High above a war-stained battlefield soaked in blood and sorrow, streams of wild energy began to converge.
Like threads of fate pulled by an unseen hand, the swirling streams merged and intertwined, forming a colossal, ethereal eye—an eye that gazed coldly upon the carnage below.
Thus began the Chronicle of Desolation.
**
In the midst of broken earth and crumbling mountains, a man stood tall—cloaked in tattered black battle-leather and wielding a blood-drenched spear that still hummed with killing intent.
His name was Kael Vireon.
His raven hair was tangled and wild, his figure bruised, cut, and burned. Yet not once did he wince. Instead, he surveyed the siege closing in around him with eyes like molten embers—brilliant, unyielding, defiant.
He was surrounded on all sides.
And he knew this would be his grave.
But even with death's breath on his neck, his lips curled into a crooked smirk. Arrogant. Unshaken.
"Well now," he drawled, voice hoarse but laced with amusement. "Even the dusty relics finally crawled out of their coffins to come greet me. How touching. Makes a guy feel special."
He chuckled, the sound thick with mockery.
"I even see the proud little heirs of the Origin Verge playing nice with their ancient enemies. Look at that. The old and young uniting, all just to take down me. That's adorable."
Among those gathered: the Sylvan Matriarch, the Crimson Asura Sovereign, the Infernal Warlord, the Titanforged Thanes—icons of legend, rarely glimpsed, now assembled in force.
Not against one another.
But against him.
Once bitter rivals, now allies of convenience, each poised to deliver the final blow.
Kael could hear their curses, their threats—their bravado. But he saw it for what it was. Behind their grand façades, their eyes betrayed them.
They were terrified.
Even outnumbered a hundred to one, Kael stood motionless. No sudden moves. No rush. For they all feared what his last move might be. They feared the strike of a dying dragon.
And so they waited.
Tension bloated the battlefield like a festering wound, swelling under the glow of the falling sun.
Time passed.
Then, as dusk bled into twilight, the world ignited.
It was as though the horizon itself had caught fire—an infernal sunset baptizing the broken land in flame.
Kael finally stirred.
His hand tightened around his spear.
And the moment his body shifted, dozens of elite cultivators flinched and leapt back in panic.
He stood in a pool of his own blood, pale as bone, eyes fixed on the dying light of day. A faint, amused exhale escaped his lips.
"My fangs will—"
He stopped.
A subtle tremor ran down his spine.
His eyes locked onto a point above—no, within the very sky—and his expression froze. Anger bloomed across his face, sharp and consuming.
"Who dares… cast a spell on me?!"
Kael's voice thundered, eyes narrowing to slits. His battle-worn form blurred into motion, stance shifting with unnatural precision.
His gaze pierced the veil of reality.
And there it was.
A presence.
A hand manipulating fate itself.
With a roar, Kael hurled his spear into the emptiness. It tore through the fabric of space with a scream—light bending, the air twisting in rebellion.
And then—
the world shattered.
Space convulsed.
Reality cracked.
And—
**
All that remained was a single young man, curled in torment.
Writhing. Screaming. Skewered by a spear's merciless blade.
His name was Arin Solace.
Eyes wide with terror, he jolted upright in his chair, gasping as if he'd just been pulled from drowning.
He clutched his chest, trembling.
But when he looked down, there was no wound. No blood.
Only… a tattered, ancient book resting against his ribs. Faded. Familiar.
His breath caught in his throat.
'What the hell was that…?'