Somewhere else that same night…
A relic hunt was underway.
Roz, a Master rank adventurer known for his extremely rare gemstone magic, crept through the dense shadows of Kilowag Forest. The mission had been issued by the Verdant Guild, but the details were clear: only Expert rank or higher could attempt it. Not just because of the relic's rumored power—but because of where it was located.
Kilowag Forest was no ordinary place. The trees stood tall and twisted, their bark gnarled like clenched fists. Fog clung to the roots like ghostly fingers, and the air was thick with the scent of moss and rot. The canopy above blocked out the moonlight, allowing only thin strands of silver to pierce through. Every step Roz took was met with the snap of twigs or the rustle of unseen creatures. Somewhere in the distance, an unnatural howl echoed—long and low.
This place was cursed. Roz knew it.
The forest teemed with rare-ranked beasts. Even worse, it was known to be patrolled by two dangerous cults—the Wildborn Circle and the Sealed Ones. Encounters with either almost always ended in bloodshed.
Roz didn't care.
He had a purpose. A reason that burned stronger than fear.
"If I can find this relic, I can finally fulfill the promise I made to my wife before she died. I must create a better life for her… Elira, my daughter. She deserves the world. And I'll stop at nothing to give it to her… even if that means disobeying the guild's orders."
He stopped beneath a large stone arch, half-buried in vines and moss. His fingers moved quickly, forming the familiar pattern in the air as he activated his spell.
Gleamsight Resonance.
At once, the world around him shifted.
The trees faded into a darker blur, and in their place, soft pulses of light began to appear—bright dots marking the presence of hidden gemstones deep within the earth. Among them, a faint golden pulse caught his attention. It shimmered in a unique rhythm, slow and steady like a heartbeat.
Roz's eyes narrowed.
He recognized that pulse. He'd seen it only once before, many years ago.
An Origin Relic.
These weren't common trinkets. They were ancient fragments of a forgotten age—relics infused with knowledge of the gods, lost civilizations, and magical technology far beyond modern understanding. They were priceless. Dangerous. And desperately sought by every major royal faction.
Roz followed the pulse, weaving his way through thick underbrush and over gnarled roots. Branches scraped at his cloak. Insects buzzed near his ears. Every few steps, he paused and listened.
Silence.
Then, finally, up ahead—a soft glow, nestled between the roots of a massive, rotted tree.
There it was.
The relic hovered slightly above the ground, encased in a faint aura of gold and violet. It was small—round like a core, etched with symbols no living scholar could read.
Roz stared at it, his heart pounding. His breath caught in his throat.
"This is it..."
He knelt, carefully reached out, and lifted the relic into his palm. It was warm. Alive with energy. His fingers trembled as he slipped it into a reinforced item bag strapped at his side.
"I did it, Elira... I did it."
But then—something shifted.
The air changed. Grew heavier.
His neck prickled with unease.
"I can sense something watching me. I've had this feeling ever since I touched the relic… Is something following me?"
Roz spun around, hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his weapon.
That's when he saw them.
Three figures stood in the mist, just beyond the archway he'd passed. Robed in deep gray, faces hidden behind bone-white masks etched with runes. They said nothing. Just stood there—still, unmoving, like statues.
Roz knew who they were.
Cultists. Members of the Sealed Ones.
And they weren't here for conversation.
"Prophesized Death," said one of the cultists, activating his weapon's ability.
Roz was no fool. He knew better than to stay and find out what that ability did.
Roz Thelos ran.
Branches whipped past him, tearing at his cloak, but he didn't stop. His boots pounded the muddy forest floor as he weaved through thick trees and creeping fog.
"This changes everything," he muttered. "For my daughter… for our future. I cannot let them stop me."
He didn't look back. But he could feel them—three masked figures in dark cloaks, relentless and silent.
He gripped his magic staff tighter. The Crystalyne Aetherstaff stood just taller than its wielder, crafted from Celesta—a rare celestial metal said to have been a gift from the gods. The shaft was inlaid with veins of shimmering aurite, a conduit metal that pulsed faintly with energy when the staff was in use.
Roz's main skills were defense and detection spells, but he had ensured he was also offensively viable for moments like this. A well-balanced mage.
Two masked cultists burst through the trees ahead, their footsteps eerily silent. Their cloaks were jagged, stitched with blackened thread and strange, ash-stained patterns. The very sight of them churned something cold in Roz's chest.
They looked like they belonged to death itself.
The two cultists charged—one with a massive axe, the other with twin daggers, flanking him in a coordinated kill. Roz, calm and unmoving, drew in a sharp breath as the crystalline staff in his grip hummed with deadly resonance.
The embedded gemstones—blood ruby and onyx quartz—flared to life, bathing the ravine in crimson and black light.
As the axe-wielding enemy closed in, Roz spun his staff and thrust it forward. The blood ruby at its crown erupted in a howl of heat and fury.
Ruby Fangburst.
From the ground beneath the charging warrior, five blood-red crystalline spikes exploded upward like fangs. Each spike was superheated, crackling with internal flame. Two impaled the enemy through the legs, halting his charge, while the largest drove clean through his chest with molten precision.
The impact lifted him off the ground—his body smoldered, flesh cauterized instantly as the ruby fangs retreated into the earth.
Silence.
The second attacker, faster and mid-leap, was met with a cold stare. Roz slammed the staff down again, and the onyx quartz glowed pitch-black.
Onyx Reaper Bloom.
A ring of obsidian petals erupted around Roz—like a blooming, razor-sharp flower. These petals, infused with dark energy, sliced through the air in a whirling 360-degree arc.
The airborne attacker was shredded mid-lunge. The petals sliced through leather and bone, cutting his limbs asunder. He hit the ground in pieces, his weapons clattering beside the severed remains.
Roz panted.
"Still alive. Still a chance."
He turned toward the forest's clearing.
Then the world went dark.
A shadow loomed. Not just darkness—but something wrong.
The trees stopped swaying. The wind died. The air turned heavy, soaked in dread.
The third figure stepped into view. Taller than the others. Cloaked in deep black, trimmed in blood-red. His mask bore jagged lines carved like scars. No expression. Just cold silence.
A higher rank cultist for sure.
From his back, he drew a massive scythe. Its blade shimmered like obsidian, wreathed in drifting tendrils of shadow. The weapon hummed with unnatural energy.
Roz froze.
The pressure crushed the air. Birds fell silent. The forest stopped breathing. His aura was extremely overwhelming.
Roz took a step back.
"Wait… wait—please. I have a daughter. Her name is Elira. She's only ten. She needs me. I'm not—I'm not your enemy."
The masked figure tilted his head slightly.
"Even my own blood pleaded in the face of fate," he said.
"But the world didn't listen."
Roz fell to his knees.
"Please… I'm not trying to fight you. You can have the relic. Just let me go. Let me see her again."
The figure stepped forward. Shadows curled at his feet.
Roz didn't raise his staff. He couldn't.
"A man dies twice," the figure said softly. "Once when his heart stops… and once when he loses the will to fight."
A blur of motion.
One clean, silent arc.
Roz's head fell to the forest floor.
His body slumped forward. Still.
Beside him, the crystalline staff glowed faintly—just for a moment—then crumbled into glowing embers that drifted into the air and vanished.
The masked figure stood still, watching.
"The true mark of death," he whispered. "When their weapons fade into nothing."
He bent down and picked up the relic from Roz's cold hand. The tablet hummed faintly—unreadable, ancient, heavy.
He looked up at the sky.
"The chains begin to rust. Let the decay begin."
"Weapons Art: Prophesized Death – Released."
The world snapped like shattering glass.
One breath, Roz was burning, dying—his daughter screaming, his body broken. The next—
Stillness.
Roz stood, trembling, in the heart of a quiet forest. No fire. No battle. No death. Just silence... and the masked figure before him, lowering the relic.
Roz staggered, chest heaving. His face pale, soaked in cold sweat. He looked down at his hands, half-expecting blood. His legs buckled.
"I... I saw it," he whispered. "I felt it. My daughter… She was alone. I was gone. I died…"
The figure's voice was low, deliberate.
"That was a glimpse of your future. My weapon's gift. It pierces the mind, shows the death fate has written for you. From the moment you saw me, the art was already activated."
Roz's eyes were wide, haunted.
"Then… am I already dead?" he breathed.
"No."
"But the prophecy has begun. The question is: what will you do about it?"
Silence.
Then the figure spoke again, voice like iron.
"The weak accept their fate.
The foolish believe they cannot change it.
But the strong—they defy it.
They bend the stars and carve new endings."
He stepped closer.
"It is your fate to die here tonight.
It is your daughter's fate to be orphaned.
Unless… you choose to rise. Choose to follow. Choose to become something more."
"If you follow me, your daughter will have all she ever desires. She will be safe. Your skills will not be taken for granted like they were at the guild. You will be appreciated, respected… elevated."
Roz's breathing slowed. The figure's words struck something deep.
A memory surfaced: Elira's laughter. Her hand in his. His wife's final words:
"Live, Roz. Live and protect her."
His eyes lifted. Not with fear—but with fire.
He stood.
"Then I choose to live," Roz said. "I choose strength. From this moment, I follow you—not as a man running from death, but as one who will master it."
The masked figure nodded once.
"Good. Then come—we must retrieve Elira. Her suffering ends tonight."
He turned.
"Void Portal."
The air cracked. A swirling gate of black and violet tore open. Power howled like wind through its depths.
The masked figure stepped through. His worshippers followed.
And Roz, no longer broken, stepped into the void reborn—not as prey of prophecy, but as its hunter.
The world would change tomorrow, as the silent night marched on toward its end at dawn.