On the continent of Aschover, where magic is the lifeblood of the world, every child is granted a single opportunity: Awakening.
Not everyone becomes a Hero. But everyone may step upon the Altar—where fate and magic intertwine.
Some say it is a gift from the ancient gods. Others believe that by touching the Altar, one may glimpse their truest self.
Some return with power. Some return with eyes stripped of all light. And some… never return at all.
---
Thirteen years ago, in a modest square at the heart of the small town of Asgar, a boy stood silently beside his father, his eyes fixed on the ancient stone Altar.
The Altar towered like a monument of time itself, standing still amidst the town square, as if it had existed long before the town ever rose around it.
Its circular shape resembled a dried well, yet instead of swallowing darkness, it harbored a swirling current of energy hidden deep within.
A moss-covered grey base embraced the ceremonial center, where a square stone pillar rose like a silent beacon—a lighthouse for those yearning to discover themselves and their fate. The faint light of dawn sparkled on its surface, making it seem as though the Altar itself was breathing—slowly, but with tremendous force.
"Haven't you been waiting for this day?"
The father's voice was warm, like sunlight. His hand gently touched the boy's hair. "Go on, son."
In the tenderness of his smile were pride and deep understanding. He knew the fire of magic burned brightly within his son's small heart—just as it once had in his own youth.
For who among them had never dreamed of becoming a Hero—a symbol of strength and courage, sung and praised throughout Aschover? It was the noblest of paths, the summit of every young man's ambition. And to even begin that dream, one's first step had to land upon the Altar.
"Yes!" the boy answered, his eyes sparkling with joy. He stepped out of his father's embrace and walked directly toward the Altar.
They were not natives of Asgar. They had come from a distant village, where the red clay roads took an entire day to travel before reaching this place.
With every step across the stone path toward the Altar, the boy's heart pounded faster—like war drums announcing the arrival of destiny. The excitement far surpassed even that of birthdays, where he'd wait with bated breath for small, hand-crafted gifts from his parents. Despite their poverty, those little offerings held endless love.
But today, his joy was beyond anything he had known.
As he entered the Altar, the boy's eyes widened in awe. Beneath him, a magic circle shimmered to life—formed from countless ancient symbols interwoven with one another, radiating a mysterious glow. With the limited knowledge of a child, he only knew this was a sacred ritual—a blessing from the gods.
He had never seen anything so wondrous.
Maybe… just maybe, today he was the main character.
His chest rose and fell with excitement; his breathing quickened.
Ah! What next?
Suddenly overwhelmed, the boy froze, forgetting all he had practiced. He stood lost within the magic circle, confused and uncertain.
From beyond the Altar, his father watched with tender concern. Seeing the brief panic flash across his son's face, the man laughed—a gentle laugh that broke the stillness of the square.
"Ah–!"
He called out, half teasing: "Did someone forget their tiny companion?"
The boy flinched, then realized his mistake. Of course—the dagger. How could he forget such an important item?
His small hand trembled as it reached for the weapon hidden at his side.
Fear crept in. Even knowing the cut would be small—only a drop of blood required—the idea of slicing his own skin made him shudder. But still, he wanted to do it himself. He didn't want his father's help. This moment was his—his first "great" moment, and he wanted to own it.
Taking a deep breath, he filled his lungs and offered a silent prayer to steady himself. Strangely, the prayer worked. A calmness settled over him.
With care, he drew the dagger and made a gentle cut on the tip of his finger—a thin thread of red appeared.
He quickly pressed his finger against the square stone pedestal at the Altar's center.
Atop the stone stood a small open box, carved from the same material—always open, as though forever awaiting a sacred offering. It was part of the Altar itself, a vessel that held the secret of Awakening.
That drop of blood was the final key, a personal seal that marked the beginning of a new journey. The box would forever preserve it, and in return, the boy would be granted access to his Status and unlock the power sleeping within him.
Raising his arm over the box, he lightly pressed on the cut to let the blood flow.
Drip.
A faint sound echoed as the drop landed, forming a tiny crimson bead on the stone surface.
Immediately, the magic circle below his feet blazed with light, activated by his sacred blood. The entire Altar shook, releasing a radiant glow that enveloped the boy.
It was dazzling—divine—magnificent.
There were no words to describe the beauty of that moment.
Time stopped. Space stretched into the infinite.
It was the most incredible thing the boy had ever experienced.
And as the light slowly faded, a quiet emptiness remained, as if the entire world had dimmed in its absence.
But inside him, a new power surged—boiling through every cell in his body.
Was this… mana?
The boy smiled—a wide, joyful grin like a child who had just found his favorite toy. He knew he couldn't control this new power yet.
Then, silently, a notification appeared above his head. A message no one—not even the boy himself—could see with the naked eye.
[Gen – Level 1]
---
The stench of blood hung thick in the air. Groans of the dying echoed across a field littered with corpses.
In the midst of that hell, a young soldier lay motionless.
His breath was faint.
Eyes wide open, yet empty, stared blankly at the gray sky above—for the final time.
His face, pale and streaked with mud and dried blood, resembled a statue hastily sculpted from grief and suffering.
On the thin edge between life and death, memories surged back—waves crashing violently, pulling him under.
Moments from brighter days, once forgotten, now returned with unbearable clarity.
How cruel, he thought.
That only at the very end does one realize how insignificant they truly are.
An unnamed warrior, armed with nothing but the most basic of sword skills. No magic. No talent.
Just another expendable pawn on the chessboard of war.
"Mother… Father… little sister…"
His voice was broken and raspy, like the wind slipping through the cracks of a shut window.
The thought of his loved ones twisted like a blade in his chest, shattering the final remnants of hope.
He had failed.
Failed to stay by their side.
Failed to bring them a better life.
"Why… why did it have to be like this?"
The question slipped from his lips, a whisper with no answer.
Hot tears mixed with blood and dirt as they slid down his cheeks, marking the end of a life so quietly extinguished.
His eyes slowly closed.
Darkness swallowed everything.
In that moment, he felt as if he stood once more before the Altar—like he had in his youth—when the light vanished, leaving only eternal night behind.
And then, silence.
His body grew cold. Still.
Another lifeless husk among countless others on a battlefield that would forget his name.
But fate had not yet closed its book.
One hour later, at an altitude of 10,000 meters, the night sky trembled.
Lightning tore through the heavens, carving jagged lines across the stars like scars upon the face of the universe.
And then, it appeared.
A pitch-black vortex.
Swirling. Expanding.
Like a monstrous maw opening wide to devour the world.
It was terrifying.
It was divine.
A sight no human mind could truly grasp.
Anyone witnessing it would have been frozen with fear—haunted forever by the memory.
In the presence of that abyss, humanity seemed so… small.
So fragile.
Like ants crawling across the earth beneath a looming boot.
Suddenly, from within the heart of that storm, something emerged.
A colossal object.
Shaped like a metal bird, it burst forth from the void as if spat out from hell itself.
No one in Aschover had ever seen such a thing.
No creature of flesh and blood—this was a machine, forged of steel and flame.
A vessel from another world, tearing through the fabric of the sky.
It was an airplane—once belonging to some international airline far, far away.
Though massive by human standards, in the face of the storm, it looked like nothing more than dust caught in a hurricane.
One of its wings was ablaze, flames licking the night as the craft spiraled out of control.
Its descent had begun.
And with it, the arrival of something… impossible.