For one long year, Kazimir poured his soul into crafting a technique that defied naming—no precedent, no rival. He called it Perpetual Absolute—a fusion of compressed lightning and spatial distortion, condensed into a singularity and unleashed at a velocity beyond comprehension. Even he, the prodigy of Vrasnia, struggled to bridle its raw, untamed power, his hands trembling as he shaped it in secret training grounds.
When he revealed it to his mother, Karah—the Zasia Vandor of Lightning—her initial curiosity hardened into a quiet urgency. "Show me," she commanded, her voice a blend of pride and apprehension, her white and gold robes swaying in the wind.
They ventured deep into the outer fields, a vast expanse of whispering grass and endless sky, far from the capital's watchful eyes. Karah stood with arms crossed, the breeze tugging at her attire. "Let me see it," she repeated, a spark of challenge igniting her gaze.
Kazimir nodded, stepping back, his voice soft but firm. "Stand back."
Karah retreated, believing the distance sufficient—though a mother's instinct flickered in her chest. Kazimir closed his eyes, the world falling silent around him. Then, with a deep breath, he channeled every fiber of his being into his palm—lightning entwined with spatial rifts, coalescing into a volatile star of destruction. He released it.
The earth shuddered and split. The sky erupted in a deafening roar. A dome of electrical fury exploded outward, flattening the field in a cataclysmic wave. Karah's eyes widened, a rare vulnerability surfacing as she raised a shield, her hair streaming wildly, her cape torn by the blast. The clouds above fractured, scattering like broken glass.
When the smoke dissipated, Karah approached slowly, her face a mask of awe and restraint. "…That," she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion, "was breathtaking."
Kazimir's heart swelled with pride, only to sink as her lips curved into a wry smirk. "But next time, try not to vaporize the training field. You're grounded."
"What?!" he exclaimed, disbelief etching his features.
"900 laps," she declared, her tone brooking no argument. "Around the nation. Now move before I make it 1,000."
Exhausted but unbroken, Kazimir completed the grueling task. When he returned, sweat-soaked and breathless, Karah met him with a towel and a quiet, tender smile. "I've decided," she said, her voice softening. "You're going to the Astral Legion Academy."
Kazimir blinked, stunned. "What?"
"Your sister's there—Jessie. She's grown beyond my expectations, more than she knows. It's time you joined her. Learn. Meet people. Stop training like the world's already ended."
He hesitated, his sheltered life flashing before him—years of isolation, training, the weight of fear others held for him. But her belief in him steadied his resolve. "…Alright."
She smiled again, a glimmer of hope in her eyes. "Good. I've already sent the application."
Yet fate, cruel and unyielding, had other plans.
One month later, Karah departed alone on a mission, whispers of a dynasty abomination stirring the air. As the Zasia Vandor, she bore the duty to protect. Before leaving, she entrusted a message to her commander, her voice steady but heavy: "If I don't return… send Kazimir to Astral Legion. And tell him… tell him I'm proud."
She never returned.
Instead, the abominations came—twisted, corrupted Vrasnai, once noble kin, now monstrous shells under Abiba's dark influence. They turned on each other, their screams piercing the night, then on their people. Kazimir, immune to the corruption, stood amidst the chaos, watching in horror as the blood of his own stained the streets.
"Why is this happening…?" he whispered, his voice breaking, a tear tracing his cheek.
There was no time for answers. With katana drawn, he became lightning incarnate, his blade a blur of grief-fueled fury. Each strike through a corrupted face—a friend, a mentor—shattered his heart further. Two thousand Vrasnaians fell by his hand, their cries a haunting chorus. For four hours, he waded through a garden of death, the soil beneath his boots saturated with blood, his soul fracturing with every swing.
Then it appeared—the Dynasty Abomination itself, emerging from the mist of corpses, its clawed hand clutching something horrific.
"Kazimir," it rasped, its voice a distorted mockery, "a reward."
It tossed the object forward.
It was her head.
Karah.
The Zasia Vandor of Lightning. His mother. His anchor.
Her long black and blue hair, now matted with crimson, spilled over her lifeless face. Her fierce, warm eyes were closed forever, yet her expression held no fear—only a serene peace that pierced his heart like a dagger.
"…No," Kazimir choked, his breath hitching, his knees buckling.
A storm erupted within him, raw and uncontrollable. His sword slipped from his grasp, clattering to the blood-soaked ground. The world blurred, fading into a haze of anguish. Then he screamed—a primal, earth-shattering wail that tore through the skies, echoing his torment. Why?! Why did you have to take them all away from me?!
The seal Karah had placed—the fragile barrier holding his power in check—shattered. His lightning warped into something darker, deeper. His hair turned a storm-washed blue, his skin paled, glowing with dark blue markings and indigo eyes that pulsed with grief. His eyes ignited, overflowing with a torrent of power and sorrow.
He seized his sword, its blade now fueled by an inferno of loss, and unleashed a massacre. Parasites and corrupted foes fell before him, his strikes a blur of vengeance. From his rage, a singularity formed—Primal Catastrophe—a black hole birthing from his despair. It consumed the battlefield, devouring abominations, trees, buildings, even the clouds, leaving a void where life once stood. The Dynasty Abomination fled, its terror palpable, but Kazimir's focus had shattered.
He sank to his knees, cradling her head in his arms, her black-and-blue strands tangled in his trembling fingers. The body count—over Hundreds of thousands souls—meant nothing. The destruction was a hollow echo. He had failed her—the one who believed in him, who sealed his power to protect him, who raised him to be more than a weapon.
Hours later, In the center Kazimir—still kneeling, tears streaming silently down his face. He clutched her hair like a lifeline, the only remnant of the woman who had been his world, his silent sobs blending with the wind's mournful howl under Vrasnia's eternal night.