The Floating Cradle

Eons ago, the 7 Chakaras pulsated with vibrant energy, holding the universe in perfect balance. Each aspect of existence was woven into the fabric of Samsara, the endless cycle of life and death. Then a cataclysmic event shattered this delicate harmony, breaking the Chakaras and scattering their powerful essence across the world.

Ancient tales told of chosen warriors who guarded the Chakaras' energies, but as centuries passed, these stories faded into myth. Now the once-mighty Chakaras lie dormant, waiting for destined souls to rekindle their power and restore balance to the universe.

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The sky above was a deep, fiery red, casting an eerie glow over the barren landscape. Smoke billowed in the distance, marking the path of destruction left by the Black-Nins. They moved with deadly precision, their black cloaks melting into the darkness.

In a desperate attempt to escape, a young couple ran toward a cliff edge, clutching their newborn baby tightly. The mother's screams mingled with the howling wind as the Nins pursued them.

Father (shouting): "Keep moving! It's all we can do now!"

The woman stumbled, but her husband caught her arm and pulled her forward. As they reached the cliff's edge, the mother's eyes widened in terror at the roaring river below.

Mother (whispering): "They'll kill us all."

Tears streamed down her face as her husband made a quick decision. He knelt and placed their baby in a small basket.

Father (gently): "Forgive us, our son. You must survive. You are the hope this world needs."

The mother kissed their baby's forehead before releasing the basket into the rushing river below. With heavy hearts, they turned to face their pursuers.

Nin Leader (coldly): "Your attempt to run is futile. There will be no salvation."

Despite the odds, the parents stood strong, their determination evident in their unwavering gazes. In the end, they fell to the merciless blades of the Black-Nins.

Silence engulfed the scene as cold steel met warm flesh, another tragedy in a village ravaged by war.

Through the thick smoke and flames, a young girl with tear-streaked cheeks grabbed her brother and pushed him toward the raging river.

Sister: "You have to go! You have to survive!"

Before the Nins could reach them, she shoved him into the churning waters.

The boy was swept away, his screams drowned out by the deafening roar of the river. His sister turned to face their attackers—a group of merciless Nins—holding nothing but a small dagger in her trembling hands. Her fate was sealed as they closed in on her with bloodlust in their eyes.

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As the two children are carried downstream, their paths converge. The boy in the basket and the other child find themselves swept into the same stretch of river, their cries and screams muffled by the roaring rapids.

The river flows into a dense, misty forest, far from the reach of the outside world.

A mysterious hooded figure in white robes stands on the riverbank, holding a staff adorned with glowing runes. The old man catches the basket containing one baby and rescues the other child from a fallen tree bridge, placing both in the dry basket. He gazes at the infants with knowing eyes and whispers, "The stars have aligned... The children of fate have been delivered."