The rain in the Forsaken Realm didn't cleanse; it punished. It was a cold, greasy drizzle that made the muddy streets of the Vladmiralia Outskirts a quagmire and the ramshackle wooden buildings look like rotting teeth. Here, at the bottom of the world, the colossal, luminous branches of the World Tree, Yggdrasil, were a distant rumor, their light unable to pierce the perpetual smog of poverty and despair that clung to this place.
Portgas Typhoon, fifteen years old with dreams too big for his scrawny frame, wiped the water from his face, his hot pink eyes narrowed in concentration. He was on the run, again. A stolen loaf of bread was clutched in his hand, its value worth more than his life in the eyes of the baker and the two hulking thugs now chasing him.
"Get back here, you mana-less freak!" one of them bellowed, his voice echoing off the narrow alleyways.
Portgas didn't waste breath replying. He moved with a feral grace that belied his malnourished look, his feet barely seeming to touch the ground. He was fast, impossibly so. He vaulted over a stack of rotten crates, slid under a low-hanging gutter, and pushed his body to its limit. This was his only power: a body that refused to break, strength and speed that defied his zero mana signature.
He was a "Zero," an anomaly in a world where every living thing, from the mightiest sorcerer to the lowliest blade of grass, pulsed with magical energy. His existence was a paradox, a source of fear and ridicule. He was a hole in the fabric of reality, and the world was eager to see him filled—preferably six feet under.
Ducking into a collapsed building, he pressed himself against a damp wall, his chest heaving. The thugs ran past, their curses fading into the din of the rain. Safe. For now.
He looked down at the stolen bread, his stomach clenching with a hunger that was more than physical. It was the hunger for more.
For a life beyond these muddy streets. For a name that would be chanted, not spat. He dreamed of the title that was the pinnacle of all power and prestige in the 180 kingdoms: the Wizard King. The 29th Warlord of the Vladmiralia Kingdom.
A name whispered with reverence and fear: Lycarius Velgrathis. The current Warlord a man who had ascended to the throne at the age of fifteen, a prodigy without equal. Portgas had seen posters, the man's kind, almost melancholic face framed by messy blonde hair, the mysterious Ouroboros mark on his forehead. He was a symbol of everything Portgas was not: powerful, respected, and brimming with mana.
He took a savage bite of the bread. The dream felt as distant as the World Tree's summit.
Suddenly, the air grew heavy, thick with a malevolent pressure that made the hair on his arms stand on end. A foul, coppery scent filled the alleyway, cutting through the stench of rot and waste. Portgas peeked out from his hiding spot.
In the center of the muddy square, the very air seemed to tear. A shimmering, black-veined rip appeared, and from it, a creature emerged.
It was a Chimera. It stood on two powerful, bestial legs, its body a patchwork of glistening, chitinous plates and pulsating, raw muscle. Its face was a nightmare of mismatched eyes and a fanged maw that dripped acidic saliva, sizzling where it hit the ground. But its most defining
feature, the one that made Portgas's blood run cold, was the gaping, empty hole in the center of its chest—a void that seemed to suck the very light and hope from the world.
This one was born from humanity's collective fear of Contagion.
The Chimera let out a guttural roar, and the few denizens of the Forsaken Realm who hadn't already fled did so now, screaming in terror. It sniffed the air, its head swiveling, before its gaze locked onto a small child who had tripped and fallen in the mud, frozen solid with fear.
Portgas acted without thinking. It was a suicide run, but his body was moving before his mind could process the terror. He sprinted, not away, but towards the monster.
"Hey!" he yelled, his voice cracking.
The Chimera turned, its hollow eyes focusing on this new, insignificant morsel. It swiped a clawed hand, moving with blinding speed. Portgas ducked, the wind of the blow ruffling his long black hair with blonde tips. He was inside its guard. He threw a punch, putting all his weight behind it, striking the creature's leg.
It was like punching solid iron. Pain shot up his arm, but the Chimera barely flinched. It backhanded him, and the world exploded in white light as he was sent flying through the wall of a nearby shack.
Wood splintered around him. He tasted blood. His vision swam. He was outclassed. This was the power of a Chimera, a creature that fed on fear, and he, had nothing to fight it with but his fists.
The Chimera loomed over the collapsed building, its hole-like chest seeming to widen, ready to consume him.
Is this it? he thought, despair finally gripping him. To die nameless in the mud?
"Mezameru: Awaken."
A calm, resonant voice cut through the chaos, and the world… stopped.
The falling raindrops hung suspended in mid-air. The Chimera was frozen mid-roar, a statue of living terror. Portgas could only move his eyes.
Walking into the square, as if he were merely out for a stroll, was Lycarius Velgrathis, the 28th Warlord. He looked exactly like his posters, yet infinitely more profound in person. His long, messy blonde hair was dry despite the rain, his vivid blue eyes held a universe of knowledge, and the Ouroboros mark on his forehead seemed to pulse with a soft, internal light. He wore his single-sleeved dark robe with an effortless grace.
He didn't even look at the frozen Chimera. His gaze was on Portgas.
"Fascinating," Lycarius murmured, his voice laced with genuine curiosity. "To move with such speed, to possess a resolve that shines so brightly… and yet, not a single spark of mana. You are a true enigma."
With a flick of his wrist, he gestured towards the Chimera. "Nagareru: Flow. Rirīsu: Release."
The mana in the atmosphere, invisible to Portgas but tangible as a tidal wave to any sorcerer, condensed around the Chimera. There was no grand explosion, no flashy technique. The creature simply… unraveled. Its body dissolved into motes of black energy that were then purified into harmless, shimmering light, which flowed back into the environment.
The pressure vanished. Time resumed. The raindrops fell. The Chimera was gone.
Lycarius walked over to the crater where Portgas lay. He knelt, his kind eyes searching the boy's face. "You are hurt."
"I'm… fine," Portgas grunted, trying to push himself up. The pain was immense.
"Such fortitude," Lycarius said, a small, empathetic smile gracing his lips. "The world is not kind to those who are different. I know this well." He placed a hand on Portgas's chest. A warm, golden light emanated from his palm, and Portgas felt his broken ribs knit back together, the bruises fade. It was a divinity heal technique, performed with such casual mastery it was breathtaking.
"Why… why did you save me?" Portgas whispered, awestruck.
"Because it is my responsibility to protect everyone," Lycarius stated, his voice firm with conviction. "The strong have a duty to the weak. That is the only way to build a world worth living in." He stood, looking down at Portgas. "What is your name, young man with the heart of a lion?"
"Portgas," he said, finding his voice. "Portgas Typhoon."
"Portgas," Lycarius repeated, as if tasting the name. "A fine name. Hold on to that fire in your eyes. The world needs more who are willing to fight for what is right, even without power."
And with that, the warlord turned. The air around him shimmered, and he was gone, as if he had never been there.
Portgas lay in the mud, the healed wound on his side the only proof the encounter was real. The kindness, the power, the sheer presence of the man… it had been everything he had ever imagined a Warlord should be. But as the awe faded, a new, more potent emotion took its place: a burning, all-consuming resolve.
He had been saved. He had been deemed worthy of saving by the King himself. But kindness wouldn't make him the 29th Warlord. He needed power. Real power.
His hot pink eyes hardened with determination. He looked up at the sky, towards the distant, unseen spires of the royal capital.
"I will become the Warlord" he vowed to the uncaring rain. "I will stand at the top. And I will never be powerless again."
His path led him to the one place in the Forsaken Realm that even the thugs and the Chimeras avoided: the derelict church on the hill. It was his home, the place he had been abandoned as a baby. It was also a place of secrets.
In the deepest, most hidden catacomb beneath the altar, sealed away by forgotten wards, was a single object. A weapon, humming with a dark, sentient energy. It was a large, ornate scythe, its blade looking like it was forged from obsidian and starlight. This was his secret, the one thing of value he had ever found.
The SS-Rank Divinity Tool, Völlerei.
He approached it, his reflection distorted in the polished blade. He had never dared to touch it, fearing its power, fearing it would reject a someone like him. But now, after seeing true power, after tasting his own helplessness, fear was a luxury he could no longer afford.
He reached out, his fingers trembling, and wrapped his hand around the cold, metallic shaft.
A shockwave of energy blasted through the church, sending dust and debris flying. A voice, ancient, sarcastic, and laced with a profound loneliness, echoed directly in his mind.
"Well, well. After all these years, a brat with more guts than sense finally comes knocking. And a mana-less one at that. How… pathetic."
Portgas gritted his teeth, holding on as a torrent of dark, hot pink and crimson energy erupted from the scythe, coiling around his arm. "Shut up," he growled, his voice strained. "I don't care what you are. I don't care what you think of me. You have power. I need it."
The spirit, Völlerei, manifested as a spectral image—a tall, horned figure with bat-like wings and eyes of pink and red. He looked down at Portgas, his condescending smirk faltering for a fraction of a second. He saw not just desperation, but the same unyielding will he had once seen in another, a long time ago. The will of the woman who had shown him kindness, Lyrielle.
"Tch. You reek of ambition and cheap bread," Völlerei sneered, but the bite was gone. "Fine. Let's make a contract, you and I. My power for your body. Let's see how far a someone like you can go with a devil at his side can go. Let's paint this world in our colors, Portgas Typhoon."
A searing pain, followed by an ecstatic rush of power, flooded Portgas's veins. For the first time in his life, he felt it—a vast, bottomless ocean of mana, swirling within him, answering his call. It was intoxicating, terrifying, and glorious.
He looked at his hands, now crackling with raw, hot pink energy. A fierce, triumphant grin spread across his face.
The journey of a Zero was over. The rise of the 29th Candidate had begun.
End of Chapter 1