The salty wind cut across Diaz's face as he and Asla walked along the narrow trail leading to the mountain's summit. Below, like a section of ordered chaos, Marlen revealed itself: a coastal city bathed in the golden light of the setting sun, with irregular towers, tall masts, and a constant haze of magical smoke hovering over the port.
"This is Marlen, where your journey begins," said Asla, crossing her arms. Her incandescent eyes scanned the city with disdain. "That old pervert is there!"
Diaz watched in silence. His black hair and golden‑gray eyes conveyed calculated calm—but beneath that serenity pulsed barely‑contained rage. He wore a short dark‑gray cloak, faded runes on the shoulders, black leather boots, and a reinforced linen shirt, from which hung his half‑blade forged from living iron.
At fifteen, his presence was already that of a veteran. Serene, direct. But his eyes didn't lie: they'd seen too much.
"He's one of the Enker followers. He knows many truths and has the map we need to find the Forgotten Temple to the north. That's what matters!" Asla added.
They continued down.
Marlen pulsed with life. Mages sold bottled spells at makeshift stalls. Children raced around on enchanted brooms. In the city center, glowing golden flyers hovered, announcing:
"Marlen Magic Tournament! Compete to marry the daughter of the legendary Joe Kalter, the Golden! Mages under 25! 100 gold coins for the finalists!"
Asla smirked, wickedly:
"My Lord... we can use this event to test your skills. See how far you've come compared to other geniuses."
"I still don't fully understand my Primordial Force. I don't have developed abilities like them..." Diaz replied calmly. "Let's stay focused on the objective. I don't have time to compete for a bride."
For a brief moment, the image of Liah Rhenstar crossed his mind—her silver‑threaded hair, shy eyes hiding something deep, the embarrassed smile when he trained and she watched from her window. But Diaz shook the memory away. That was a distant echo, and fragile feelings couldn't direct his path.
"Liah..." he murmured emotionlessly, brushing it away as if erasing a poorly drawn rune.
Asla laughed.
"No one said it's about marriage. But surrender after victory... isn't shameful."
Diaz sighed.
"Master... where do we find the pirate Kar?"
The answer didn't come from Asla. It came from an aura that seemed to slice through the city's noise.
Inside a stylish two‑story inn, young master Vlad Vince reclined in an armchair. His platinum hair fell over his eyes. He wore a light, modern suit—as if he didn't belong to the old magical world. His bodyguards—two mid‑level mages in light armor wielding short staves—fawned over him.
"Master Vlad, there's no doubt you'll win! You're heir to the Vince family, nobility of this city!"
"Yes! A mage of your caliber is worthy of El Dourado's daughter!"
Vlad took a sip of wine.
"Idiots. This tournament isn't romance—it's strategy. My father wants Marlen under control."
At that moment, a young man entered the inn. Alkan Vir. Shoulder‑length dark hair, upright posture, cold eyes. A bodyguard followed him, wearing royal combat insignia. He didn't even glance at Vlad.
"The Virs... always meddling," Vlad thought sarcastically. "But they don't surpass me in magic."
Then, the atmosphere shifted.
The inn's door swung open again.
Diaz entered. His steps were silent. But every gaze turned to him. His presence wasn't loud—it was heavy. Like invisible pressure that demanded attention.
"Who is he...? Such a formidable presence," Alkan murmured, raising an eyebrow.
Vlad clenched his glass, nervous.
"Damn! Another strong outsider! How did Marlen attract this?"
Diaz sat at a table with Asla, his sword leaned beside him. The room tensed, but he ignored it.
Vlad snapped his fingers. His two henchmen approached Diaz's table.
"Hey, stranger. Here for the competition?" one said, arrogantly.
Diaz was about to reply no. But he saw Asla's amused eyes. He calmly met the two.
"That's none of your business."
"What?!" the first snarled and grabbed his collar.
Mistake.
Diaz rose with a swift spin, easily avoiding the arm. His punch struck the thug's stomach with brutal force. The impact was sharp; the man flew several meters, knocking down a table.
The second guard attacked with an enchanted staff, but Diaz ducked and delivered a spinning kick to the rib cage. Bones cracked; he fell, groaning.
"He... didn't use magic," Alkan muttered, intrigued.
Vlad stood, impressed and irritated.
Asla watched, her smile wild. She thought:
"The Matrix Core in his ring... channels the Space‑Time Force. Most mages would die just trying to activate it. But Diaz didn't just survive. The energy flowing through his body absurdly amplifies his physical strength. And this... is just the surface."
"Enough," said a voice.
The inn's door burst open.
The waiter dropped a tray—glasses shattered. Conversations stopped. Some shook. Vlad's eyes widened. Alkan froze.
Joe Kalter had arrived.
He wore a golden coat with silver filigree, a thick beard braided with copper threads. His body was robust, muscular, and his magical aura made the air vibrate. But most striking: he was missing an arm. In its place, a magical prosthetic gauntlet gleamed with ancient runes.
Behind him, four crew members: a slender woman with star‑like eyes; a bald man with glowing tattoos; a levitating albino youth; and a giant with a cannon on his back.
Total silence.
"Hm... that aura..." Kalter looked straight at Asla. "A formidable mage is in my city and I didn't even know. Asla Phoenix!"
"Joe Kalter. Still alive, I see," Asla replied with a faint smile.
"And you, boy..." his gaze fell on Diaz. "Good reflexes. Pure strength. Your channeled magic manifestation is another level. The city will like you."
"I didn't come to entertain your city!" Diaz responded, direct.
Vlad thought: He dares speak to El Dourado like that?!
Alkan narrowed his eyes: "Courage... or total contempt. Either way, interesting."
"And I didn't come for permission," Kalter said, laughing heartily. "HAAA HAAA!"
Asla stepped forward:
"We're looking for Kar. I need him."
Joe sighed.
"That old madman? He's imprisoned. Broke into an all‑women's massage lounge. Claims it was 'magical investigation.'"
"Release him. We need him."
"Since you're someone like you, we can negotiate," Kalter snapped his fingers. A magical contract appeared in the air. "Your boy enters the competition tomorrow. A talented youth like him could be my son‑in‑law! He can't back down. Can't hide. Will give his all. Magical oath. Do you accept?"
Asla glanced at Diaz.
He hesitated. His fists clenched. So much was at stake—his lineage, lost traces, the temple. Every step was a choice. Entering that arena could derail him... or strengthen him.
Kalter nodded, convinced:
"If my daughter saw you, you wouldn't regret fighting for her."
Diaz closed his eyes for a moment. The memory of his mother. His oath. The flame in his chest.
"Let it be," Diaz said firmly.
The contract glowed, wrapped his body briefly, then vanished.
"Good luck tomorrow, boy. Marlen's arena... will know the roar of a rising mage like you!"
Joe Kalter turned, ready to leave with his crew, then paused, as if struck by a thought.
The already silent room grew tenser.
He pivoted on his heel, eyes locked on Diaz again, serious, inquisitive. His voice resonated with echoes of ancient times:
"Wait, boy..." he said, scanning Diaz from head to toe. "What's your name?"
Diaz's gaze hardened; his posture never wavered. He drew a deep breath, as if summoning something far greater than himself.
"Diaz Enker."
An invisible shock passed through the hall.
The few scholars present furrowed their brows, as if hearing something forbidden. Others felt a cold chill down their spine.
Enker.A name that shouldn't exist.Erased from records.Wiped from history.But no one there knew it.Asla just watched quietly, a soft smile on her lips. "Finally."
Kalter froze for a second. Then... exploded into a booming laugh that made the inn's windows tremble.
"HAAA HAAA HAAA!" He slapped his good thigh, entertained. "I haven't heard a name weigh this much in ages... Whether true or not, boy, this city will find out soon!"
He looked at Asla with renewed respect and nodded.
"Your lodging is on me. I've messed up reception enough already. Consider it an apology... and a vote of faith."
With one last look at Diaz—a look of someone recognizing a name the world forgot—Joe Kalter turned and left the inn with his crew, his golden cloak billowing like a banner behind him.
Silence hung for a few seconds, then whispers resumed.
But one thing was certain:
The name Enker had been spoken aloud... and the world was about to remember.
Unknown Location—Perhaps Outside Reality.
The floor was a living black glass—smooth yet pulsing like petrified flesh. Cracks radiated in circular patterns, emitting thick, dark smoke, as if the ground itself breathed agony. Around, twelve figures stood in absolute silence, forming a perfect circle, wearing white robes stained with gray symbols that pulsed faintly.
No faces were visible. Shadows rose from the cracks and drifted over their heads, veiling their features like living veils. Time seemed to pause there, the world holding its breath before what was about to be revealed.
One figure stepped forward; his voice cut through the darkness like a sentence:
"The time has come... the Cult of the Void will begin its work.—the last artifact... has awakened."
A tremor ran through the floor. Cracks deepened. The smoke writhed.
Another man raised his hand, his tone low, almost reverent:
"The Matrix-Ring of the Space-Time Force... has been activated. The forbidden lineage lives."
"Diaz Enker..." whispered another, as if invoking a prophecy."The heir of the primary primordial force...""The Imbalance..."
The ten placed their right hands over their chests in unison. A symbol appeared on each robe—a circle with a void in the center, like a blind eye watching all.
"Existence... is an anomaly.""Order... is nothingness.""And the end... is the return to primordial silence."
All spoke together, as if rehearsed over millennia.
A purple light glowed at the center of the circle. A relic floated there: an ancient dagger vibrating with unstable energy. It was made of black bone and etched with runes moving like worms under the surface.
"The Void's Rupture Blade..." one whispered. "Ten cores remain. When they're gathered..."
"...the root of the world will be torn out," another finished."And then... the Void will no longer whisper. It will scream."
The robes billowed in wind from nowhere. One by one, each figure vanished into the cracked smoke, as if the fabric of reality itself absorbed them.
Only the tallest remained.
He lifted his head, revealing white eyes with no eyebrows—like an abyss's depths. His voice, unlike the others, was calm. Cold. Final.
"Let Diaz grow. Let him be strong.The Void needs a herald... before consuming the gods."
Then he vanished, like dust swallowed by the universe.
The Cult of the Void didn't begin its journey.It simply awoke.