Capítulo 1: prologue: 0 curse child
A perfect sword of scrap metal swayed left and right, its movements graceful and fluid. The sword's wielder moved as if dancing to the rhythm of fire. The scarf he wore covered the lower half of his face and flowed like a cape. His crimson, dead like eyes locked onto an imaginary opponent. Each step and swing was a symphony of practiced precision and pent-up emotion.
Bell tried to ignore the traitorous voices in his head, blaming himself for his grandpa's absence. He convinced himself that the old man would return with yet another tale about a nearby village and the ladies inhabiting it, boasting about some exaggerated perverted feats.
But when the third week passed with no sign of his return, Bell had come to terms with reality. He 'sucked it up,' as the old man would often say, and braced himself for the inevitable talk with the chief when it came.
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"There is no easy way to say this, young Bell," the old man grumbled, then exhaled loudly. "We found the hunting party your grandfather was a part of, and all that remained of them after being missing for weeks were torn cloth scraps."
Bell's heart sank. The chief's words were like a hammer striking a bell, sending a painful resonance through his entire being. The reality of his grandfather's fate settled over him like a dark cloud, heavy and suffocating. Yet a smile curled up on his face.
The elder didn't mind the smile; he knew why it grew on Bell's face. "Sorry for your loss."
Bell bowed, and words of fire formed in the air, "Thank you for the information."
Bell walked to the house that was now solely his, and slammed the door shut. "You… stupid… old… man," Bell thought without speaking, his legs failing as he could no longer hold back. His knees hit the floor, hard. "Why…"
Memories of the day he got adopted by his grandpa resurfaced.
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The Blaze Sword Dance always left Bell in awe. He would sit cross-legged in front of the roaring flames, watching as his father, with solemn grace, knelt in a seiza position. His father then rose, retrieving the fiery swords from the heart of the fire, and began the intricate dance that had been passed down through eight generations since their ancestors arrived at the village.
Bell's eyes were wide with wonder as he watched his father's every move. Beside him sat an elf girl, her gaze equally entranced by the mesmerizing performance. She was breathtakingly beautiful, with endless sapphire eyes and silvery hair that shimmered in the firelight.
"Are you going to perform that one day?" she asked, her voice a soft whisper of curiosity.
"Yes," Bell replied with quiet determination.
"I hope to see it," she said, her eyes never leaving the dance as they continued to watch in silent awe.
Nearby, two female elders observed with less admiration.
"Can you believe that cursed child will be the next holder of the flame?" one of them muttered disdainfully.
"Yes, I know," the other replied. "When his mother died, a smile formed on his face, and since then it has never left. He truly is a cursed child."
From birth, Bell had been labeled as such. The birthmark on the right upper corner of his face, resembling a flickering flame, was believed to be a curse from the spirits—those very spirits that had taken away the Crozzo family's ability to forge their magical weapons. The man who had first received the curse mark had been banished from Rakia, and he traveled far and wide until he discovered the dragon's grimoire and the flames that now burned before Bell.
When his mother died, Bell had found himself smiling with tears in his eyes. The pain and sorrow had twisted into an expression that he couldn't control. Since then, his smile never left his face, no matter how many times he tried to rid himself of it.
He had tried everything—forcing his mouth into a frown, covering mirrors to avoid seeing his reflection, even praying to the very spirits that had cursed him. Yet, the smile persisted, a constant reminder of his sorrow and the burden he carried.
To hide the smile, Bell wore a red scarf that his mother had given him. The scarf was his most treasured possession, its fabric still faintly carrying her scent. He wrapped it around his face, covering his mouth. It was his shield against the world, concealing the smile that marked him as different, as cursed.
The scarf was more than just a piece of cloth; it was a symbol of his connection to his mother and a barrier against the judgmental stares of the villagers. Whenever he felt overwhelmed, he would clutch the scarf, feeling the warmth of his mother's love and finding the strength to face another day.
As Bell watched his father dance, his fingers brushed against the soft fabric of the scarf, drawing comfort from its presence. One day, he would master the Blaze Sword Dance and honor his family's legacy. And maybe, just maybe, he would find a way to smile for real.
His father finished the last few graceful slashes with the flame sword, lighting up the seven torches around him. Each torch ignited with a burst of color casting a kaleidoscope of hues across the clearing. The flames danced and flickered, painting the night with vibrant light.
As the final movements of the dance came to an end, his father placed the sword gently on the ground and knelt in silence. The seven torches flared brilliantly, each color intensifying before they extinguished in unison. The ashes left behind glowed with a soft, ethereal light, each a different shade that lingered in the air like tiny, colorful spirits.
The audience, entranced by the spectacle, remained silent. Bell's father rose and walked toward his son, his face serene but his eyes filled with a depth of emotion that spoke of years of tradition and the weight of expectations.
His father knelt before Bell, placing a hand on his son's shoulder. "One day, you will carry on this dance and maybe even make up your own stance to add to the dance, Bell," he said softly. "You will become the keeper of the flame and protect our legacy."
Bell nodded, the red scarf rustling slightly as he did. His father's touch was warm and reassuring, a stark contrast to the cold whispers of the villagers who still saw him as the cursed child.
The elf girl beside Bell looked at him with unwavering support, her sapphire eyes reflecting the colorful glow of the lingering ashes. "I believe in you," she whispered.
"Thank you," Bell said.
The villagers began to gather the ashes, each color serving a distinct purpose. These ashes, though powerful, were mere remnants of the flames' true potential. The flames themselves held a power far greater than what their ashes could offer, and together they were even stronger, capable of creating powerful weapons. The dragon's grimoire had various knowledge of the flames and various knowledge about magic.
But over eight generations, only the first one who found the flame had been able to make these weapons. The others could only master the blacksmith skills, techniques, and sometimes add stances to the Blaze Sword Dance that the first holder had left behind. No one had been able to master two of the flames, let alone all seven.
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The night grew darker, and every villager left to go to their homes. "Bye, Bell," the silver-haired elf said as she walked to the elf who had raised her, with red eyes and hair.
"Bye, Satella," Bell said as he went to his own home.
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"Bell, I'm going to work on one of my weapons," Bell's dad said, holding a few ashes from the torches.
"Oh, may I watch, please?" Bell asked eagerly.
"I don't know, Bell. It's kind of late."
"Please, please, please, please—"
"Fine, fine, haha, you can watch, Bell," his dad said as he readied the forge fire.
He took out the hammer that had been passed down through generations. The front face was engraved with flames that seemed to dance and swirl around the edges, capturing the essence of fire in motion.
This hammer was not just a regular tool; it held powers. Made by the first holder of the flames, the seven flames were used to create it.
Bell watched in fascination as his father worked. The forge's heat was intense, but the red scarf around Bell's face shielded him from the worst of it. His father's movements were precise and practiced, each step a part of a ritual that had been honed over generations.
With the hammer in hand, Bell's father began to shape the metal, each strike releasing sparks that danced in the air like fireflies. The sound of metal meeting metal echoed through the forge, a rhythmic melody that spoke of creation and legacy.
As he worked, the hammer seemed to glow with a life of its own, the engravings pulsing with energy. Bell could feel the power emanating from the tool, a reminder of the incredible heritage he was a part of.
With each passing moment and each clash of metal, Bell began to feel sleepy. Before he knew it, his eyes closed and he drifted into slumber. "Bell?" his father called out softly, noticing that his son had fallen asleep. A tender smile formed on his father's face as he watched Bell, his expression peaceful in his sleep, his smile turned to a smaller smile as he slept.
He chuckled quietly, setting aside his tools, and gently picked up Bell. Carefully, he carried him to his bed, tucking him in with the red scarf still around his face. His father brushed a lock of hair from Bell's forehead and whispered, "Sleep well, my son. One day, all of this will be yours."
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Bell woke up to the acrid smell of smoke filling his nostrils. Groggy and disoriented, he sat up in bed, his senses gradually sharpening. He hurried to the door of the house, and as he opened it, his eyes widened in horror.
Before him, the village was ablaze, flames roaring and consuming everything in their path. The night sky was painted with an eerie orange glow, and the sound of crackling fire filled the air. Despite the devastation, an unsettling smile grew bigger on Bell's face, his cursed expression showed as he watched the fire spread across the village.
Suddenly, a hand grabbed his shoulder. Bell turned to his right and saw an elf, his face twisted with anger. Before Bell could react, the elf dragged him forcefully away from the house. Bell desperately tried to break free, but his efforts were in vain.
The elf threw Bell to the ground in front of a group of other elves. Before Bell could even gather himself, a kick landed in his side, making him gasp for air.
"How dare you kidnap the princess, cursed Crozzo?" the elf demanded, lifting Bell by his collar, his eyes burning with fury.
"I-I didn't, please let me go," Bell pleaded, his ever-present smile making the elf even angrier.
Bell desperately looked around, and to his utter surprise, he saw Satella standing behind the group of elves. "Satella, please help!" Bell cried out.
Satella whispered, "Sorry, Bell," before the elves blocked his view of her.
"How dare you speak to the princess," the elf snarled before punching Bell in the stomach.
"Your punishment is death," the elf declared, drawing a dagger from his belt.
"No, please—" Bell felt the dagger slice across his throat. Warmth spread to his chest, and his vision began to blur as his consciousness faded.
Just then, Bell's father arrived, wielding a pair of enchanted swords the first holder forged with the power of the flame. One sword, forged with ice fire, emitted a cold blue flame, while the other, imbued with fire ice, radiated a searing heat. He used the ice fire sword, launching icy flames that forced the elves to back off from Bell.
With the elves momentarily distracted, Bell's father hurried to his son's side. He carried a lantern containing the mystical flame. As he opened the lantern, the flame turned green, and his pupils also turned green. Holding the flame, he summoned a magic circle inscribed with ancient words.
The green flame glowed brightly, and as it touched Bell's throat, it began to heal the wound. However, the healing was incomplete. Bell's father felt no kindness in his soul since seeing his son so grievously harmed by others.
"Hold on, Bell," his father urged, his voice filled with a mix of desperation and determination. "I won't let you die."
The magic circle pulsed with energy, and the green flame continued its healing work, buying precious moments for Bell's survival. The father's rage and sorrow fueled the flame, but without kindness, it could only halt the bleeding, not fully mend the wound.
Bell slowly regained consciousness and saw his father. He tried to speak, but no words came out. Bell's father grabbed him and took off running. The elves, realizing they were escaping, gave chase.
They reached the edge of a cliff overlooking a rushing river, surrounded by the elves. Bell's father looked around, seeing no way out. With a heavy heart, he knew there was only one choice. "I'm sorry, Bell," he whispered.
Before Bell could fully process the words, his father forcefully handed him the lantern with the flame and pushed him off the cliff into the river below. The last thing Bell saw was his father using the fire ice sword to create a towering wall of orange ice, blocking the path of the pursuing elves.
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Bell regained consciousness; it was daytime. His eyes were open but devoid of life. Slowly, he walked with the lantern, following the river until he reached the village, now burned to the ground. He wandered through the ruins, the sight of carcasses and destruction around him.
He made his way to the last place he had seen his father. The orange ice wall still stood, the two blades surrounded by blue flames and orange ice. Bell fell to his knees, his eyes becoming empty and lifeless. He took the red scarf and covered his eyes. His smile grew wider and wider but… for the first time in two years, it faltered.
A torrent of emotions surged within him—anger, hate, rage—but they weren't directed at the elves who had done this. They weren't even aimed at the elders or the village that had scorned him. Instead, they were directed inward, at himself.
Bell now believed he truly was a cursed child.
"Bell?" A familiar voice echoed through the burned-down village. Bell looked up, his crimson eyes lifeless and filled with tears. It was his grandpa.
Bell couldn't speak. He tried to tell his grandpa not to come closer, but his voice was damaged by the elf's dagger. He took a step back as his grandpa closed the distance.
His grandpa didn't give up his advance.
Bell was stopped by the orange ice behind him, the remnant of his father's final stand. His grandpa reached out to comfort him, but Bell pushed him away, desperate not to curse him with his presence.
"Bell, listen to me," his grandpa said, his voice gentle but firm. "You are not a curse. You are my grandson, and you have the potential to be more than you think."
Bell shook his head, his silent cries tearing at his chest. He couldn't believe it. He had always been seen as the cursed child, the one who brought misfortune.
"Bell," his grandpa continued, "you can be like the heroes of old. They faced their hardships and rose above them. You have that same strength within you. I see it every day in your eyes, in your determination."
Bell's resolve wavered. His grandpa's words struck a chord deep within him, a part of him that still yearned for acceptance and purpose.
"You can break free from this curse, Bell. You can choose your own path and be a force for good. I believe in you."
Slowly, Bell's defenses began to crumble. He let his grandpa's words seep into his heart, finding a glimmer of hope amidst the despair. But deep down, the belief that he was cursed still clung to him, a shadow that refused to fully let go.
His grandpa stepped closer and, with a final, reassuring smile, opened his arms. "Let me in, Bell. Let me help you."
Bell hesitated, then finally let his grandpa embrace him, tears silently fell from his eyes.
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The old man who had been Bell's caretaker since he was one, who had stood by him after the loss of both his parents, was now gone. This was the man Bell had looked up to, the one who had managed to keep him innocent yet aware of the world's harsh realities. He had imparted the morals of heroes from old, instilling in Bell the hope that he could rise above the tragedy surrounding him—that he could become a figure of strength and virtue, someone who didn't bring death or disaster upon those around him, someone who wasn't a curse.
The man who had given his all for Bell was gone.
But not forgotten.
With nothing left for him in this village, Bell decided it was time to start his own adventure and use everything the old man had given him in life. It was time for him to make his dreams come true, just as his grandfather would have wanted.
But first… Surely, even his stern grandfather would forgive him for spending the rest of the day, and night, mourning his last family.
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The next morning, Bell Crozzo, his crimson eyes devoid of life and his hair a stark white, methodically gathered his belongings. Among them were the hammer that had been passed down through generations, the two magic swords, his scrap metal sword, the dragon's grimoire, and a few other treasured items.
As Bell reached for the lantern, still burning brightly with its mystical flame, he noticed a small key resting beside it. Attached was a note that read, "A gift for Bell in the shed."
Intrigued, Bell walked to the back of the house and found a small shed. Inside, he discovered a pouch, a bag, and a sword with a single steel shoulder pad adorned with crisscross straps. Each item was meticulously prepared, waiting for him to uncover.
Bell unsheathed the sword.
The blade, a seamless blend of black and crimson. The guard, with its Celtic knot design in blackened steel and delicate red enamel accents, provided a firm and reassuring grip, its curves fitting naturally against Bell's palm.
Bell's fingers ran along the handle. The smooth, braided black leather intertwined with crimson strands offered a tactile sensation of strength and precision. The polished steel bands, adorned with crimson gemstones, added a touch of weight and balance.
The pommel, cool and solid in Bell's grasp, bore a minimalist engraving that echoed the patterns of the guard, while the crimson gemstone at its base caught the light.
Bell slipped the blade into its sheath. The smooth black leather fit snugly, its intricate tooling of dragons and floral motifs offering a visual tapestry that spoke of heroic deeds. The sheath felt substantial yet graceful, a perfect complement to the sword's elegant form.
The sheath read "maxim" in a small imprint on the corner of the sword.
The pouch was filled with valis. Next to it was a bag containing three sets of neatly folded clothes: black pants, long-sleeved black shirts, a pair of brown boots, and a single brown coat. Tucked within the bag was a note from his grandfather.
The note read
"You can be more than just a curse; you can be a hero in your own right. "
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Outside, where the morning Sun fully greeted him, Bell picked his enormous backpack. Bell would continue fighting, despite the curse that seemed to shadow his every step.
(Author note)
This took more than I expected.
Sorry for how long it was .
I can sometimes write to much.
Sorry if I added unnecessary detail and stuff.
Chech out my other stories.
The chapter won't be set to be every week but I'll try to keep a constant updates on the stories.
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