Once, when the world had yet to take shape and was wrapped in chaos—magical power knew no control and raged uncontrollably. It surged through the land like a storm, destroying everything it touched, building and then breaking again. It was an endless cycle of life and death.
Yet, in the heart of that never-ending storm, a single existence was born that neither broke nor yielded. It resisted. This was the first spirit—the very first living being born into the world. The storm was shaken by its defiance. No matter how fiercely it struck, the spirit endured.
Frustration turned to anger, and eventually, the storm unleashed its final explosion, shaking the world. From that great impact, countless new forms emerged. Life scattered across the land, turning wastelands into forests, flowing rivers, and giving birth to all manner of beasts. The desolate world gradually transformed into a place lush with greenery and abundance.
The golden and red hues of dusk illuminated the barren earth.
At the eastern edge of Mylia, there lies a forgotten town. Dilapidated houses leaned into the wind, exuding a heavy silence. Like a graveyard.
Only one being broke that silence. A man lay on his back atop the roof of a crumbling building, his gaze fixed on the darkened eastern sky, adorned with twinkling stars. He sighed and lifted a bottle of alcohol to his lips. The warmth flowing down his throat warmed his body.
Among the wonders of this world, alcohol was exceptional—for him, at least. His shirt was tattered, and scars resembling those of being torn by nails ran across his skin and fabric. Yet, flesh quickly healed, leaving no trace behind. Only the ripped cloth remained.
His name was Lancer. He appeared barely twenty but held a weight in his eyes far beyond his years.
Suddenly, a cloud of sand kicked up. A strange contraption, like a horse-drawn carriage, glided across the desert from beyond the horizon. The wheels spun at an unusual speed, and two shadows leaned out from the door.
Lancer sighed again. He had been found.
He jumped down from the roof, landing in the swirling dust.
The carriage screeched to a halt, and six men leapt out, surrounding him.
"We finally caught up to you, demon."
The lead man's gaze pierced into Lancer's white hair and gray eyes.
"Submit quietly. We do not wish for conflict. However, our benefactor does not allow us to harm you, so there are limits to how we handle you."
A sword was drawn. The sound of steel scraping cut through the silence.
Lancer remained silent, tipping the bottle once more.
Such was their curse.
The Noctari. A lineage that, having reached for forbidden magic in the past, inherited twisted blood and flesh. They were scorned as less than human, hunted, and abused as slaves.
"If you remain silent, I shall take it as an insult, you filthy one."
The man's eyes narrowed. One of his companions could no longer contain himself and shouted, "Answer! You lowly wretch!"
Then a thrown dagger shattered Lancer's bottle. The golden liquid soaked into the sand, never to return.
Lancer's gaze sharpened. A low, chilly voice escaped him.
"…Do you wish to die?"
The air grew heavy. Overwhelming murderous intent filled the space.
In his hand, a chain sickle had appeared without notice.
The sound of wind slicing through the air. In the next moment, the blade pierced the skull of the man who threw the dagger.
As he pulled back the chain, bone and blood splattered, and the man's body fell silently.
"Attack!" The captain's furious roar echoed across the wilderness. The remaining five charged forward all at once. But the next moment, a tempestuous magical force erupted, hurling their bodies away. Lancer grimaced. He hadn't wanted to use it. However, facing five at once left him no choice. A whisper stirred in the depths of his mind. —The Invisible Hand. A golden circle materialized above him. It floated, radiating a dazzling light, freezing the expressions of his pursuers in terror. "Sixth class…" The captain's words were drowned out the moment the circle began to spin. The five bodies were lifted into the air, ensnared by the circle without the ability to resist. The rotation accelerated, and their screams were swallowed by the whirlwind. Flesh was torn, voices were cut off, and soon a mist of blood stained the sky. Crimson rain poured down onto the sand, drenching even Lancer's standing figure. Still, he remained motionless, his cold gaze fixed on the circle as it gradually slowed and vanished. All that was left were six white bones. They crumbled to the ground with a dry sound against the sand. Lancer clicked his tongue. "Now my plan to escape the wilderness before dark is completely ruined… At least it's a small mercy that the carriage remains." He glanced at the bones and murmured softly. "Remember this: don't mess with a man's alcohol." The golden circle was one of the artifacts known as Hollows. Each artifact in this world possessed its own unique magic and could be obtained through various means. But true to its name, it was a void, consuming the magical power of its user. For Lancer, now was the worst possible time. He had spent a significant amount of his magical power on healing his wounds, and he was already severely depleted. Having been cornered into using The Invisible Hand, his remaining magical power had been reduced to about a quarter. What he needed now was to escape. The sun tilted to the west, leaving him with barely forty minutes of daylight. He had no intention of welcoming night in the wilderness. Night creatures were ferocious, and some hunted in packs. It was far too dangerous for him at the moment. Without hesitation, he boarded the carriage. It was also one of the Hollows, a transport mechanism that continued to operate while gradually consuming magical power. The consumption was light, and he could still endure it. The western edge of the wilderness lay about one hundred thirty kilometers away. It was by no means an easy task, but Lancer calculated he could cover most of that distance before sunset. The carriage sped across the sand, slicing through it. Whether he would survive depended on his stamina and strength. Fortunately, the drained magical power was beginning to replenish itself little by little. He raised his hand, gathering a faint light in his palm. What emerged was a map of the terrain along with signs of magical reactions. —Terrain Translation Scripture. A detection-type Hollow that reflected the terrain and surrounding sources of magic. Its drawback was the range. The limit he could manage now was two hundred meters. If something approached from beyond that distance, it would be too late by the time he noticed. At that moment, several points began to blink. Three signs were moving underground, closing in on the carriage. "…Tch," Lancer spat quietly. The next moment, the ground exploded. A massive insect burst out of the sand. Its sharp mandibles opened, and its carapace glistened dully in the twilight. "Specus." The worst kind of predators. They would pursue their quarry to the ends of the wilderness. At least it was a saving grace that it was a wingless specimen. The carriage lurched, lifting into the air. Lancer twisted his body to face the monster. A red symbol emerged in his palm. Light pulsed, converging into a thin line. Particle-Eating Radiance. His strongest offensive Hollow. The red light erupted like a torrent, piercing into the monster's gaping mouth. The gigantic creature, measuring over ten meters, was split in half with a single strike, collapsing into the swirling sand. The carriage slammed down into the sand, shaking violently. Lancer poured in more magical power, increasing its speed. Behind him, the remaining Specus had ceased their pursuit and were gathering around the corpses of their fallen brethren. This was the law of the wilderness: the weak would quickly become prey.
Eventually, the sand dunes broke, revealing a flat expanse of grassland. The wilderness was behind him. In the distance, against the setting sun, the outline of a town came into view. —Durian. He had finally arrived at his destination. Lancer quietly thanked the heavens.
Before reaching the town, he abandoned the carriage. He felt some regret, but there was no choice. The number of pursuers was too great. They were lured by the high bounty and would pursue him relentlessly. The fortunate thing was that the immediate pursuers were merely low-ranking members.
Having been raised as a slave, the only thing he had ever desired was freedom. Five years ago, he had risked his life to attempt an escape, relying on wit and chance. He had faced death many times on his journey from the Omano continent to this place. Yet, he had survived. Perhaps the heavens had pitied him.
A low laugh escaped from his throat. "Luck is just another skill." Through numerous escapes and battles, he had arrived at one truth. In this world, only power holds value. Dreams are nothing but dust if not supported by strength. A person without power is merely a fool.
Lancer accurately understood what he sought. And for the sake of that ambition, he was willing to do anything.