Void Tree Chronicles

Pressure.

Like an unseen hand pressing down on his soul, not just heavy—suffocating.

Wes stood, shaking, his muscles locked in resistance, his breath shallow, his vision fraying at the edges. His limbs begged for relief, for surrender, for the easy way out.

But he would not kneel.

The moment stretched, warping, twisting, distorting time itself. His heart pounded too slow, but his thoughts raced too fast. His body screamed, his mind fractured between now and then.

And then—

It clicked.

Gorrak using this ability made him realize what the Void-Eyed Man had done.

That night.

The night his family died, and he killed his sister.

For so long, he had believed it had been fear that held him still, had convinced himself that he had simply frozen while his world was torn apart around him.

But no.

The Void-Eyed Man had done this to him before.

It hadn't been as focused, not as deliberate, but the weight had been there, the same invisible force wrapping around him, suffocating him, locking his body in place.

And in the shock of it all, in the blood and the screaming and the horror, he hadn't even realized it.

Not fear.

Not weakness.

This.

The realization should have settled something inside him, should have let him breathe easier, but instead, the rage came next.

Because he had stood there.

Because he had watched it happen.

Because he had believed it was his fault.

For so long, he had carried that weight, thinking he had been a bystander, that he had let it happen, that he had failed them.

But now he knew—someone had forced him to.

And it hurt.

The pain of knowing, of finally understanding, of realizing that every insult, every moment of self-hatred, every night spent staring at the ceiling, cursing himself, had been built on a lie.

And that pain cracked into something worse.

Sorrow.

For his mother.

For his father.

For his brother.

For his sister.

For himself.

For all the time he had spent carrying a guilt that had never truly belonged to him.

He had hated himself for watching like a bystander.

For standing frozen as his mother was slain.

For stabbing his own sister.

She had been four.

He could still remember the warmth of her blood on his hands.

The way it seeped between his fingers.

The way his fingers had gone numb around the hilt.

The moment he realized there was no taking it back.

That was his sin.

Not freezing.

Not failing to fight.

But living afterward, why hadn't the void eyed man killed him?

And yet—through the flood of emotions crashing through him, through the weight pressing down, through the violent, gut-wrenching grief—

One thing remained.

Something solid.

Something undeniable.

He was glad he wasn't a coward.

And then—

He laughed.

He wouldn't understand it then, but later, he would learn that Gorrak had been born a Sovereign—one of the rare few, maybe one or two in 1,000,000, who could project their will onto others, turning it into something tangible, something that could weigh down the air and break those too weak to stand under it.

The essence ability to project your will could be developed and learned but usually never before rank C, but most didn't learn to effectively till rank B, but a born sovereign was much more effective even at higher ranks.

Those born with the essence ability to project their wills were labeled sovereigns. 

Most never even realized they had it.

Even children born with the ability had been known to use it unknowingly, in moments of great distress or overwhelming need, their will slipping out of them in desperation.

It could be trained, shaped, controlled, but when it first emerged, it was almost always used subconsciously.

And later, Wes would understand why this was happening.

Later, he would know that this hadn't been about crushing him.

Gorrak had not done this out of malice.

He had been testing his newest recruits, measuring their strength, their endurance, their willpower.

But Wes didn't know that now.

All he knew was the weight of Gorrak's presence bearing down on him, forcing him into the past, into memories he had never fully understood until this moment.

Wes blacked out.

Not unconscious—his body still moved, still breathed, but his mind was gone, pulled beneath the weight of something far heavier than flesh.

He was still staring at Gorrak.

But he wasn't seeing Gorrak anymore.

He saw him.

The Void-Eyed Man.

Standing there. Watching. Just like that night.

The night his mother was slain.

The night his father fell.

The night Chad tried to fight back.

The night he stabbed his sister.

Something inside him snapped.

His chest tightened, his breath hitched, his hands curled into fists—but not in fear.

No.

Not fear.

Something deeper.

Something burning beneath his skin, something rising—

And then he laughed.

It came in uneven bursts, raw and strangled—like a breath that wasn't meant to be, a voice twisted into something that shouldn't be laughter but was.

Like a gasp after drowning.

Like a scream buried too deep to escape whole.

It wasn't controlled. It wasn't human.

And yet—he never broke eye contact.

To everyone else, he was staring at Gorrak.

But in his mind—

He was staring at the Void-Eyed Man.

And he ran.

The other orphans flinched, some instinctively stepping back, others standing frozen, wide-eyed, unsure if they were watching one of their own fight or fall apart.

Some looked hopeful. Others looked afraid.

None followed.

The orcs reacted instantly.

Some stiffened, eyes widening in surprise, hands hovering near weapons but making no move to interfere. Others exchanged glances, unreadable expressions crossing their faces. A Sovereign, here? 

The humans—

Their reactions were different, they didn't understand what was happening.

Some of the guards standing near King took an uneasy step back, hands tightening on their weapons, confused but wary. The people further back—the traders, the ones who had lined up to watch this like it was entertainment—shifted uncomfortably.

They didn't know what they were seeing.

But they could feel it.

King had already gone quiet when the first children collapsed, but now, seeing Wes charge forward, his body tensed.

He moved to neutralize the threat.

But Gorrak lifted a hand.

A simple, effortless gesture.

Stop.

And King did.

Not because he wanted to.

Because Gorrak was grinning.

If he had known there was a Sovereign here, he would have paid a hundred times the price for the orphans.

Wes didn't care.

He kept running.

And Gorrak watched.

Then, he pushed harder.

The pressure crushed down.

Not on his body. On his soul.

Wes' legs wobbled. His lungs burned. His body screamed.

Some of the kids still standing dropped to their knees, their own breaths ragged from the invisible weight pressing into their chests.

But he kept moving.

One step.

Then another.

Shaky.

Strained.

The adults still standing in the crowd shifted, their eyes darting between each other, some murmuring under their breath.

The feeling pressing into the air made them nervous.

Every inch forward felt like moving against an unseen tide, but he did not stop.

And then—

Something inside him snapped.

His voice ripped out, his feet slammed forward, and his rage willed itself into his fist.

A glow burst to life, swirling over his knuckles—green and red, pulsing, shifting, something alive.

And for the first time, Gorrak's expression flickered.

He knew what this was.

Sovereigns manifested their will in color—an external force shaped entirely by their emotions.

Red.

That made sense. Rage. That was expected.

But green?

That meant relief.

What was the child relieved about?

Wes didn't stop.

He swung.

Everything he had. Everything he was.

All of it behind a single punch.

Gorrak simply lifted his palm to meet the strike.

Usually, when a sovereign released their will, it spread in a wild, uncontrolled surge. But the fact that Wes condensed all of his will into a single punch made Gorrak laugh with glee.

The moment Wes' fist collided, the world shattered.

Not with sound. Not with light.

With will.

A force poured outward, crashing into the souls of everyone present.

The color of his essence bled into the air, the pulse of his will tangible but weightless, pressing not on bodies, but on something deeper.

The moment of impact sent a ripple through the unseen, a wave of pressure that tore into minds, hearts, souls—something deeper than any physical force.

The orcs braced, their bodies stiffening as the wave passed through them, their armor rattling, but they did not fall. Their kind had seen this before. Felt this before.

The humans—

They collapsed.

Some fell like puppets with their strings cut, their bodies crumbling into the dirt, their eyes rolling back as their consciousness slipped from their grasp. Others stumbled, gasping, clawing at their chests as if trying to catch something that was no longer there.

Children still standing fell like shadows, their fragile souls unable to withstand the raw force. Some let out weak gasps before their eyes rolled back, others hit the ground in complete silence.

The civilians in the back paled, some instinctively taking a step back. A few cursed under their breath, while others turned, moving to put distance between themselves and whatever had just erupted from the child.

Three out of four humans dropped unconscious.

But a few remained.

Unsteady.

Rattled.

Among them—

The Scarred Man, the one who had broken the little girl's limbs.

And King.

Neither fell.

But neither looked unaffected.

Their breathing was heavier.

Their bodies stiff, their expressions unreadable.

They felt it.

They all felt it.

But Wes never knew.

He didn't remember.

Not much, anyway.

Because his world had already gone dark.

Years later, Gorrak would tell him what happened.

That this moment, this fight, this impossible surge of power—was the first time he had truly released his will.

Wes fell.

And he was smiling.

It was small, faint—barely there. But real.

Relief. Not in his body. Not in his mind.

In his soul.

Years later, Gorrak would tell him.

That he had watched him hit the ground with that same faint smile on his face. He had wanted to ask why but thought better of it. It was best to let Sovereigns develop naturally.

Orcs were big on that.

Fate was fate. Either a Sovereign learned to fly after being kicked from the nest, or they died. That was the way of things. No guiding hands, no preferential treatment, no safety nets.

But—

Which was probably why they didn't abandon him when they found out he was a Null. Humans were the only ones who could use Void Crystals—because they had no inherent bloodlines or racial abilities of their own. Every other species had something—something passed down, something carved into their very being. Strength, regeneration, elemental affinities, psychic gifts.

But humans?

They had nothing.

A Null, though? Someone who couldn't use Void Crystal at all? That was as close to worthless as a human could get, there was always exception, but it was too rare to waste the resources on a null.

Yet, Wes was a Sovereign.

That mystified the orcs.

Nulls existed, sure. Some were born that way. But a Null Sovereign? That was unheard of.

They were perplexed but let it be.

Sovereigns grew into themselves. Their will shaped them, defined them. Whatever he was—whatever he would become—it wasn't their place to interfere, so they never told Wes anything.

And other kids being knocked unconscious didn't remember the incident, because their short-term memory was affected, luckily Gorrak already knocked Xavier out otherwise he might have remembered.

As they the Orcs got ready to leave problems arose with King.

He didn't know what a Sovereign was.

But he knew value when he saw it.

Because as they went to leave, King tried to keep Wes.

Might have been an asshole, but he wasn't stupid.

Whatever Wes had done, whatever power had just rippled through the air, he knew it meant something.

And Gorrak's clan?

They were about honor.

A trade done was a trade done.

No take-backs. No changing the deal after it was struck.

King didn't see it that way.

And for a moment, it almost ended in blood.

Gorrak didn't raise his voice. He didn't draw his weapon. He didn't need to.

He simply looked at King.

And let the weight of the situation sink in.

More people were unconscious than awake.

Most of King's men lay sprawled in the dirt, some groaning, others completely still. The ones who remained standing looked rattled, shifting uneasily, hands twitching toward weapons they already knew wouldn't be much use.

Gorrak stepped forward, slow, deliberate, towering over King. His presence alone was enough.

King hesitated.

Then backed down.

Trade was trade.

And Gorrak did not renegotiate.

Years later, Gorrak would tell Wes about it.

"Thank the gods we had the carts and bulls," he said, shaking his head with a chuckle. "Otherwise, we wouldn't have been able to leave with all you kids unconscious."

He laughed, the sound deep and amused.

"Who knows what King would've tried if he had time to recover?" His grin widened. "Would've been a damn human bloodbath.