphere, the dead warrior's eyes — or rather, the spiritual remnants of his eyes — flared with an intensity that made the chamber quake. A surge of energy shot out, sensing the raw, untamed spiritual essence that resided in Michael. It recognized something extraordinary, something rare.
The reaction was instant. Zorvath's spiritual essence, though long departed from the mortal realm, reached out and selected Michael as a disciple.
A force like a storm enveloped Michael. His body lifted into the air, and consciousness slipped away. He was no longer in the ship. He had entered the spiritual realm, a place where reality bent, and where the trials of soul and strength were absolute.
The realm was breathtaking. Flowers of every hue floated in the air. Roses bloomed in the skies, petals drifting lazily as though caught in a gentle wind. Rivers of light curved across floating landscapes, glinting like silver in the sunless sky. And there, standing before him, was Zorvath himself, or rather, the soul of the legend.
Michael's heart raced. Though small in size, he could feel the weight of Zorvath's expectation, the measuring of his potential. Only fifteen of the hundred disciples chosen by Zorvath ever survived to become true disciples. The rest, their spiritual essence destroyed, lost forever.
"You are…" Zorvath's voice resonated, not through sound but through a wave of spiritual pressure, "one of the rare few born under the signs of promise. Your essence is strong… but will it endure the trial?"
Michael tried to speak, but the sheer force of the spiritual energy made him shiver. He could feel his grandfather's guidance, the hopes of the Adarkwah Yadom family, resting on his small shoulders. If he failed… all hope of their lineage's greatness would crumble.
The flowers of the spiritual realm swirled, and Zorvath extended a hand, not in gesture but in power, measuring the depth of Michael's soul. The path to discipleship had begun. The trial would test every fiber of his being, from courage to intellect to spiritual resilience.
And somewhere, deep in the recesses of Michael's being, a spark ignited — the first flicker of the extraordinary journey that would one day see him rise among planets, stars, and cosmic beasts.
Would Michael survive? Would he qualify as Zorvath's disciple? Only the trial could tell…