Chapter 161
In the silence between worlds, the true hand that had lifted Damon Lazarus from the jaws of death stirred uneasily. It had always preferred the shadows, weaving from afar, letting the pieces dance without ever revealing its own face. Daniel, no, Damon reborn, was not meant to be a pawn, but an instrument, a melody it had been composing across eras.
To watch him grow, to watch the boy's chaos refine into something sharp and dangerous, was a pleasure it had not tasted in ages. But time, time was always the enemy. The God of Time, with its cold inevitability, had already taken notice, and where Time peered, Death was never far behind. Those two were aligned in their eternal cycle, their powers complementing each other like twin blades poised to sever what should not exist.
Daniel trusted the gut that had guided him since childhood, choosing paths that felt honest even when they led away from certainty. To everyone else his decisions seemed eccentric at best, reckless at worst; to him they were small proofs of life, proofs that he alone could answer. The effect was uncanny: the world around him rearranged, not violently but like a chessboard that subtly tilted, allowing new moves to appear. Far above that tilt, in a place that had once been called sacred and was now only memory, the forgotten god regarded him.
This god had the old sight , the terrible, patient ability to watch countless timelines unspool, and yet it could not cross the threshold that would force a human's will. It could see Daniel's choices before he made them, map the heartbreak and the triumph, and still it was bound. All that power could do was whisper through intermediaries: wishers, faint currents of hope or dread slipped into ears, small strokes that might change the angle of a heart but never the whole hand. The god's impotence was a new kind of torment; to witness all outcomes and be limited to suggestion felt heavier than rage. So it watched, and waited, and sent its quiet influence like a wind that might redirect a lost candle flame , never to conquer, only to tempt.
The unseen and forgotten benefactor knew the truth of its predicament. To interfere once had already cost it dearly. Half of its true essence had been burned away in that desperate gamble to knit Damon's broken corpse back into life, to cheat the rule of endings. A debt of energy so vast that it would take a hundred trillion years to replenish.
To do it again, to throw itself against Time and Death openly, would not only expose Daniel but would also shatter what remained of its own existence. It was bound, like all gods, by its representation, forced to embody what it was, even when cunning demanded otherwise. And cunning… cunning was not its strongest trait. Patience, amusement, indulgence, yes. But guile of the kind needed now? That was a different art.
So it hesitated. Daniel hadn't even reached the second floor, hadn't even clawed his way past what was still considered a tutorial by the Tower's impossible standards. To lose him now, here, before his story even began, would be a waste beyond measure.
The benefactor's essence shivered with something close to frustration. It needed a plan, not a grand intervention, not a second expenditure of divine essence, but something subtler, safer, and quieter. Because if Time made its move and Death followed, Daniel would not merely be erased; he would be annihilated, utterly removed from possibility.
For the first time in ages, the benefactor found itself thinking not of amusement, but of survival. And not its own. Daniel's.
The benefactor lingered at the edges of the divine hall, watching the scene unfold like a noose tightening around Daniel's fragile thread of existence. Within the shimmering folds of eternity, the God of Time already bent close to its ancient counterpart, the God of Death.
Their voices were not sounds but inevitabilities given shape, a dialogue that hummed with the certainty of judgment. Time whispered of correction, of restoring the fracture to order. Death, ever faithful to endings, leaned in agreement. Daniel's story, Damon Lazarus's story, was about to be erased, scrubbed clean as though it had never been.
For a moment, the benefactor fought with itself. There were paths still open: cloak Daniel from their sight, scatter his presence across the Tower's endless strata, or even weave illusions so elaborate that not even Time could pierce them. But each thought collapsed under the weight of its binding. It was not free.
Like all gods, it was chained to what it was, unable to bend beyond its own nature. And its nature was indulgence, excess, and persistence in joy rather than subtle schemes. To betray that was to unravel itself. With a bitterness that tasted like surrender, it withdrew, slipping unseen from the realm where the six old gods watched.
It carried its presence into the deepest silence, to a place no divine had willingly set foot, the Cosmological Horizon. To mortals, it was a theoretical boundary, the end of light, the last curtain of the observable multiverse. To a god, it was exile incarnate, a precipice where even eternity thinned.
There it stood, alone against the infinite dark, and pulled from its essence a tapestry of events: the story of Damon Lazarus, unspooled all the way back to bloodlines and breaths, to Edward and Miyako, to the instant of his first conception.
It did not disguise its desperation. With a power that would take untold eons to recover, it burned those memories into the fabric of reality itself. The core of Damon's life, his brilliance, his burdens, his countless selves shattered and stored like glass shards in his psyche, was threaded backward into the moment of conception.
Not as a parasite, not as an echo, but as a representation. Daniel would no longer merely be a boy reborn into another manipulated reality . He would carry this benefactor's mark, its chosen mantle, as though he were both man and avatar of something greater.
The gods might still come for him. Time and death were inevitabilities no being could simply erase. But now, should they strike, they would not just erase a mortal anomaly. They would strike at the benefactor itself, hidden within Daniel's very existence. And as it stared into the abyss beyond the horizon, it felt no regret, only defiance.
Because if eternity wished to take its instrument away, then eternity would have to bleed. The moment the embedding struck, Daniel's world buckled as if the floor beneath existence itself had been ripped away.
One heartbeat he stood within the broken stone corridors of the Tower, and the next, everything swirled. Space twisted like liquid glass, folding in on itself until the air cracked with an otherworldly shriek. A violent pressure surged into his skull, flooding his veins with unbearable heat. The ground, the walls, and even the sky above him shattered like fragile mirrors, exploding outward in a storm of glittering dust. Reality itself disintegrated around him, reduced to motes of nothing.
Daniel's body began to follow. His skin flaked to ash, his arms splintered into streams of cinders, and his chest crumbled as if consumed by unseen fire. Every nerve screamed, raw agony stripping him bare. The pull was merciless, dragging him backward through a tunnel that stretched across eternity. He felt himself unraveling, not only flesh but also soul, stretched thin against a current faster than sound, faster than thought. He was breaking. And yet, he was not.
His mind, though scorched by agony, endured. The torment had been unending, searing through every thread of his being, yet some buried instinct had twisted the pain into something he could survive. It was as though his consciousness had learned to fold upon itself, reshaping into a vessel hardened against the impossible. The void that had swallowed him grew darker still, so absolute it consumed even the echo of his screams, until, slowly, faint streaks of color bled into the emptiness.
At first a dim wash of crimson, then pallid silver, then shades of shadowed blue, all collapsing back into silence before the world reassembled around him. Daniel opened his eyes, and everything seemed unchanged: intangible walls, the weight of the Tower's air, and the faint pulse of magic that threaded through its veins, yet something inside him was not the same. He could not name it, only feel the creeping strangeness gnawing at the edge of his awareness.
This was the second time that unsettling sensation had clawed its way into his soul, and it left him cold. He tried to call up his status, the familiar lattice of information that should mark him, ground him, and remind him of who and what he was, but nothing appeared. Blankness. Emptiness. As if he were no one at all. A citizen of the Tower, yes, recognized by its laws and systems, but without a trace of the human history he once bore.
To everyone else, he had no Lazarus blood, no mortal lineage, and no past. Only Daniel, the Tower-born. Yet he knew better. He remembered. He alone carried the fractured truth of Dane Lazarus, the boy who had lived, bled, and died beyond these walls. A silent dread took hold of him: did any of his former kin, any of the Lazarus line, recall his existence? Or had the Tower stolen even their memory of him, erasing the last fragile proof that he had ever been human at all?
Daniel stepped out of the ruined house, its broken timbers still groaning as though the structure itself mourned its forgotten history. The air outside was heavy with the Tower's peculiar stillness, that strange pressure that pressed against his skin and reminded him he was no longer of the world he once called home.
There, waiting just beyond the threshold, stood a figure draped in the insignia of the East Lazarus Guild, his guild, his blood, his people. For an instant his heart caught in his chest, hope and dread colliding like thunder. It was Farrah Lazarus, the famed manipulator of plants, her presence commanding as the vines curled obediently at her feet, restless serpents ready to shield or strike at her command.
Her gaze swept over him, recognition flaring, but not the recognition he longed for. She did not see Dane Lazarus, the man he once was. Instead, her lips parted with reverence as she bowed slightly and greeted him: "Young Lord Daniel Rothchester." The words cut him deeper than any blade.
A false name, a rewritten life, a carefully woven fiction that had replaced his bloodline with one not his own. Frustration churned within him, bitter and suffocating, but he forced his mind into stillness. Anger here would serve nothing. He remembered the voice in the void, the benefactor who had torn apart and rebuilt his story so he could walk again in this place. This false identity was not a betrayal; it was survival. It was the only shield strong enough to conceal him from those who hunted the Lazarus line, from truths that could not yet be revealed.
Yet his calm mask did not silence the storm within. What, exactly, had been altered? Which threads of his past had been erased, which truths bent and reformed until even his kin could no longer see him? He wanted to know the shape of the lies that now defined him, to uncover what had been sacrificed in order to make him hidden.
Daniel stepped out of the ruined house, its broken timbers groaning as if the structure itself mourned a forgotten history. The air outside was heavy with the Tower's peculiar stillness, a strange pressure pressing against his skin, reminding him that he had returned to the place where he first encountered the living ornament and earned its permanent blessing.
The battle with the Corpse Lord raged on in the distance. Daniel's eyes swept over the scene: guild members tending to their wounds, a few East Lazarus Guild operatives cautiously emerging from the castle to guard against surprise attacks.
Beyond the threshold, a figure awaited him, draped in the insignia of the East Lazarus Guild—his guild, his blood, his people. His chest tightened as hope and dread collided like thunder. Farrah Lazarus stood there, the famed manipulator of plants, her presence commanding, vines curling like restless serpents at her feet, ready to shield or strike on her command. Recognition flared in her eyes, but not the recognition he longed for. She did not see Dane Lazarus, the man he once was. Instead, her lips parted, and she inclined her head with careful respect.
"Young Lord Daniel Rothchester," she greeted, her tone polite and formal, sharp and deliberate.
The words cut deeper than any blade. A false name, a rewritten life. His bloodline replaced, his history erased. Frustration churned inside him, bitter and suffocating, but he forced calm, reminding himself that anger would serve nothing here. The voice in the void—the benefactor who had torn apart and rebuilt his story, had chosen this disguise as his shield. Survival had required this fiction.
Yet even as he kept his mask of composure, the storm within him raged. What threads of his past had been altered? Which truths had been erased so completely that even his own kin could no longer see him? He needed to understand what had been sacrificed to keep him hidden.
Daniel steadied his breathing, letting the false title hang between them like a chain he had no choice but to bear.
"Young Lord Daniel Rothchester. what can i do for you?" a Name that he just had to retain and us hollow in his skull, jagged and foreign, yet spoken with such certainty by Farrah that denial was impossible.
He studied her face, sharp, resolute, framed by the quiet authority that had always set her apart,but found nothing. No flicker of recognition. No hint that she saw Damon, orDane Lazarus standing before her resembling similar looks of his so called cousin , Only the formality of a guildmate addressing a lord she believed she knew. He forced a thin, deliberate smile.
"Farrah," he said lightly, testing her, choosing each word with care, "how goes the fight with the Corpse Lord? And tell me… how fares the Lazarus Guild these days?" He let his gaze wander casually, as if he were merely making conversation,
"I heard something curious the other day… about an old relative of yours. Edward Lazarus, was it? The one said to have been behind the creation of the the vast Lazarus Guild, he was the one that created original blueprint or your clan massive influence in the warriors world. I just wish to gain some brief history as this alliance will eventually grew even deeper if we clear the Empire of graves quest,"
Her eyes narrowed slightly, not with suspicion but with careful thought, as if his words brushed against the faintest edge of memory. "The Guild endures," she replied with quiet pride, her voice steady as the vines at her heels shifted like serpents attuned to her heartbeat. "Edward Lazarus? Yes… he was an innovator, one of the earliest developers of the Arcane Crusade. But beyond his work, his line… he had no heirs. He married Miyako Azai decades ago, but they never had children. Both died in a tragic accident not long after.
" so how about their son , Damon lazarus?"
" Damon Lazarus? That name does not exist among us. It never has."
Daniel's fingers curled against his palm, nails pressing into flesh, yet his face betrayed nothing. Even here, before his own bloodline, the truth of his existence had been purged. To them, to history, to the Tower itself, Damon Lazarus had never existed.
Cody Lazarus strode into the dimly lit room, face tense, eyes darting with the weight of grim news. "Twelve guild members… from the joint operation," he reported briskly, voice tight. "They're dead. Killed in the field." His gaze flicked toward Daniel briefly, hesitant as if sensing the man's silent scrutiny.
Daniel's expression remained calm, almost casual, but his mind sharpened like a blade, cutting through the layers of information. "I see," he said, voice smooth, letting the words float in the air. "And… have you heard anything about why? Any unusual behavior, strange encounters? Anything that might have led them into this… fate?"
Cody hesitated for a fraction of a second, then shook his head. "Not directly. I only overheard that some of the higher-ups were talking to the young lord about our clan, about our structure, tactics, and how we operate." His lips twitched into a faint smile, one of admiration, almost reverent. "He… he's a fan of the Neatherborn lord after seeing how powerful it was.
Daniel listened as Cody's admiration poured out, every word filled with reverence, but his focus was elsewhere. The way Cody described Melgil's devotion, the way he spoke of the familiars and the guild as though they had always belonged to him—it all pressed against the storm of questions Daniel carried.If Damon Lazarus had been erased, then why did these threads remain?
He turned his gaze away from Cody, calm but searching, and spoke softly, almost as if to himself."If Damon Lazarus never existed… then why do I still see his shadow?"
Farrah returned from the records hall just then, a bundle of scrolls clutched to her chest, her vine-like tattoos glowing faintly as they always did when her mana stirred. She met Daniel's eyes, her brow furrowed."There's nothing," she said. "The archives list twelve fallen members, yes, but Damon Lazarus is not among them. His name does not appear anywhere—not in the bloodlines, not in the registries, not even in rumors. It's as though…" Her voice trailed off, unease flickering in her eyes.
"As though he was deleted," Daniel finished for her, his tone level but edged with steel. "Tell me, Farrah… when you look at me, what do you see?"
Farrah hesitated. "I see someone whose presence bends the air around him. You walk into a room, and the vines in me stir—like the earth itself recognizes you. But Damon Lazarus? That name means nothing to me. You… are Daniel. Yet…" She swallowed. "Sometimes I feel as if I've known you before, in ways memory refuses to explain."
Daniel's lips curved faintly, though his eyes were sharp. He turned next to Jacob, the vice leader of the Eastern Lazarus Guild, the magma-blooded warrior who could command fire as if it were his breath. Jacob leaned against the stone wall, arms crossed, studying Daniel with the weight of an older brother who had carried too many battles.
"Jacob," Daniel said, his voice probing, steady. "In the guild records… in our bloodline… was there ever another before me? Someone who held this presence?"
Jacob's eyes narrowed. For a long moment he said nothing, then exhaled, smoke curling faintly from his lips."No. No Damon Lazarus. No forgotten brother. But…" He leaned forward, his magma-lit eyes glinting. "When you fight, when you command, I feel something. A rhythm. It's the same rhythm the guild follows when we don't even realize it. As though you wrote the melody long before you arrived."
Daniel let the words linger before turning to Oliver, the quiet hunter who favored poisoned darts. Oliver shifted uncomfortably under Daniel's gaze, fingers brushing the satchels at his side.
"Oliver," Daniel asked softly, "when you aim, when you strike, who taught you that discipline? Who set the pattern you follow?"
Oliver's jaw tightened. "No one. I've always believed it was my own craft. But now that you ask…" His eyes flicked toward Daniel, something uneasy sparking there. "When I watch you move, I realize—I've been imitating something I never learned. My instincts mirror yours, Daniel. As though…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "As though I'd been following a phantom teacher all my life."
Daniel inhaled deeply, his thoughts threading together. One by one, the pieces were falling into place.
"Rainey," Daniel said, his voice cutting through the murmurs. The insect tamer raised her head, her eyes sharp, the faint hum of wings always around her. "You summon swarms as though they anticipate more than your will. Why do they obey so perfectly? Why do they linger near me when I pass by?"
Rainey's lips parted. "I… I never noticed until now. They do cling to your aura. It's like… you're a hive master I didn't know existed. My insects trust you, Daniel. More than they trust me. It makes no sense."
A quiet tension spread. Daniel's gaze shifted to Sabine, the shapeshifter, her tiger-like eyes glowing faintly even in her human form.
"Sabine," Daniel asked, his voice heavy with unspoken demand, "why do you always take position near me in combat? Why do your transformations respond to my commands, even when I do not give them?"
Sabine's jaw clenched. For once, she looked unsettled, her usual confidence strained. "Because it feels right. Every time you move, I already know where I must strike. My body reacts before my mind decides. It's as if…" Her voice dropped, a whisper meant only for him. "As if I was trained by you in another life."
The air grew heavier. All eyes turned to Noah, the metal-skinned warrior, the youngest yet unyielding, his flesh already shimmering faintly like tempered steel.
Daniel's voice softened, final, the decisive strike of his inquiry. "Noah… when you harden your skin, when you endure, who do you imagine standing beside you?"
Noah swallowed, then spoke with raw honesty. "You. Always you. Even before I met you, I dreamed of a figure who stood like iron, unbreakable. I thought it was imagination. But when I saw you… I knew. It was you I'd been seeing."
Silence pressed in, thick and suffocating. One by one, Daniel had stripped the veil from their instincts, and each confession revealed the same truth: Damon Lazarus was gone, erased, deleted from existence… but the imprint of his life remained in them.
Daniel straightened slowly, his gaze sharp, his voice low and deliberate."You all feel it. You've confessed it. The world may have deleted the name Damon Lazarus, but what he built, what I built, remains. In your instincts. In your loyalty. In your very blood. The guild, the familiars, Melgil's devotion… none of it can be erased. Damon Lazarus is gone…"
His eyes hardened, glinting with both defiance and revelation.
"…but I endure. Through you. Through this guild. Through every scar that refuses to fade."
His relatives exchanged uneasy glances, but none contradicted him. Deep down, they knew. Memory may have been rewritten, history may have been folded into shadows, but their bond, their discipline, their instincts—all were living echoes of the erased man.
Daniel exhaled slowly, the weight of revelation settling into his chest. Damon Lazarus had been deleted. But his existence still lingered in the marrow of the people he had shaped.
And Daniel… would reclaim it.
The corridors of the War Forge were quieter than usual, the hum of molten furnaces dulled to a low growl, as though even the walls themselves were holding their breath. Daniel moved through the smoke-hazed halls without escort, his steps measured, deliberate, the air around him carrying that subtle pressure that made even hardened smiths step aside. He had come for answers—not from disciples, not from blood relatives, but from one whose memory could not be swayed by loyalty or blood.
Siglorr Bouldergrove, the dwarven master of the War Forge, stood at the heart of the roaring furnace halls, hammer slung across his soot-flecked shoulder, his beard darkened by cinders and years of toil. The old smith squinted at Daniel through the smoke and rising sparks, his eyes glinting like embers buried in stone. "Strange," Siglorr rumbled, his voice heavy, like granite grinding against granite. "Greeting, my young lord.
I am delighted you came to visit, even if the burden of quests presses on your shoulders. Yet I find myself unsettled, your presence feels… different. Lighter, though far stronger. I sense another blessing woven into your soul, and a firmer grip upon your own power." Daniel gave a slight nod, his expression sharpened by the tension he carried within.
"Thank you, head forge master. I came without herald or warning because the world itself feels unsteady beneath my feet. Something has shifted, threads I cannot name, a change I cannot see.
But if memory holds true, perhaps you can clear the fog that blinds me. Tell me, Siglorr… do you remember the moment we first met?" The dwarf's hand clenched around the haft of his hammer, the clang of distant anvils fading beneath the weight of recollection.
"Aye," he said, his tone solemn, almost reverent.
"I remember the gorge, the cursed forest where beasts of claw and venom fell upon us. The Velvet Knights, for all their steel, faltered against that tide. My kin and I would have been bones in the dark earth, had you not come.
You and the elf, Melgil,two wanderers against the horde. But the way you carved through shadow, the way your presence bent the monsters back as if the forest itself feared you, that was no mortal feat. You saved us, lad. You saved my clan. And when you pulled me from the jaws of that death, we knew. We swore loyalty to you that day, not from gratitude, but because we had seen truth: that no king, no god, no ancient power above could match what stirred in you."
The forge light deepened the lines of Siglorr's face, each word falling like molten iron into Daniel's chest. For a moment Daniel stood in silence, and it was then, there in the haze of fire and memory, that he accepted the reality pressing upon him.
He was no longer just Dane Lazarus, no longer just a wanderer caught in a story too large for mortal hands. He was Neatherborn, child of a race older than time's first heartbeat, a lineage bound to the High Coequal Supreme Being itself.
The Neatherborn were whispers of myth to even the most ancient scholars, servants forged before creation, shaped in the shadowless dawn when neither light nor dark yet existed. They had been the hands that carved existence, the keepers of balance before gods took names and dominions. Beings so far beyond the highest archons or titans that their very breath carried the weight of worlds. And now, standing in the glow of the War Forge, Daniel felt that truth settle upon him like a crown of fire and stone, inescapable, undeniable, eternal.
But the name Damon Lazarus… no, it does not ring in me. Only you. Daniel."
Daniel's eyes narrowed, but he didn't speak yet. He waited, letting silence weigh down the room until Siglorr shifted uncomfortably, lowering his hammer.
"You asked me to remember," Siglorr said slowly, as if groping through fog. "Our first meeting. The forest near the gorge. Yes… I recall. My crew, the Velvet Knight mercenaries, we were searching for raw ore veins when the monsters came down on us like a storm. Too many. Even they—professional killers, were buckling under the swarm. I was cornered. I thought my bones would crack beneath their claws."
His eyes flicked to Daniel, and for a moment there was something in them, fear, awe, recognition. "Then you appeared. A shadow moving with precision, every strike carving a path where there should've been none. And at your side…" Siglorr hesitated. "…a woman. Hair like silver silk, eyes red as coals in the dark. Melgil. She fought with you as though she'd always been there.
You didn't just fight, lord Daniel you saved us. Not with brute strength, but with mastery. Every strike carried intent, like you'd been there a thousand times already."
Daniel's breath caught, though his face betrayed nothing. The memory remained. Damon Lazarus was gone, erased, yet Siglorr still recalled the encounter exactly as it had happened. The fight, the rescue, Melgil's presence by his side—it had not been swallowed by oblivion. The world still bore the scars of Damon's existence, even if his name was forbidden to remain.
"And afterward?" Daniel's voice was quiet, steady, but edged with hunger.
Siglorr nodded slowly. "Afterward, I pledged myself to the forge for your guild. Not because of obligation. Because I knew what I had seen. A being not like the rest of us. You weren't just a warrior, Daniel. You weren't even just a leader. You were something beyond. Something older. The word that comes to me… Neatherborn."
The word slid through the smoke, heavy with meaning, and Daniel felt it settle into him like a key finding its lock. Neatherborn race . A name older than time, older than the Tower itself.
Siglorr lowered his hammer, voice dropping, reverent now. "The archives of my people hold whispers of the Neatherborn. Nearly godlike beings. They say before time itself began to tick, before history, before empires, there was only the High Coequal Supreme Being. To maintain balance, to guard creation from collapse,
He forged servants, guardians made not of flesh, nor of soul, but of primordial essence. The Neatherborn. They were not countless, there were only ever few. Each one greater than the mightiest angels or demons. Each one designed to weave the threads of reality, to hold the fabric of existence from tearing apart. They are said to be… eternal, indestructible, beyond even the reach of death."
The forge flames cracked, casting Daniel's face in a glow that seemed otherworldly. His chest tightened, the confirmation sharp and undeniable. He was not merely Daniel. He had been Damon Lazarus. And Damon had been more than a man. He had been Neatherborn.
For a long moment, Daniel said nothing. He simply closed his eyes, letting the weight of the truth press against him, suffocating yet liberating. Damon Lazarus had been erased from memory, his existence folded into nothing. But the Neatherborn could not be erased. Their essence lingered in the cracks of the world, in the loyalty of disciples, in the devotion of Melgil, in the memories Siglorr carried despite all rewriting.
When he opened his eyes again, there was no doubt in them—only clarity. "So it endures," Daniel murmured, more to himself than to Siglorr. "The name may be gone. The history, rewritten. But the truth… the essence… cannot be undone."
Siglorr's gaze lingered on him with a mix of fear and reverence. "Then you know what you are."
Daniel gave a small, measured nod. For the first time, he accepted it fully, without hesitation."I am Neatherborn."
And as the words left his lips, the forge itself seemed to shudder, as though reality itself acknowledged the truth.
Siglorr's eyes gleamed like molten iron, and for a moment his hammer seemed to vibrate with the gravity of the tale he was about to share. "Three, lad. Only three Neatherborn have ever walked the realms in memory, each heralding a war that carved the world anew. Same in essence, bound to the Supreme's will, yet each wearing a different face, carrying a different flame."
He drew a slow breath, voice lowering to a hush as though the very forge walls were listening.
"The First was Kaelthar, the Shattered Dawn. He rose when the Old Kingdoms fell to ruin, when gods themselves turned their blades upon one another. His form was wreathed in molten light, his skin like cracked stone with fire leaking through the fissures, eyes brighter than suns. Kaelthar was destruction incarnate, yet not without purpose—he broke the false thrones of tyrant-archons who sought to enslave creation itself. Whole cities turned to ash in his march, but in the end, balance was restored. The kingdoms that rose after bore his scars, but also his mark of order."
Siglorr's hand gripped his hammer tighter as if the memory itself burned.
"The Second was Yssira, the Veiled Silence. She came not in fire, but in shadow, during the War of Wyrms—when dragons sought dominion over sky and earth. Her form was shifting, cloaked in veils of smoke, a woman whose face none could recall, whose voice was never heard but always felt within the marrow. Armies chasing her fell into madness, dragons roared in terror before vanishing into void. She did not lead, she did not command, but her presence broke the mightiest forces until the war's tide collapsed. Yssira's disciples founded orders of silence and shadow, but none could wield her true power once she departed her host."
The forge fire dimmed as if recoiling from the weight of her name, and Siglorr's tone dropped to a gravelly whisper.
"The Third was Draegoth, the Iron Eternum. He appeared during the Sundering War, when mortals rebelled against the celestial courts. Draegoth's form was towering, his flesh bound in living metal, his blood ringing like anvils with every heartbeat. He was a fortress made flesh, and no weapon, no sorcery, no divine judgment could pierce him. He did not lead from shadows nor destroy wantonly, he stood at the front of mortal ranks, unyielding, until the heavens themselves relented. After the war, the people hailed him not as savior, but as the wall that made their defiance possible."
Siglorr paused, his gaze fixing on Daniel, and his next words came like thunder contained in stone. "Three. Kaelthar the Flame. Yssira the Shadow. Draegoth the Iron. All cycles, all vessels of the Neatherborn essence. But you, lad…" His voice roughened with awe and unease. "…you are none of them. You do not fit their lineage, nor their recorded essence. You were not supposed to exist, yet here you stand.
The realm never accounted for you, the old god never forged you, and yet you carry the mark of the Neatherborn. Which means one of two things—either the cycle has broken, or it has begun anew in ways we cannot foresee."
The forge thundered with a sudden gout of flame, as though punctuating his words, and Daniel Rothchester felt the weight of history pressing upon his chest. He was not Kaelthar, not Yssira, not Draegoth, he was something else entirely, a Neatherborn without precedent, a shadow that the story had never intended to cast.
Daniel left the forge with Siglorr's words heavy in his chest, the truth of the Neatherborn burning brighter than the forge fires themselves. He offered the old dwarf a solemn nod of thanks, then stepped into the shimmer of the transfer gate, letting the magic drag him across space and thought. The world rippled, and when it stilled, he stood before the gates of the Rothchester estate, its high towers crowned with banners that swayed like watchful eyes. He pressed forward, his steps echoing in the marbled entry as the air itself seemed to hold its breath.
The silence shattered in an instant. Four armored figures emerged from the shadows of the hall, their plate gleaming silver-black, their helms crowned with scarlet plumes. Without a word, they struck,swords singing, lances darting with lethal intent. The Veyrra, the infamous Daughters of War, moved with practiced unity. Yet against Daniel, they were as fragile as glass. His hand cut the air, his will manifesting like a storm. Steel bent, shields cracked, and in heartbeats they were driven to their knees, weapons scattered at his feet.
"Enough!" Melgil's voice tore through the corridor like a blade. She rushed to Daniel's side, her emerald eyes burning with fury. "You dare raise arms against him?" Her aura flared, mana rippling outward in waves that rattled the armor of the four women, making their bodies tremble under its pressure. They lowered their heads in shame and fear, these famed daughters of war, now quivering like apprentices before a master, for they knew Melgil not just as Daniel's companion, but as one of the few who had walked beside him through blood and eternity.
Then, before Daniel could speak, a voice echoed across the grand corridor. A man's voice, strong, steady, painfully familiar. His heart froze in his chest. He knew that voice. He had lived his childhood with it, dreamed of it, mourned it. And then, like a blade across his soul, a second voice followed, a woman's, soft and firm, just as familiar, just as impossible.
Two figures emerged from the corridor's gilded arch. A woman in a flowing gown of deep crimson, crowned in jewels, her bearing regal yet graceful, Duchess Elleena Laeanna Rothchester. At her side, taller, broad-shouldered, clad in the finery of old nobility, was a man whose face stopped Daniel's breath, Duke Seaton Rothchester. But it wasn't only them. No—it was something far worse. For beneath the veneer of nobility, in the curve of their faces, the shape of their eyes, the cadence of their very presence—Daniel saw them. His parents. His human parents. The ones who had raised him in the mortal world, who had died in an accident that had carved grief into his very bones.
The ground seemed to tilt beneath him. His vision wavered between the noble regalia and the worn, gentle smiles he remembered from his youth. His throat tightened, words choking in his chest as realization crashed over him. "Mother…? Father…?" he whispered, his voice breaking. But the names did not fit here, not in this hall, not in this reality where they stood as Duke and Duchess Rothchester, alive, unbroken, and utterly out of place. The walls of the Tower's story bent, and Daniel felt the seams of the world tremble, for this was not reincarnation, not illusion, this was a rewriting of truth itself.