Darkness. Silence. A breathless void.
For 13,000 years, Altharion Veil drifted through nothingness.
No time. No death. No end.
Just the endless stretch of the Ebon Core, a prison dimension forged by ancient traitors using the combined essence of fallen stars and forbidden gods.
It wasn't hell—it was worse. Hell was loud. The Core was silent. There were no screams. Only thought. Only pain. And worse… memory.
He had once been revered—The Archon of Oblivion, the greatest mage to walk the Aetherial Path. He mastered the Nine Unwritten Arts, understood the truth of mana before even the gods acknowledged it, and bent reality to his will.
Kingdoms feared him. Dragons obeyed him. Stars whispered his name.
Then, in a single night… betrayal.
His students. His generals. His brother.
They bound him with curses they barely understood, sealed him inside a prison so deep that even time dared not enter.
"You've gone too far," they said.
"Your power will end us all," they whispered.
"This is justice."
But it wasn't justice. It was cowardice.
They feared what they could not control.
And now, after millennia of torment, of reliving that betrayal over and over again, something shifted.
A ripple.
A crack.
Faint. Like the flicker of a dying star. But it was real. This time, it was real.
Altharion stirred. Not in body—his body was dust—but in thought, in essence. A breach had opened in the void, the first in millennia.
And beyond it… a soul was dying.
Perfect.
"I do not beg for salvation," Altharion whispered to the void.
"I take it."
Valtheria – Duskfall Slums
The smell of piss, blood, and rust hung in the air. Storm clouds choked the sky, pouring acid rain onto rusted rooftops. Pipes hissed and vented smoke. Drones buzzed overhead, scanning for vagrants.
In a narrow alley, a boy bled into the mud.
Kael Draven, sixteen. Orphan. Slave. Beaten within an inch of his life for stealing bread crusts from the overseer's tray.
He couldn't feel his legs anymore. His vision blurred.
No one came to help. No one cried. No one stopped to look.
His last breath left his lips.
And in that moment… his soul was ripped from his body.
Something ancient, cold, and powerful slipped in.
His eyes flew open.
But this was no longer Kael.
It was Altharion Veil.
Within the Wreckage
The new vessel was frail. Bones cracked. Muscles atrophied. Barely enough blood to circulate.
But it was alive. And for the first time in 13,000 years, so was he.
He lay still for hours, testing each finger, each breath, recalibrating himself to a mortal shell.
"So this… is what remains of the world?" he rasped.
"A child's corpse and a sky full of smoke."
Even through the physical pain, he could feel the sickness in the air. The magic—if it could still be called that—was polluted. Thin. Corrupted.
The Arcane Web, once the vibrant soul of the world, was a torn net of sparks and filth.
He coughed. His body rejected him, fought against his presence.
"Pathetic. I ruled galaxies with a whisper… now I can't stand."
He laughed, bitter and dry. Then he crawled—through the rain, past the rats, over broken glass—into the only shelter he could find: an old forgehouse buried in scrap.
There, amid rusted anvils and shattered machines, the Archon began again.
Day 1: Awakening
He scavenged.
A broken mana crystal. A child's spellbook. A shard of obsidian.
Laughable tools for a god—but they were enough.
He drew the most basic sigil of all—the Rune of Flame—into the dirt.
In the past, he could've ignited suns. Now? He could barely light a candle.
But he smiled.
"Even embers burn."
Day 2: Movement
By now, the other slaves had noticed.
Kael—no, the thing that wore Kael's face—was walking. Eating. Breathing.
Wounds healed. Bones mended. Eyes glowed faintly with starlight.
They whispered.
"He should be dead."
"Maybe he is."
"Demon..."
He paid them no mind.
He read. Meditated. Drew sigils with his blood. Practiced micro-casting—pulling magic with no visible motion.
His power was returning. Slowly. Painfully. But it returned.
Day 3: Retribution
That night, the overseer feasted on stolen meat and cheap ale, laughing with guards about "the rat who didn't die."
The door creaked.
Kael stepped through.
"YOU," the overseer spat. "Thought we beat the life outta you."
Kael's eyes glimmered.
He didn't speak. He simply lifted his hand.
The air folded.
Torches blew out.
The guards screamed, but their voices were muffled by some unseen force.
Then they dropped—unconscious, unharmed. Unworthy.
Only the overseer remained, frozen by unseen bonds.
Kael walked slowly forward, each step echoing like a war drum.
"You don't recognize me. Good."
The overseer stammered. "W-what are you?"
"Vengeance."
His hand glowed. The man's heart stopped—cleanly. Silently.
No scream. Just… silence.
A fitting beginning.
Later That Night
He stood atop the ruined cathedral of Duskfall. The city beneath him writhed in ignorance. Cultivation sects flew on spirit ships. Robotic enforcers patrolled the streets. No one knew what was coming.
"You thought you erased me," he whispered into the wind.
"But I remain. And I remember."
He traced a new glyph into the air—one not seen since before the fall of the Arcane Empire.
A pulse. A shimmer. A resonance.
Far across the continent, in a temple built atop the corpse of a god, a golden alarm rune flickered for the first time in 10,000 years.
The elders of the Celestial Dome stirred.
"He lives…" one whispered.