The past month had been harsh on Noah. He hadn't even realized how exhausted he truly was. Two months had passed since his grandfather's death, leaving him completely alone. Being underage, the authorities wanted to place him with relatives, but he was an orphan — he had no one.
At first, he bought himself some time by pretending he wasn't home. In part, it wasn't even a lie, since he had already begun following a lead his grandfather had left him — one that pointed to an important artifact.
That was the start of the journey that led him to the staff. He rode buses, walked, boarded more buses, even took shady cars, did favors, asked questions, and spent money. All of that just to follow a local legend whispered about in a remote village.
In the end, he reached the staff. To claim it, he had to use magic. Even with the help of runes, the strain had been tremendous. He was so drained that he couldn't rest until he was finally back home. Without his grandfather, he had still managed to pull it off. In that single pursuit, he had learned much of what the last eight years had taught him.
During his travels, Noah discovered he and his grandfather weren't the only mages left in the world. There were others, though scarce and scattered. Most could do little more than simple tricks.
Many no longer cared for magic at all, having long abandoned it. As if they said, "All I can do is make a spoon float before a headache crushes me. Why bother with that?" Because of that, obtaining their heirloom items wasn't too difficult.
Of course, not everyone was useless. Even in this dying world of mana, talent and hierarchy still existed.
Noah was considered talented, but barely over a decade of life wasn't enough time to grow strong in a land so barren of mana. In this world, one rule was clear: the older the mage, the stronger they were.
There had once been an old man in Egypt, said to be over a hundred years old. His grandfather had been close friends with him, and many of their leads came from that mage. It was said that, in his prime, he could control the wind — even fly for a few minutes.
Sadly, he had died years ago, yet another mage defeated by time.
Still, being old wasn't the only way to power. Lineage also mattered.
That was how Noah first crossed paths with the Witch Clan — an encounter he wished had never happened.
The Witch Clan was infamous in the underworld, known for buying ancient artifacts. To outsiders, they might have seemed like eccentric collectors, just as many thought Noah and his grandfather were.
But Noah knew the truth. They were a coven, a group of women bound by blood, all with strong magical affinity. There weren't many — perhaps no more than twenty — but each of them was gifted beyond measure.
"They say they're the direct descendants of the Salem witches," his grandfather once told him when Noah was ten, during a trip to Rome.
The black market for artifacts, hidden in the heart of the Vatican, was always busy. Every few years, a true artifact would surface. But going there was always dangerous. The Vatican hosted not only one of the best markets, but also the second great faction of "mages."
Though they preferred to call themselves priests.
To the witches, the priests were bitter enemies — infamous for their sinister rites and bloody rituals in pursuit of power.
Unlike witches, priests wielded a purer power, fueled perhaps by their faith, or by the god they worshiped. Noah wasn't religious, but he would have gladly stepped into a church if it meant gaining power. Yet his grandfather explained that to reach the authority needed to perform any miracles was nearly impossible. And in truth, the priests' influence had waned in recent years.
Perhaps that was why the witches had grown so dominant in the last few decades.
Noah craved their knowledge and power as well, though he dared not say it out loud after his grandfather's reaction.
"They are vile. They sacrifice children, practice black magic. They sing in the shadows, dance naked beneath the moonlight, and worship the devil," his grandfather had once snapped, more furiously than Noah had ever seen.
Noah understood his words, but he couldn't bring himself to fully despise the witches. He hated them, yes, but that hatred was recent — and personal.
Because when it came to power, there was a side of Noah that longed for it regardless of its source. That hidden part of him had never seen the light of day, never been noticed by his grandfather.
But against the witches, he and his grandfather could never compete. Every time their paths crossed, they had no choice but to step aside. All they could do was chase after scraps and lesser relics.
The witches were too dangerous to challenge. They wielded both power and artifacts — not to open portals, like Noah and his grandfather, but to strengthen themselves, manipulating companies and politicians across the world.
And two months ago, their paths collided for good.
Noah and his grandfather had just arrived in the United States for an auction of ancient artifacts. Several genuine items, looted from a Cardinal's vault, were up for bid. As usual, his grandfather spent large sums to secure a few. The auction was intense, but that was nothing new.
The real problem came afterward.
On their way back to the hotel, they were ambushed by a woman. Noah remembered that night vividly — he could even recall the scent in the air. The smell of blood.
The woman was breathtaking, as beautiful as a serene night. Her gaze pierced straight through him, filling Noah with an indescribable urge to step closer, to kiss her. But before he could surrender to that impulse, his mind cleared. His earring glowed with white light, breaking her spell. That was its purpose: to shield its wearer against illusions and mental influence.
When Noah stopped, refusing to walk toward her, the woman looked surprised — but only briefly. The surprise twisted into a cruel smile.
"What a reward I'll have once I kill you," she said, before everything erupted.
"Grandpa—"
"Grandpa!" Noah screamed, jolting awake.
His body was drenched in sweat, the bedsheets soaked as if he had spilled water on them. Blinking around in confusion, he slowly remembered where he was. Home.
With a heavy sigh, he collapsed back into the mattress. His eyes turned to the window, where the first rays of sunlight touched the horizon, spilling warmth and light into the world.
"Today's the day. Today, I'll activate the ritual," he whispered.
That night — that attack — would never leave him. The memory gnawed at him, filling him with hatred for himself and for this world. For being weak. For not having the strength to change anything.
All he ever wanted was power. That was his only goal. Even if it meant walking into the darkness and making it his home.