I. Exile
Rigorus Draeven did not scream when his father cast him out. He simply knelt in the dust, trembling, as the gates of House Draeven slammed shut behind him.
Ten years old. Banished. A disgrace to a bloodline carved in war.
His father, Gavric—the Undying Fang—had called him a curse. His mother, Celestia, once a Blade Priestess, had said nothing. Her silence was sharper than steel.
Rigorus had not failed because he lacked talent. He had failed because he wept.
Each time he was ordered to the training grounds, his voice cracked. "I don't want to fight." "Why must I hurt them?"
No one answered. In House Draeven, mercy was weakness.
One day, after refusing training again, Gavric unleashed his martial aura in fury. The air screamed. Rigorus collapsed, unconscious.
When he awoke, he was no longer a son. He was a stain. A ghost. A boy cast into the wild with nothing but shame.
He wandered for days—starving, broken, unloved—until a chapel at the edge of a forgotten village took him in. Saint's Hollow.
There, Father Elric gave him more than shelter. He gave him peace.
For nine years, Rigorus lived among the orphans. The church was poor, the children many, but to him it was heaven. A place where he belonged.
When Father Elric passed—quietly, from old age—Rigorus, now nineteen, stepped forward. He became the caretaker. The head of the chapel. The protector of the children.
They lived simply. They lived happily.
Until the sky broke.
II. Annihilation
It began with thunder. Not from clouds—but from blades.
Two Martial Masters descended into war: Vaelus the Heavenpiercer, wrapped in white robes etched with golden scripture. His sword gleamed like a shard of the sun. He moved like light. Spoke like thunder. Bled righteousness.
Daimon of the Withered Fist, shirtless, skin scorched and tattooed with ancient curses. Chains wrapped his fists like dead serpents. His eyes were void. His hair danced like smoke. He fought like the damned.
For five days and five nights, their war raged. They tore through cities, plains, forests—until their storm reached Saint's Hollow.
They did not speak. They did not see. They did not care.
With every clash, the sky shattered. Shockwaves of blade aura split buildings. Stone splintered like dry wood. Children were flung into walls—lifeless before they could cry.
Fires spread. Screams filled the streets. On the fourth day, the village became a grave.
And on the fifth…
Vaelus ascended, bloodied, radiant with divine fury. Daimon, kneeling near death, crawled toward the chapel—the only sanctuary left standing.
Inside, Rigorus hid near the altar. The orphans clung to him. Father Elric's body lay still beside them.
Vaelus didn't notice. He simply raised his glowing blade and pointed it down.
The sky answered.
A celestial slash fell from above like divine judgment.
There was no time to scream.
The chapel exploded. Ash swallowed the air. Flames licked the sky. Limbs flew. Blood rained. Stone, flesh, prayer—became one in annihilation.
Over one hundred thousand lives were lost. Not from hatred. But because gods of war do not look down when they swing.
When the dust settled…
There was only Rigorus. Standing in the ashes. Covered in blood and rubble. Alone.
In his ears, the echo of children's screams. And in his soul…
The birth of something unholy.