The next day, the sun rose as usual, but its light seemed unable to penetrate the dense, mystical atmosphere that pervaded the village.
The chaotic village was immersed in a strange state of bustle – not hurried, nor urgent, but organized, reverent preparation. The strangely shaped, semi-transparent bodies woven from language, emotions, and unreal principles, quietly gathered the necessary supplies. Though no longer human, they still retained a vague concept called "tradition".
The children – the "immature seeds of chaos" – along with the elders and the apostles who had become too attached to the village, were assigned to guard the temple and maintain the link with Chaos. The children cheered, but their eyes emitted a swirling light, as if they had already understood the nature of the expedition.
Meanwhile, the main group – thousands of apostles – began to set out.
The strange chariot did not roll, but floated, carrying entities that writhed in the thick fog. Others rode creatures made of concepts, like three-headed horses bound by the screams of old souls, or giant winged birds woven from "intentions".
Their journey began in the Mirvania grasslands, a vast expanse of land, covered in purple flowers and thick fog like layers of overlapping dreams. From here to the trunk of the world tree Yggdrasil – where they would begin their descent into the abyss – was a 10-day journey through all obstacles, all regions of reality.
In the sky, layers of clouds opened as if to see the passing eras.
A voice echoed in the minds of the group:
"Not all will survive to see the abyss. But all who go will leave an eternal mark in the maelstrom of chaos."
In the dim light of early morning, the caravan, as dense as a living river, began to move. The sound of the carriage wheels grinding on the dry ground, the clanging of weapons with each step created a sad but strong melody. Hundreds of Chaos apostles — each one had abandoned their old form, wearing the cloak of chaos — slowly left the valley where their village was located.
The steep road leading up from the valley seemed to end the peace, opening before them the Mirvania steppe, stretching endlessly under the azure sky. The wind blew hard, caressing the tall grass and fluttering the caravan's cloaks, as if nature itself were being carried away by the weight of the journey.
In front, the leaders rode with banners engraved with the symbol of the chaotic vortex. They did not need to shout slogans — their eyes, their steps, and their unanimity said it all.
The goal was clear: the world tree Yggdrasil, the end of all truth and the beginning of all destruction. The chaotic abyss awaited them like an ancient mother calling her children back.
On the first day of the expedition, when the group was quietly crossing the vast grasslands, a sudden snowstorm came. The wind howled fiercely, and white snow swept in all directions. The group had to stop and set up tents in the cold fog. They huddled around small fires to keep warm and rest.
In a corner of the camp, separate from the rest, a man sat silently. His name was Radivel, about 40 years old. Since birth, he had been shunned. No one explained the reason, only that everyone considered him as something "wrong", a foreign object that did not belong here. Even his parents — they had never hugged him, their eyes when looking at him were cold and wary.
He grew up alone, without friends, without anyone to talk to. Every day was a silent loop between the prejudiced eyes and the indifference of the whole village. He still lives, still exists, like a part that no one dares to touch.
Tonight, in the middle of a white snowstorm, he sits there — silent, his eyes looking into the distance. No one knows what he is thinking. No one cares where he is. But no one expected that Radivel… carries within him a potential that has never been revealed.
Radivel sat huddled in the corner of the tent, holding a piece of dry bread that someone had thrown away after the meal. He didn't complain, nor did he blame. He just silently chewed it bit by bit, slowly and dejectedly. The coldness didn't come only from the howling snowstorm outside, but also from within — where his heart had been frozen for a long time.
Radivel's eyes silently swept across the thin canvas, looking out at the villagers gathered around the fire, laughing, telling stories. The fire burned brightly, everyone's faces were warm, full of faith in the god they served. He didn't hate them — but he didn't feel close to them either.
"Do I really not belong here?" — he wondered in his mind. "No one wants me here… no one ever did."
He lowered his head, looking at his skinny hands. Those hands had never held anyone, had never been pulled up when he fell. Only himself, from beginning to end.
The next morning, the sky was still gray, but the storm had passed. The group began to pack up their tents, quickly gathering things in groups, checking the wagons, distributing food. Smoke from the breakfast rose up, dissolving into the cold morning air.
The journey continued — hundreds of people lined up in a long black stream on the gray-white background of the vast grasslands. The sound of horses' hooves pounded, the wheels creaked, mixed with the soft chanting of ancient, chaotic scriptures. The group had already passed 1/39 of the way — 9 more days, if nothing happened, they would reach the foot of the world tree.
Radivel walked quietly near the end of the line, no one noticed, no one called. But he was used to it. The wind blew through his old cloak, he still walked steadily — because even though no one was waiting, he still went.
That morning everything went smoothly, the weather was clear and the road ahead was unobstructed. But while traveling across the grasslands, the group suddenly encountered a group of people from afar.
Strangers on horseback, each carrying a long spear and wearing simple armor. The group immediately stopped, the atmosphere became tense. One of the group was sent out to approach the group to ask questions, while the rest secretly prepared charms and weapons, just in case.
As the person sent to approach drew near, one of the strange knights spoke up:
"We are a patrol of the Empire. May I ask if you are migrants?"
One of the men stepped forward and replied:
"We are people of the Northern Empire, migrating south."
He finished speaking, and then he whispered something in an ancient language—a vague sign flashed in his eyes, then disappeared.
The soldier blinked, then slowly replied in a monotone, as if under hypnosis:
"Yes… you may go."
After a long journey across the grasslands, as the afternoon sun set, the group finally reached the edge of the great forest – a mysterious and dense place where the towering trees seemed to pierce the blue sky. They decided to stop and rest to prepare to cross the forest early the next morning.
But while everyone was still packing and checking their luggage,—boom!—a bright flare rang out. Immediately after, from the branches of the giant trees that were 700 meters tall around, another series of flares shot up, lighting up the forest sky red.
Everyone immediately raised their heads to look. And then, from the treetops, figures in silver armor gradually appeared. It was the Imperial army. They were surrounded.
From the towering tree trunk, a figure swooped down like a whirlwind. The wind howled as he landed with a powerful impact, creating a wave of dust that spread far and wide. His face was clearly visible under the dim light of the evening forest—pale skin, sharp eyes like blades, and long silver hair that fluttered in the wind. He wore a black metallic armor, and on his shoulder hung the Imperial insignia of a sword piercing a snake—the symbol of those who specialized in destroying heresies.
He laughed loudly, his laughter echoing throughout the forest like a death knell:
"Finally caught the tail of you rats." He swept a contemptuous glance over each person in the group, his eyes filled with mad glee. "You think you can hide forever? You think you can hide behind the mask of a common immigrant? How pitiful!"
He drew the short sword at his waist, the tip dripping with old blood—evidence of merciless executions.
"I am Veyron, captain of the 1st District of the Empire. And I am also the one authorized to execute all of you—heretics, rebels, apostles of chaos. Pray, if you still believe in a god."
His laughter rang out like thunder, cold and cruel. The surrounding atmosphere instantly became as tense as a string.