Nova materialized in a shadowed alley on Earth, his arrival marked by a faint ripple of air. A rat lay dead to his right, its lifeless form slumped beside a tattered, foul-smelling garbage bag. The stench and squalor struck him, a grim first impression that soured his resolve. He grimaced, his divine instincts recoiling at the filth of this mortal world.
No, this is merely an alley, he thought, shaking off his doubts. The world beyond must hold more promise. He stepped toward the alley's exit, eager to escape its gloom, but paused as a familiar weight pressed against his being. His divinity, still clinging to him, pulsed too powerfully for this fragile plane.
"Freya," he called telepathically, his voice resonating in the ethereal void. Cracks splintered across the sky, faint fractures born of his lingering divine essence. "Take the last of my divinity; it's too dangerous for this realm."
Freya's voice echoed in his mind, laced with concern. "Are you certain, Nova?" Her tone trembled, as if she feared the finality of his choice.
"Yes," he urged, urgency sharpening his words. "Do it now, or this world will shatter." The cracks widened, threatening to tear the sky asunder.
"Very well," Freya replied, her voice steadying. "Hold on." With a gentle pull, she siphoned the last of his divinity, her power sealing the sky's fractures before mortal eyes could notice. The air stilled, the cracks vanished, and Nova felt an unfamiliar hollowness settle within him.
He exhaled, his voice now frail, mortal. "Thank you, my love." The words carried a tenderness he rarely allowed, softened by his newfound vulnerability.
In her golden chambers, Freya clutched his divinity, her heart stirring with desire. True to her title as Goddess of Love and Sex, she yearned to summon him back, to reignite their passion. She resisted, her voice angelic yet firm as she responded: "Be safe out there, Nova."
Her tone shifted, a warning edged with affection. "And if you find trouble, I'll summon you back and scold you myself." The words carried her divine authority, tempered by love.
Nova chuckled softly, his mortal voice unfamiliar in his throat. "I expect nothing less from you, my love. Goodbye, for now." Their connection faded, leaving him alone in the alley, a god no longer, ready to face the mortal world.
Nova stepped from the alley's fetid shadows, his mortal form adjusting to the gritty air of Earth. A sharp pain lanced through his right hand, halting him mid-stride. He glanced down, his crimson eyes narrowing at the sight of two golden circles etched into his skin, one smaller than the other, their concentric glow faint yet unmistakable.
The larger circle, a radiant band, pulsed with latent energy; the smaller, nestled within, gleamed with a subtler sheen. No pillars connected them, their golden arcs bare, a silent testament to his new mortality.
He recognized the sigil instantly: the Circle of Pillars, a universal mark borne by every creature in the cosmos, save for gods and demons. In mortals, it lay dormant until awakened, a wheel-like structure embedded in the hand, typically the right.
For humans, awakening triggered the formation of two concentric circles linked by vertical pillars. The outer circle embodied core energy, the raw force of one's essence; the inner circle signified control, the precision with which that power was wielded.
The pillars, when they appeared, marked the rank and stability of a mortal's magical prowess. Their number, from one to ten, dictated a hierarchy: one pillar for F-rank, two for E-rank, up to ten for the elusive EX-rank, the pinnacle of mortal potential.
Seven pillars earned the title of National Rank; eight, Continental Rank. Yet, Nova's circles remained empty, a sign he was not yet awakened, his divine power stripped, leaving him a blank slate in this fragile realm.
Of course, the Circle of Pillars, he thought, a wry sigh escaping his lips. This is going to be a pain.
The sigil's presence underscored his vulnerability, a constant reminder of his choice to forsake divinity. He flexed his hand, the golden circles catching the dim glow of a nearby streetlamp, their empty centers mocking his former omnipotence.
As a god, he had no need for such marks; now, as a mortal, he was bound by the same rules as humanity, his power dormant until awakened.
The Circle of Pillars was more than a decorative sigil; it was the cornerstone of the mortal magic system, a structure as unpredictable as it was potent. Every human bore the potential for awakening, but only those who unlocked an ability saw pillars form.
Normal humans, their circles barren, could never manifest pillars without first gaining a magical gift. Abilities were a lottery of fate: some received common powers, like water manipulation, while others stumbled upon rare talents, like temporal distortion or soul weaving.
Each ability, regardless of its origin, held the potential for evolution, a process that could elevate a basic power into something extraordinary or shift it into a new domain entirely.
Nova studied his hand, the golden circles stark against his pale skin. If he awakened, his pillars would be black, their inky hue a reflection of magical stability and rank. A single pillar would mark him as F-rank, a novice wielding a fledgling ability.
Two pillars would elevate him to E-rank, each additional pillar signifying greater mastery. At six pillars, a A-rank mage might evolve their power, resetting their pillar count to one. Or they might not.
For example, a water manipulator with six pillars could advance to Water II, a refined form of their original ability, or pivot to Blood I, the rudimentary stage of blood manipulation. Each evolution demanded rebuilding the pillar count, a grueling cycle of growth that tested even the most dedicated.
Further evolutions opened new possibilities. A second evolution introduced cross-dominion abilities, blending disparate powers into something greater. A water manipulator might become a Storm Weaver, merging air and water to summon storms, wield lightning, or control rain patterns, all while enhancing their original aquatic prowess.
A third evolution would refine this cross-dominion ability, elevating it to unparalleled heights. Nova, his circles empty, had yet to awaken an ability, but the potential thrummed within him, a faint echo of his divine heritage.
He stepped fully into the street, the alley's stench fading as he emerged into a bustling city. Neon lights flickered, casting jagged shadows across the pavement. Mortals hurried past, their faces etched with purpose or weariness, oblivious to the former god in their midst.
Nova's bare circles itched, a subtle reminder of his place in this shifting reality. Without pillars, he was unranked, powerless by mortal standards. Awakening would grant him an ability, but its nature was unpredictable.
A common power like fire manipulation might manifest, or something rarer, like gravity control. If he reached five pillars, he could evolve his ability, resetting to one pillar and climbing again. The process was daunting, but Nova's divine resolve lingered, even in mortal flesh. He would forge his path, pillars or not.
The city's din enveloped him: horns blaring, voices shouting, the clatter of footsteps on concrete. He wandered, his crimson eyes scanning the crowd. A vendor hawked steaming food, its aroma mingling with the tang of exhaust.
A child darted past, laughing, unaware of the cosmic forces at play. Nova's hand tingled, the golden circles seeming to pulse in rhythm with the city's heartbeat. He wondered what ability might awaken within him. Would it reflect his destructive past, or would fate gift him something new, a power born of this mortal world?
His thoughts drifted to Freya, her golden chambers a distant memory. She held his divinity, a safeguard against the Mortal Realm's fragility. Her warning echoed in his mind: Be safe out there.
He smirked, imagining her scolding him if he stumbled. Yet, her absence weighed on him, a quiet ache in his newly mortal heart. The Circle of Pillars, empty as it was, promised a chance to redefine himself, to find purpose beyond destruction.
As he walked, a faint tremor shook the ground, unnoticed by the mortals around him. The Infernal Realm's influence, he suspected, or perhaps Beastaria's creatures stirring nearby.
The convergence of realms was no myth; it was a slow, inevitable collision. Nova's lack of pillars made him vulnerable, but it also freed him to blend into this world, to learn its ways without the burden of divine power.
He clenched his fist, the golden circles glinting. Awakening would come, and with it, pillars to mark his rank. Until then, he was just another mortal, navigating a city teeming with life and peril.
A sudden shout broke his reverie. Across the street, a man staggered, his hand glowing with a single black pillar within golden circles. Flames flickered at his fingertips, weak but unmistakable—an F-rank fire manipulator, newly awakened.
The crowd parted, some staring, others fleeing. Nova watched, intrigued. The man's power was raw, uncontrolled, a spark compared to the infernos Nova once wielded. Yet, it was a start, a glimpse of what he might become.
He moved closer, drawn to the spectacle. The man's eyes were wide, panicked, as if his ability had awakened without warning. Nova's circles itched again, a subtle urging. Awakening was random, unpredictable, but it was inevitable for those with purpose.
He felt it stirring within him, a dormant force waiting to break free. Would he be a Storm Weaver, commanding tempests? Or something darker, tied to his destructive roots? The possibilities intrigued him, a flicker of excitement piercing his mortal malaise.
The city pulsed around him, a tapestry of chaos and potential. Nova, pillarless and mortal, stood at the heart of it all, his golden circles a promise of power yet to come. He took a deep breath, the air sharp with mortal scents, and stepped forward, ready to embrace the unknown.