It began with a whisper.
At first, only in the forgotten corners of the world —
old ruins, abandoned towns, battlefields left to the sands of time.
The wind would hum through broken stones and shattered banners.
And sometimes…
if you listened closely…
you could hear a name.
"Kai Arashi."
At first, it was dismissed.
A ghost story.
A remnant of the old wars.
Another broken myth in a world desperate for heroes.
But the whispers grew louder.
They carried over the deserts, the mountains, the oceans.
They crept into cities ruled by prideful bloodlines,
into courts of kings who claimed the Age of Heroes was their triumph.
The whispers carried a different story:
"The boy who defied gods."
"The King who chose freedom over eternity."
"The Abyss that birthed hope instead of destruction."
In the Academy, Arin gathered the first seeds of the New Order —
young warriors, healers, scholars — those chosen not by bloodline or power,
but by spirit.
She told them the real stories.
Not the lies the old world tried to teach.
The truth of Kai Arashi.
And slowly, a new legend was woven:
Not of domination.
Not of perfect heroes.
But of broken souls who still chose to fight for others.
In distant lands, the echoes found their way into secret songs and hidden murals:
A carving deep within a desert canyon showing a boy standing against a tidal wave of shadows.
An ancient ballad sung by fishermen, about the "Prince of the Abyss who chose to fall rather than conquer."
Secret symbols — Kai's spiral sigil — scratched into the walls of prisons and orphanages by those who dared to hope.
The world tried to suppress it.
The old kings, the powerful bloodlines, the guardians of the "pure" Systems — they feared the name.
Because they knew:
Kai's memory was more dangerous than any army.
It was an idea they couldn't kill.
One night, at the new Academy,
Arin stood in the Hall of Sigils — a grand cathedral of learning and spirit.
She watched the next generation — young, fearless, laughing, dreaming.
Beneath the grand arch of the Hall, someone had scrawled, in defiance of rules, a simple phrase:
"The Abyss Remembers."
She smiled, wiping a tear from her eye.
She whispered under her breath:
"He lives.
He always will."
Far away, atop a broken, ancient hill, a cloaked figure stood under the stars.
The figure carried no sigil.
No crown.
No title.
Only a single, scarred hand.
And when the wind stirred their cloak,
the world caught a glimpse of silver eyes — gleaming softly against the night.
A boy reborn.
Watching.
Waiting.
Preparing.
The Abyss was never about destruction.
It was about choice.
And the world's true test had only just begun.