In the heart of a realm cloaked in darkness deeper than night, where time seemed to halt and the stars above had long forgotten to shine, a figure stood motionless. A ragged cloak draped over his towering form, the hood shadowing his face. Yet two crimson glows pierced the void, glowing faintly — like embers refusing to die. He stood at the precipice of an ancient ruin, stone pillars jutting from the cracked earth like the ribs of a colossal beast long dead. The ground below vibrated faintly, pulsing with a force that didn't belong to any natural world.
He exhaled, and the mist from his breath vanished into black wind.
"So…" the figure whispered, his voice dripping with power and venom, "…I've finally chosen the one."
That single sentence rang through the void like a curse cast upon all realms — an oath of awakening, and the first note in a symphony of destruction.
---
The scene shifted like a sudden breath sucked into the lungs of a sleeping god.
Far above mortal skies, lightning tore across stormclouds, illuminating a fortress that defied nature. A structure carved not from stone, but from the bones of forgotten beasts and meteorite metals, it loomed like a sleeping giant, its spires crackling with untamed magic. Thunder cracked again — not random, but rhythmic, like the heartbeat of a living realm.
This was Necrospire, the dwelling of Rohan, the CRISISLORD— a title bestowed upon no one before him, because there had never been a threat like him.
He stood on a platform that overlooked the endless storm surrounding his dominion. His silhouette was monstrous, his form casting an unnatural shadow even in the absence of light. He stood at 6.5 feet tall, his body chiseled like an ancient warrior, wrapped in black armor etched with inscriptions from forbidden languages.
Rohan appeared no older than 43, but no one truly knew his age. His eyes gleamed a molten silver when angry — and he was always angry. But what made him feared across dimensions wasn't just his might or intellect. It was the seven Dravillian stones embedded into a gauntlet forged from dragonbone and stardust.
Each stone radiated a hue of impossible color — their presence alone twisted the rules of gravity, heat, and time.
1. YOSH – Stone of Raw Force, said to grant strength to move continents.
2. MRITYU – Stone of Death, the essence of decay itself.
3. AMRIT – Stone of Immortality, the reason his enemies' victories never lasted.
4. AGNIVAAN– Stone of Fireblades, flaming weapons that tore through souls.
5. KAALNETRA – Stone of Time Vision, granting glimpses beyond moments and memory.
6. ZARQON – Stone of Darkness Control, capable of bending shadows into matter.
7. AETHERIUN – Stone of Celestial Gravity, able to anchor or levitate worlds.
These stones were not meant to be wielded together. They repelled each other, even in legend. Yet Rohan bound them — and himself — with dark rituals long forgotten by the Gods.
---
Elsewhere — a world apart — the forest whispered.
Dense and tangled, the trees of Amlivan Grove grew in chaotic spirals, as if reaching to escape some forgotten curse. The sun barely filtered through the canopy, casting a sepia gloom upon the damp earth below.
Here, a boy named Harun knelt by a bush of berries. His hands were calloused but careful as he collected the fruits in a threadbare pouch. Every so often, he looked back toward the worn path, ensuring no predator crept too near. His eyes, though tired, held the flicker of quiet resolve. He was no hunter, no warrior — just a son trying to care for his sick mother in a village that had forgotten hope.
A snap echoed from the underbrush. Then__
"HELP ! SOMEBODY HELP ME...!!!!!!"
Harun froze. The voice was young, terrified. A child.
Without a second thought, he dropped the pouch and sprinted, the woods whipping and clawing at his arms and face. The sounds of agony and crashing branches grew louder. He broke through the treeline — into a clearing of nightmares.
There, backlit by a sickly red sky, stood a creature of nightmares. Its form twisted, skin laced with bone armor, three arms ending in claws slick with blood. Its mouth split horizontally, jagged rows of serrated teeth grinding in anticipation.
VARKHAAL..!!!!!
A name Harun had heard only in terrified whispers — a hunter born from the Realm of Disarray, where chaos was law and sanity was weakness. It was no beast — it was designed to hunt souls.
A small boy cowered behind a rock, trembling.
Harun didn't hesitate. He ran between them, his arms outstretched. "Run! Hide!" he screamed, shielding the boy.
Varkhaal screeched and lunged.
Claws sliced the air. Harun's body was flung like a broken doll. He hit the ground hard — pain exploded in his side, warm blood soaking into the earth. The world blurred. His breath caught. He couldn't move.
Was this it? Was this how it ended?
But then — cold.
A sudden frost crawled across the grass. Ice coiled around Varkhaal's legs. The beast roared, confused.
From the shadows stepped a woman — no older than twenty-five, with midnight-black hair flowing like liquid night and a robe of azure and silver that shimmered with runes. Her hands glowed with frost, her presence serene yet terrifying.
She didn't speak.
She merely raised her hand — and in a flash of light, a beam of frost pierced Varkhaal's chest. The beast froze mid-roar, its muscles stiffening. Then — crack — it shattered into a thousand glistening shards.
She knelt beside Harun, placing a hand over his wound. A blue-white glow spread from her palm. Pain faded. Warmth returned.
Harun blinked, gasping.
"W-who… are you?" he stammered.
She smiled softly. "My name is Zoya."
"Zoya…? What are you…?"
"I am a MOKSHA..," she said gently.
Harun's eyes widened.
"The Moksha? As in… the highest Dravillian-ranked hunters in the world?"
She nodded. Her gaze was steady, as though reading his soul. "Yes. But you… you did something strange."
Harun frowned.
"When I arrived," she continued, "you were dying. But for a moment — just a second — I saw a dark aura surrounding you. It wasn't evil. But it wasn't… normal either. It felt like a Dravillian resonance, but one I've never seen. I've fought with hundreds of stones, but this…"
She trailed off.
"I don't know what it was," Harun admitted, still breathless. "But… I saw something too."
He closed his eyes. A memory came rushing back.
A dream.
A recurring one.
In it, a creature appeared — a perfect mirror of Harun, but wreathed in swirling black mist. It spoke in a voice that thundered and whispered at once:
"I can help you....But this is not the real time to reveal your true power."
The aura. The dream. The voice.
They were connected.
---
Elsewhere, in vast citadels and hidden temples, the world's hierarchy churned with tension. The Aatmik-Tier-System — the order by which all hunters were judged — stood as the cornerstone of power:
1. Chhaya – Shadow Tier, the beginners, lurking unseen.
2. Deep – Tier of Knowledge, those who study and learn.
3. Tej – Bringers of Light, agile and fast.
4. Vayu – Wind Walkers, masters of movement.
5. Antariksh – Seekers of the Cosmos, wise and mysterious.
6. Agya – Commanders of Elements, leaders in battle.
7. Moksha – Liberated Warriors, transcendent beings who balance power and peace.
Only eight hunters in the world held the title of Moksha — and Zoya was one of them.
But Dravillian power wasn't limited to its wielders — the stones themselves were classified by level, based on intensity and ability:
1. Spark – A flicker of magic.
2. Flame – Greater heat, basic combat potential.
3. Surge – Sharp, sudden bursts of energy.
4. Roare – Loud, chaotic, and strong.
5. Pulse – Rhythmic, durable, and healing.
6. Void – Cold, endless, capable of time-slow and ice.
7. Soulburn – Pure devastation — rare, forbidden.
Zoya's stone was of Void class — able to both heal and destroy, manipulating the coldness between worlds.
And Harun?
His potential... remained undefined. But now, Zoya saw something in him. Something ancient. Something dangerous.
---
Back in Necrospire, Rohan stood silently as the storm churned louder.
A voice echoed in his chamber — deep, hollow, like the wind speaking.
"The boy has awakened. The one you marked."
Rohan's mouth curled into a grin.
"Good," he said, turning toward the horizon. "Let the world try to protect him. Let them send their Moksha, their armies, their gods."
He stepped forward, raising his gauntleted hand. The seven stones glowed in eerie unison.
"I will burn it all. And he… will choose me in the end."
---
To Be Continued…