Number 6:
It rises from the dust, into the glaring sun. Spread wings, an immortal being. Soaring into the heavens, but only crashing into the earth. It was clear to him from then. Death was not an option. It was to be him or his freedom. And through the rifts of time he travels, to the moment of his birth. Screaming. Writhing. Upon him descends all the hopes of mankind, and best it laid upon him. For it was the night of power. And through the fiery depths of the oceans, and the clear blue pain the sky induces, it was coming back to him. And he fights the urge to live, the compassion for mankind blazing inside his eyes. He endures it for them; the most noble sacrifice has been made. But verily, he does not know his fate, what has the life here and beyond got in store for him? And through the misty haze and the broken shrouds it descended upon him. It was nor Darkness, nor was it light. And so it was prescribed to him and him alone. The pain was a relief, to know that it was him who really controlled the atoms which shaped the world. Time shatters. Remnants flying all over the place. Light and dark. Big and small. It was clear to him now. He is the chosen one. And let it be known, that on this day, a chosen one was born.
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