The fire crackled in the center of the mercenary camp, throwing shadows against battered tents and rusted steel. The night wind carried the stink of blood and sweat, battle had ended only hours ago, yet the men already drank to forget.
Around the flames, an old mercenary with one eye and a ruined nose told a story. His voice was gravel, worn by war. The younger sellswords leaned closer, mugs of ale forgotten. Even Kael, barely twelve years old then, a lean boy with ragged black hair, listened in silence.
The old man raised his scarred hand to the stars.
"Long before kings and churches, there were gods. They ruled the skies, the seas, the earth itself. Ares the War-Bringer. Zeus the Sky-Tyrant. Hermes the Trickster. Hades, the Lord Below. They were power absolute, until they turned on each other."
The men murmured, but he continued.
"The War of the Heavens burned the world. Gods slaughtered gods. Their bodies fell like stars, shattering the earth. And when it ended... nothing remained but fragments. Shards of their power, each a piece of a dead god's soul."
He leaned forward, voice dropping.
"These fragments awaken inside mortals. Make them more than human. Stronger, faster, immortal in spirit. But the price..."
His one good eye glinted in the firelight.
"...is madness. For no man can carry the will of a god without being broken."
One of the mercenaries laughed nervously.
"That's just a tale to scare children."
The old man's gaze swept to Kael.
"Is it? Look to the east. They say a warlord's fragment has awakened. His army burns villages in black fire."
Kael's young fists tightened in the dirt. Even at twelve, he hated the thought of power crushing the helpless. But he said nothing.
The old man chuckled darkly.
"Remember this, pups: when a fragment awakens, blood always follows."
The next morning, Kael trained. His sword was longer than his arm, but he refused to yield. The mercenary captain barked orders.
"Again. You hesitate, you die."
Kael struck, over and over, until his hands bled. The older boys mocked him, shoved him down, stole his rations. But Kael never stopped.
Once, after a raid gone wrong, the company left him behind. A boy too slow, too expendable. Wolves closed in on his broken body. Kael picked up a jagged spear and stood anyway.
When dawn came, he was covered in blood, not his own. He limped back to camp, dragging wolf carcasses with him.
From that day, no one called him weak.
But Kael learned something that stayed with him all his life: the only one you can rely on is yourself.
Years passed. Kael grew lean, scarred, his golden eyes sharp as steel. He became a blade-for-hire, moving between warlords and petty kings who tore the land apart.
The world itself was fractured.
The Church of Light called all fragments heresy, claiming only they could "purify" the world. Their paladins were executioners, merciless and unyielding.
The Cult of the Black Flame whispered in shadows, praising Hades, seeking to gather fragments to revive him.
The Kingdoms waged endless wars, some secretly using God-Eaters as weapons.
And through it all, common folk prayed not for salvation, but simply to survive the next fire, the next raid, the next warlord.
Kael walked among it all, a mercenary with no banner, no faith.
He fought for coin, for survival, for stubborn pride.
But whispers followed him. He had survived battles no man should. He had the eyes of someone who had already seen the underworld and spat back in its face.
One night, after another nameless skirmish, Kael sat alone sharpening his blade. The moon hung red above the battlefield. Around him, the dead were silent.
From across the plain came a glow, faint at first, then darker, black fire flickering against the horizon.
Villagers screamed in the distance.
The ground trembled.
Kael squinted, muttering to himself.
"Another monster... another warlord drunk on his own blood."
The mercenaries whispered among themselves:
"They say he carries a fragment."
"The Warlord of Veynar. He's unstoppable."
"Men burn just standing near him."
Kael stood, sheathing his sword. His jaw tightened.
"Doesn't matter. Coin's coin."
But as he walked toward the smoke, the distant fire reflected in his golden eyes. Something in him knew: this was no ordinary contract.
The old mercenary's words echoed in his memory:
"When a fragment awakens, blood always follows."