PROLOGUE — THE LEGEND OF THE GENESIS SIGIL
Let me tell you a story.
A long, long time ago—so long ago that historians have wars over how long ago it was—there was no such thing as "Irregulars." No one could breathe fire, command storms, punch through steel, or do anything more magical than stubbing their toe on a piece of furniture. (And people did that a lot back then. Apparently tables were out for revenge.)
The world was a boring, ordinary place… until something happened. And here's where every scholar, prophet, conspiracy theorist, and guy-who-reads-ancient-stone-tablets-for-fun will start screaming at each other.
Some say it was a comet.
Others say a god descended.
And one very creative theory claims a cosmic goose sneezed.
But whatever it was, it struck the world with a force so great that it etched a single symbol into a slab of dark stone. That stone became known as the Genesis Sigil—literally the origin point of every power that ever existed.
Everything changed the moment someone touched it.
No one really knows the name of the first person to do it. The ancient carvings are half missing, and the remaining ones look like they were made by a toddler with a rock—so scholars have gotten creative. Some translations call the first wielder the Primarch, others the Source, and one unverified tablet calls them "Gary," which we… don't talk about.
What we do know is that the Primarch became the first Irregular.
One touch gave them control over the forces of reality—fire, water, matter, life, and things far stranger. With a wave of their hand, mountains trembled. With a thought, storms changed direction. And with a single annoyed glare, they vaporized a castle (long story, bad neighbor).
So yeah. Big power upgrade.
But as power tends to do, it spiraled out of control. The world panicked. Some tried to worship the Primarch, others tried to destroy them, and a few opportunists tried to sell insurance policies, because apparently greed predates civilization.
Eventually, after wars, disasters, and enough dramatic betrayals to fund a dozen soap operas, the Primarch vanished—along with the Genesis Sigil.
Some say they hid it. Some say it was taken from them. Some say the Sigil gained a will of its own and slunk into the deepest part of the world, like a cat that knocks your cup off the table and then acts like you overreacted.
Centuries passed. New Irregulars began to appear—a trickle at first, then more. The power left behind by the touch of the Sigil echoed through bloodlines, legends, and maybe whatever counts as cosmic static. But the world never forgot:
The Genesis Sigil still exists.
Whoever holds it will command all Irregular abilities—their own, and everyone else's. They will become the new Primarch. The strongest being alive. Unstoppable.
And so, every pirate, tyrant, noble, and dreamer has the same nightmare—and the same fantasy:
What if someone finds it?
Rulers would kill for it.
Empires would fall for it.
And pirates? Well… pirates would start sailing in every direction at once just to be the first to get their grubby hands on it. (Organization has never been their thing.)
To this day, the seas whisper fragments of the prophecy:
Where oceans end and stars begin,
Where six thrones rise and seven fall,
Where power was born, it will return.
And on that day, the world will kneel…
or burn.
No one knows whether the prophecy is real.
But the legend?
The legend is real enough to make the world bleed for it.
And somewhere out there… across endless seas, impossible horizons, and dangers no sane person would ever seek out… the Genesis Sigil waits.
Patient.
Silent.
Watching.
Because destiny doesn't choose the strongest, or the smartest, or even the most prepared.
It chooses the ones reckless enough to chase it.