What did it truly mean to be alive?
Fire.
A raging wildfire had been lit, turning the Bussot Plain into a blazing sea of flames. Crimson radiance flashed, reflecting a scarlet glow across the sky.
A child stood at the center of the plain. Flames were his toys, blazing fire his servants. He had ignited the endless "weeds"—parasitic magic plants—that had once sprawled across the Bussot Plain, burning every insect- and rodent-type Magic Beast nesting within them into ash.
His bewildered expression led the farmers of the Bussot Plain to worship him as a god. This burning royal blood heralded the emergence of a future powerhouse, while the child's parents watched him with complicated yet expectant gazes.
Everyone held expectations for the future. Only the child felt confused and uneasy.
Those lush shrubs, those vibrant lives, those intricate and ingenious burrows and nests, those exquisite symbiotic systems—all of them had been eradicated by a flicker of his flame. This plain's life had been so brilliant, so green, yet he had turned it into nothingness.
Yes. It had to be done. People needed farmland, needed crops, needed to live, and so they needed to eliminate other lives.
The farmers cheered and worshipped him. The flames had burned away the weeds and enriched the earth; next year would surely bring a bountiful harvest. His father was excited too, because with his talent, their branch had hope of returning to the royal bloodline.
Life was destroyed, and the flames shone so brilliantly. It seemed that life's greatest meaning was the radiance it gave off as it was destroyed.
"Father, why burn so many lives?"
"Because they are weeds and harmful beasts. If we want to survive, we have to kill them."
"What is the difference between us? If others wanted to live, could