The world of Veylareth pulsed like a living heart beneath an eternal sky.
To look upon it from the heavens was to see a planet stitched from myths — oceans of silver mist; mountain chains that glowed like molten glass; forests older than the first spoken name. No sun or moon circled it. Light came from its own veins, threads of energy that swam under the surface like blood.
It was said the gods themselves were born here, not elsewhere. Before there were heavens or hells, before angels spread their wings or demons sharpened their claws, Veylareth already pulsed — silent, patient, alive. The gods numbered themselves, created their own worlds, and forged each other, but none of them could answer the oldest question: who had created them?
The planet never spoke.
It only watched as eons stacked like stones, as creation bloomed then blackened, as fallen angels took shape from dark energy, holy angels from light, beasts from the raw marrow of the soil, elves from singing trees, void spirits from the gaps between stars, water tribes from endless mist — and last of all, humans, brittle and brief.
In this tangled menagerie of races, alliances rose and shattered like tides. Veylareth's pulse never faltered.
---
On the edge of a dying valley, a small human village crouched under storm-colored skies. Smoke coiled from crooked chimneys. The smell of iron hung in the air.
Inside a hut patched with beast hides, a boy sat sharpening a knife too heavy for his hands.
He was ten. His name was Kaelith Draven.
His hair, once black, had lightened to ash from the valley's strange winds. His eyes were gray like distant thunderheads. He worked in silence, each stroke of the whetstone echoing against the walls.
Across from him, on a pile of blankets, a five-year-old girl hummed to herself while plaiting wildflowers. Her hair was a tumble of silver strands that caught every flicker of firelight. Her name was Lyrielle.
"Kaelith?" she whispered. "You're frowning again."
"I'm thinking," he said, not looking up.
"You always think. Will you play with me after?"
He sheathed the knife, forced a thin smile. "After we eat."
He moved to the hearth, stirred a pot of thin stew. Even in this forgotten village, Kaelith had a reputation. A boy too serious, too cold. Yet every night he saved the softest piece of meat for Lyrielle. Every morning he taught her to read from the torn scraps of books their parents had kept.
She didn't see the calluses on his hands or the way his knuckles trembled when the wind carried distant horns of war.
---
Outside, the War of All Races had already begun to boil.
Angels, demons, elves, beasts — banners from every race clashed over resources, over grudges, over prophecies. Borders collapsed. Armies marched. Villages like Kaelith's were tinder waiting for a spark.
His parents tried to keep the war from their children, but rumors seeped in. Stories of massacres, of winged beings burning whole forests, of beasts swallowing cities. Kaelith listened and learned. Each story became a stone in the wall he was building inside himself.
That night, as thunder rolled without rain, his mother bent low to kiss Lyrielle's hair. "Sleep, my little star," she murmured. "We'll leave for the mountains soon."
Kaelith's father gripped his shoulder. "Take care of her if anything happens. Promise me."
Kaelith nodded once. He didn't say the words. He didn't need to.
---
The spark came at dawn.
A horn like a beast's roar tore the sky. The ground shook. From the hills poured an army not of one race but many — angels with scorched feathers, demons with runed blades, armored humans bearing no crest, beastfolk with jaws dripping black saliva.
Chaos.
The hut's door burst open. Kaelith's father pushed him toward the back wall, sword drawn. "Run!"
But there was nowhere to run. Fire licked the thatch. Screams split the air.
Kaelith clutched Lyrielle's hand, pulled her toward the cellar. A crash — the wall shattered. Figures loomed in the smoke. His mother threw herself between them and the invaders, dagger flashing. A demon's spear skewered her. His father roared, cut down two men before a winged angel struck him from behind.
"Mother!" Lyrielle screamed.
Kaelith's mind went white. He tried to drag her, but his legs felt made of lead. His father fell. His mother's eyes found his one last time — run — then dulled.
He didn't remember falling. Only the taste of ash, the weight of Lyrielle's hand slipping from his.
---
When he came back to himself, the hut was rubble. Bodies lay like broken dolls. Smoke clawed the sky.
He heard bootsteps crunching debris. A group of slavers moved through the ruins, not soldiers but scavengers, collars and chains rattling.
They found Lyrielle first. She was curled around her mother's body, sobbing.
Kaelith staggered toward them. "Let her go—"
A fist slammed into his jaw. He hit the ground, spitting blood. Another kick to his ribs.
"She's a rare one," one slaver muttered. "Eyes like silver. Worth more than the others."
Kaelith tried to rise, grabbed a shard of wood, lunged. A boot crushed his hand. Bones cracked.
Lyrielle screamed his name as they dragged her away. "Kaelith! Kaelith!"
He crawled after them, nails tearing on splintered wood, vision swimming. His voice cracked. "Give her back!"
Another blow sent him sprawling. The last thing he saw was her small hand reaching for him as the chains pulled her into the mist.
---
Darkness swallowed him.
And then, a voice.
Cold. Inhuman. Neither male nor female.
> [Ultimate Negative Core detected. Host candidate identified.]
Kaelith twitched. Pain flared like fire through his veins.
> [Synchronization commencing. Punishment: Lightning Strike, 5 minutes.]
A bolt of white-blue energy slammed into his body. He arched off the ground, teeth clenching, every nerve screaming. His skin split and healed, split and healed, over and over. The smell of ozone filled his lungs.
> [Punishment Phase: Suffocation, 60 seconds.]
Air vanished. He clawed at his throat, eyes bulging, lips purple. Memories of Lyrielle's face flashed behind his lids.
> [Punishment complete. System anchored.]
He collapsed, gasping, smoke rising from his clothes.
> [Quest: Recover the Heart from the girl or System will self-terminate.]
"Heart?" he rasped. "What heart?"
> [Warning: Host lifespan incompatible with God of Negative Emotions skill. Activation cost: 15 years per use.]
A translucent panel flickered in his vision. Numbers, symbols he didn't know. One bar glowed crimson:
Anger: 72/100 — Berserk Mode Locked.
Kaelith coughed blood. "You're… a demon."
> [I am not demon. I am Core. I am what remains when hope dies.]
He pushed himself up on trembling arms. His shadow stretched long and thin across the ash. In it, something moved, like a second spine coiling.
Lyrielle. The word burned behind his teeth.
"I don't care what you are," he whispered. "Just give me the power."
> [Acknowledged.]
---
The sun — if it could be called that — broke through the smoke as a gray disc. Kaelith stumbled from the ruins, barefoot, eyes empty. Around him, carrion crows circled. The bodies of angels and demons lay together, wings and claws tangled.
He stopped on a rise overlooking the valley. In the far distance, the slavers' caravan wound toward the horizon. His fists clenched until his nails dug blood from his palms.
No one. Only her. Only Lyrielle.
A gust of wind blew, carrying the sound of distant horns. Above, the clouds twisted into an eye-shaped vortex, black and rimmed with fire. For a moment, Kaelith thought it was staring directly at him.
The voice whispered:
> [Welcome, Host. Your hatred will be our weapon.]
He spat blood into the dust. "Then let the world choke on it."
The panel blinked once:
[First Quest Accepted: Pursue the Slavers. Retrieve the Heart.]
Kaelith took one step, then another, down the slope. His body screamed, but his shadow grew longer, darker, until it seemed to drag behind him like a cloak.
The pulse of Veylareth quickened underfoot. The world itself felt like it was holding its breath.
---
Night fell by degrees. The sky turned from ash to violet. Kaelith reached a ridge where the land split into jagged cliffs. He looked back once at the smoking ruin of his village. No tears came.
He pressed a hand to his chest. The System pulsed there like a second heartbeat. Beneath it, deeper, another presence stirred — faint but familiar.
Unseen, far ahead, Lyrielle sat chained in a wagon. Her silver eyes glowed faintly. Inside her small chest, something other pulsed — a dark Heart that wasn't hers. It beat in time with Veylareth itself.
Kaelith's jaw tightened. He didn't know yet what the Heart was, only that the System wanted it and that it lived inside the only person he had left.
He set his gaze on the horizon.
He would chase them into hell.
He would tear down every race if he had to.
And if the cost was his life, so be it.
---
Somewhere deep beneath the crust of Veylareth, the pulse of the planet shifted. The eye-shaped storm widened. In its center, something vast and formless stirred — the true Creator, nameless and watching.
Kaelith didn't see it.
Not yet.
He walked on, the System whispering:
> [Anger: 74/100.]
[Berserk Mode approaching.]
He didn't answer. His teeth clicked once in the dark. Only his sister's name filled his head.
Lyrielle.
The wind rose, carrying ash like snow. In the distance, the caravan's torches flickered like fallen stars.
From this day forward, Veylareth would remember the boy it had broken. And the world would tremble at the heart it had awakened.