Twelve Years Later
Ezmelral moved silently through the forest, her steps light yet certain.
Each motion sent her black, silky hair swaying behind her—
each breath steady, her black eyes fixed on the path ahead.
The chaotic wilderness around her began to blur,
until the tangled trees and wild branches lost all meaning.
Then—
she saw him.
Bare. Unguarded. At peace.
Raiking.
He sat beneath a tree, his back resting against its trunk,
sheltered by the outstretched branches.
The scorching sunlight filtered through the canopy,
but he remained untouched—
as if even the heat dared not disturb him.
His eyes were closed.
His dark hair danced softly in the wind.
Ezmelral's gaze rose—
Hovering just above him was a floating book.
A book she had seen many times—
yet remained, even now, cloaked in mystery:
The Book of Genesis.
The sight instantly drew her down memory's corridor, back to a time when her cultivation had stalled, hitting an insurmountable wall. Only her Master's unwavering guidance—the very being that Raiking once was—could propel her onward.
In those days, if one sought him, they would find him in the courtyard of the Great Temple, under a vast, star-dusted sky—asleep beneath Eden's Tree, his sacred Artifact.
Above him, two books hovered: The Book of Genesis… and The Book of Revelations.
From Genesis, a sound would emanate—a haunting hum… an alluring hymn… It was soft, beautiful, captivating to every ear. Even the wind itself seemed to hold its breath when it sang.
The source? The Voice of Eve.
During wartime, it served as a weapon—an enchanting force capable of reversing the will of any caught within its radius.
But in times of peace? It transformed into something far rarer—a lullaby. A profound serenity, specifically crafted for minds born into the ceaseless clamor of battle. For those who had known only duty… and yearned, just once, to experience true stillness.
And now—
here, in this quiet clearing—
his reincarnation did the same.
Sleeping beneath the sky.
Cradled by shadow.
Guarded by breeze.
And once again—by the Voice of Eve.
Ezmelral's steps drifted closer—silent, measured.
And when she stood within reach—
"Raiking…"
Her voice stirred the stillness like a ripple through calm water.
Raiking's eyes opened slowly.
Crimson.
Timeless.
That gaze—young in face, but ancient in weight—met hers with calm recognition.
Ezmelral stood before him, composed and refined.
Her white cultivation robe flowed softly in the wind, tied neatly at the waist.
Her right arm, sleeveless and exposed, was sculpted entirely of living shadow—inky black from shoulder to fingertip, moving subtly as if responding to her pulse.
Her left arm, sleeved only halfway, bore seven small runic disks, etched in a perfect vertical line down her forearm. Each one faintly glowed with a dormant power—circles within circles, like seals that remembered every soul they had consumed.
The contrast was striking.
One arm a weapon of darkness.
The other, a ledger of death.
She was balance made flesh.
Memory made warrior.
And yet—
As she looked down at Raiking, her voice softened.
"...You're exactly like him," she murmured.
"Even after all this time."
Raiking smiled.
Though his memories remained lost—shattered echoes buried deep within his soul—Ezmelral and Faye had filled in the gaps.
They told him of who he once was.
Of the world he had ruled.
Of the storms he had endured.
Of the cosmos that once knelt at his feet.
And yet, despite their reverence…
a quiet doubt always lingered in him.
Could he truly live up to that name?
But every time Ezmelral looked at him like this—without pity, without pressure, only certainty—
It gave him another reason to rise.
To stand tall.
To walk his path with head held high.
So he did.
With a gentle gust of Essence beneath his heels, Raiking surged upward—graceful as a leaf on the wind—and appeared before her, standing eye to eye.
Ezmelral tilted her head slightly, approving.
"You're faster now," she said.
A flicker of pride curled at the edge of her lips. "Good. Because my Shadow Puppet has located another bandit group."
Raiking's smile vanished.
Replaced by steel.
He gave a sharp nod.
No more words were needed.
And in a single breath—
they vanished.
---
Six Hours Later
Far east of Dawnfall's border—
The forest trembled in the embrace of dusk.
Low winds dragged dust across brittle leaves.
The air carried the stench of rot and ash—
a sure sign that another raid was about to bloom.
Beneath the cover of gnarled trees and overgrown roots,
a group of bandits crouched in silence.
Paranoia soaked their breath.
Twelve years of slaughter had left them reckless, desperate, and raw.
"We must act now!"
"I agree! We move before they come!"
The Bandit Leader nodded sharply.
"In and out. Take the food. Don't linger on the woman."
No one questioned it.
Not after the stories they'd heard.
Then—
He drew his bow, aimed at the lone guard stationed atop the watchtower.
TWANG.
The arrow sliced the air—
A silent streak of death.
PIERCE.
Straight through the neck.
The guard crumpled like loose cloth,
his chainmail and steel boots crashing against the ground in a deafening THUD.
"CHARGE!"
Like wild dogs loosed from the leash,
they sprinted toward the village—
Blades raised high,
madness swelling in their throats.
Bloodlust fueled not just by greed—
but by fear.
Fear of the two shadows that haunted the forests. Fear of the woman—
And the boy who had become something else entirely.
---
Meanwhile—
Atop the tallest building overlooking the chaos—
Two cloaked figures stood like silent judges.
Ezmelral, arms folded, her gaze sharp and unflinching.
Beside her, Raiking watched with narrowed crimson eyes,
his breath steady, but his fingers twitching ever so slightly.
Below, the village descended into madness.
The bandits tore through the gates like a flood,
blades flashing, limbs flailing,
cutting down Exar commoners in a storm of motion and rage.
Screams echoed through the stone alleys.
Ezmelral didn't blink.
Raiking didn't speak.
They watched.
And waited.
"When you trap a rat," Ezmelral asked calmly,
"what does it do?"
Raiking replied without hesitation.
"It burrows. Desperately."
Ezmelral nodded.
"And when you chop off the hand of a thief?"
"He uses the other."
"Correct," she said, pleased.
"Even when the bandits know we're out here—lurking in the dark like executioners—they still commit the same crimes that have cost others their lives."
Below, the lesson continued.
Houses burned.
Exars screamed for salvation.
And in the streets, the bandits met steel resistance.
The village guards had answered the call—barely organized, but burning with duty.
The bandit leader—grizzled, blood-slick, and marked with molten glyph tattoos—stepped forward.
He snarled, slamming his palm forward.
A red sigil exploded into view—spinning, glowing—suspended in the air.
Essence.
Drawn from the Essence Core embedded in his lower abdomen,
a swirling reserve of raw spiritual power every Exar is born with.
The energy coursed through invisible threads inside him—
Essence Threads—a complex system that replaced the nervous system itself.
Every movement, every command, every power flowed through this intricate web.
And when it reached his palm—
the glyph ignited.
FWOOSH.
A torrent of flame surged out from the center—
wild, arcing forward like a dragon's breath.
But the Guard Captain was ready.
He raised his right arm and conjured a brown Essence glyph in midair—his affinity clear: Earth.
Stones across the street began to tremble.
Small rocks lifted, spun, and collided midair—
debris binding together in orbit around the glyph.
With a guttural breath, the Captain thrust his arm forward,
his limb vanishing into the swirling brown sigil.
CRACK.
A massive earthen shield materialized before him—
a raw fusion of rubble and will.
He dropped to one knee, grounding himself.
And then—
BOOM.
Fire met earth.
The blast smashed into the shield, cracking stone and rattling bones.
The Captain slid back, boots grinding through dust,
but he held firm.
Smoke rippled upward.
Flames licked the sides of buildings.
Ezmelral watched from above, her expression unchanged.
"After twelve years of monitoring them," she murmured,
"it's clear—these Exars can only channel the five base elements of Essence."
Raiking nodded beside her.
"Fire. Earth. Water. Air. Lightning."
Her eyes narrowed, voice turning colder.
"No Light. No Shadow. No deviation."
She tilted her head, almost in disdain.
"They were given five tools—
and never once questioned if there were more."
She didn't say it aloud…
But both of them knew—
The Cosmos was far bigger than what these Exars had been taught to believe.
And soon,
that truth would come crashing down.
---
Below, the firestorm waned.
The Guard Captain, still kneeling, shield held firm, hadn't budged an inch.
The bandit leader growled beneath his breath. To conserve Essence, he ceased the flame—then reached behind his shoulder.
A bow.
He drew it forward with one hand, while the other pulled three arrows from the quiver.
With a practiced motion, he knocked them all at once.
A small crimson glyph spun into being ahead of the bowstring.
He drew it tight—
SHHHNK.
The glyph pulsed.
FIRE.
The arrows screamed through the glyph—
coated in fire Essence mid-flight.
Their velocity doubled.
Their lethality guaranteed.
Ezmelral didn't flinch.
"So… as we suspected," she said calmly.
"When Basic Level Exars channel their glyphs, the spell's output is multiplied by one.
At Transcended Level—twofold.
Ascended Level—three.
And if the pattern holds…
then King Level glyphs should amplify by four."
Raiking gave a slight nod. "Yet in all our years… not once have we encountered a King-level Exar."
"Exactly," Ezmelral murmured.
"Our observation ends here."
---
Time slowed.
Or perhaps—
it wasn't time that slowed,
but the enemies simply moved too low to be measured against it.
The fire-imbued arrows sailed toward the Guard Captain—
burning brighter with each second.
Just before impact—
Raiking vanished.
One moment, he stood beside Ezmelral.
The next—
He was there.
A blur.
A gale incarnate.
A divine echo of wrath.
He dropped in front of the Guard Captain, arm extended—
"CAIN'S WRATH.
At once, the air behind him shimmered.
The Book of Genesis manifested—
hovering, glowing, divine.
It flung open mid-air—pages flipping in a storm—
until it halted.
Page Two.
The flaming arrows struck—
And sank into the parchment.
Not torn. Not scorched.
Absorbed.
Like ink into ancient paper.
Then—
Raiking raised his hand, and dragged his palm once across the sky.
FWOOM.
Dozens of fire-tipped arrows exploded into form.
Hotter. Brighter. Deadlier.
Cain's Wrath had stored the malice behind the enemy's strike—
and now unleashed it back at twice the strength.
He tapped the air.
SHOT. SHOT. SHOT.
The arrows tore through the sky like divine meteors.
Below—
The Bandit Leader's eyes widened.
He unsheathed his blade in a panic—
swinging, deflecting, parrying—
Desperation replacing technique.
Each arrow he blocked sent violent tremors through the metal.
With every clash, hairline fractures deepened.
CRACK.
Not just steel.
His footing faltered—boots sinking into the earth.
Arms trembling, bones screaming.
Blood welled at the corners of his mouth as his own strength betrayed him.
The sword could bear no more.
SHATTER.
The shards of his once-trusted weapon scattered through the air—
glinting like broken stars.
And in that breath of silence—
the arrows struck.
One tore through his shoulder.
Another slammed into his thigh.
Then—his chest.
Each blow drove him backward,
pinning him upright—like a bloodied flag raised in warning.
He gasped.
Coughed.
Eyes wide.
Unbelieving.
"M-Monster…"
And then—
He fell.
---
From atop the building, Ezmelral did not move.
Not at first.
Then—slowly—she raised her left arm.
> The shadow… our final companion.
The one truth that follows even into death.
When flesh rots and names are forgotten—
it still remembers us.
Below, the shadows of the fallen began to stir.
Like smoke reversing its drift, they peeled away from corpses and charred ruin— rising skyward like strands of midnight silk.
One by one, they converged, merging into a single, coiling mass of darkness— a formless pool suspended in the air—
as if grief itself had gathered shape,
waiting to be remembered.
Ezmelral slowly closed her fist.
The shadows obeyed.
They tightened—contracting, condensing—
twisting inward like ink drawn into a single, trembling point.
Then, after a few silent moments,
she opened her palm.
The pool of darkness heeded her call.
It floated toward her—slow, deliberate—
until it hovered just above her outstretched hand,
as if awaiting permission to be claimed.
Then—
From the second runic disk on her left arm, a pitch-black tendril lashed outward— elegant, fluid, alive.
It coiled around the condensed shadows, gripped them, and with a gentle pull, reeled them back in—vanishing into the glowing rune.
The disk pulsed once.
Then stilled.
Ezmelral exhaled quietly, lowering her arm.
---
Below, the villagers stirred.
The guards—bloodied and breathless—rose shakily to their feet.
Wounded survivors blinked through smoke and disbelief.
They had no idea who had saved them.
Only that the attack had ended.
A heavy silence clung to the air, as if the world itself was exhaling.
The Guard Captain stepped forward, eyes wide, mouth parting to speak—
But then he froze.
On the far horizon, the night sky—once black as ink—began to fracture.
Not with lightning.
Not with flame.
But with light.
Thin, radiant fissures bled through the darkness—
Like the heavens themselves had opened their gates for the Exars.
All who stood below tilted their heads upward, breath stolen by the sight.
Raiking did not blink.
He whispered her name—almost reverently:
"Faye..."
His gaze shifted to the building where Ezmelral stood.
Their eyes met.
She nodded once.
Then her figure unraveled into shadow—silent as smoke, gone in a breath.
In response, Raiking channeled his Essence.
His body fractured—shimmering into a thousand tiny stars,
as if a constellation had broken apart and flung itself across the sky.
A soft streak followed in his wake—
trailing like a meteor shower.
And then,
he too
was gone.