The stench of rot clung to the air.
Somewhere in the filth of Grey Town's back alleys, a young man lay half-buried beneath discarded rags and broken crates. His breath rattled like dry leaves in the wind, each exhale weaker than the last.
The boy's body was little more than skin stretched over brittle bones, his chest scarred by whip marks, his lips cracked and bleeding. Passersby didn't spare him a glance. In Grey Town—the cesspit of the kingdom—bodies in the gutter were as common as stray dogs.
But within this particular corpse-to-be, something stirred.
Draven's eyes snapped open.
The world was a blur, the sky above him choked in ash-gray clouds. He sucked in a ragged breath, his throat aflame as if he had swallowed cinders.
Where… is this?
The last thing he remembered was the monotonous rhythm of his old life: a cramped apartment, deadlines, and the endless grind of survival. He'd died there—he was sure of it. Heart failure, sudden and unceremonious. Yet now, his soul burned with an alien fire, shackled to this frail husk.
And with that fire came… memories.
They crashed into his mind in jagged fragments—images of opulent halls, banners of crimson flame, a crest etched in gold: Ignivar.
Then, screams.
Blood.
A towering castle engulfed in fire and shadow, collapsing into ruin.
And a single truth that clawed at his chest:
This body belonged to the last descendant of House Ignivar, a clan erased from history a thousand years ago. Once sovereigns whose flame and shadow ruled over kingdoms, now reduced to a forgotten beggar left to die in the mud.
Draven clutched his skull, gasping. He wasn't just inheriting this shell; he was drowning in its despair.
"No…" His voice cracked, little more than a whisper. "Not just despair. Will. Rage."
The boy who owned this body had died yearning for vengeance, his final thought a desperate plea: Remember us. Restore us.
That plea had become Draven's chains.
As his heartbeat faltered, something ancient awakened. His blood burned—not metaphorically, but with searing heat that spread through every vein. His chest convulsed as a symbol seared itself onto his skin, right over his heart: a blazing crest of fire entwined with shadow, the true mark of Ignivar.
The air around him trembled. Trash and dust lifted from the ground, drawn into the gravity of his awakening.
Then, silence.
Draven sat upright, his body trembling, eyes glowing faintly with embers and shadows. His vision sharpened, piercing through the grime of the alley. His limbs no longer felt brittle, but thrummed with vitality.
The last Ignivar had been reborn.
---
Grey Town stretched before him when he finally staggered to his feet.
A sprawl of broken streets, sagging roofs, and taverns spilling drunks into the mud. It was a place forgotten by the crown, left to fester in poverty. Gangs ruled here, each corner claimed by brutes with blades or sorcerers selling scraps of magic for coin.
Draven's new body carried faint memories of this place—beatings, humiliation, survival by scraps. This was no noble's heir now, but a gutter rat with a ruined name only he remembered.
And yet, within his veins burned the blood of Ignivar.
They think the clan forgotten. They think the bloodline dead. Let them.
His lips curled into the faintest of smiles, one tinged with cruelty.
I will rise from these ashes. I will carve our name into their bones.
But first… he needed strength.
---
The following hours tested his newfound resolve. Hunger clawed at his stomach like a beast, his throat begged for water. Yet each step he took across Grey Town felt different. His body was lean, but there was fire beneath the skin now—mana coursing, ready to be molded.
Whispers of power lingered in his mind, echoes of the bloodline:
Martial Flame: to channel mana into muscle, blade, and bone.
Shadow Veil: to cloak, deceive, and strike unseen.
Together, they formed the ancient duality of Ignivar: Flame and Shadow Sovereignty.
The boy whose body he inherited had barely scratched its surface. Draven would master it.
---
As dusk fell, he stumbled into a narrow street where laughter and cruelty mingled.
A gang of thugs circled a trembling merchant, blades drawn, demanding coin. At their center stood a man with jagged tattoos glowing faintly blue—mana coursed through his arms like lightning veins.
Draven's new memories whispered: this was Krell, one of Grey Town's lesser gang enforcers. A martial practitioner, low-tier but lethal compared to ordinary men.
The merchant begged for mercy. The gang only laughed.
Draven watched, silent. The old him—the one from Earth—might have turned away, too weak to intervene. But the fire in his veins hissed with hunger. This world was cruel, and survival meant staking a claim.
His hand curled into a fist. Flame flickered faintly across his knuckles.
So this is the first step. From the gutter to dominion.
He stepped forward.
---
The gang turned at the sound of his footfall. Krell sneered at the sight of the ragged boy.
"Well, look at this rat. Lost your grave, gutter trash?"
Draven's eyes glowed faintly in the half-light, twin embers beneath shadowed brows. He spoke with a calm that chilled the air.
"You've ruled long enough in filth. Tonight, Grey Town meets Ignivar."
Krell laughed, but unease flickered in his gaze.
Then Draven moved.
Flame erupted from his fist, cloaked in shadow, striking with unnatural speed. The alley blazed for a heartbeat, shadows writhing like serpents.
Screams followed.
The first hunt had begun.