The world had once been a tapestry of magic and machinery, woven so tightly that one could not exist without the other. The Sorcery System—a cosmic lattice of power, invisible yet omnipresent—granted the elite the keys to reality itself. Mages summoned storms with a flick of the wrist, their incantations pulling threads from the ether to reshape the elements. Engineers fused ancient runes into gleaming steel, birthing cities that defied gravity, their spires twisting upward like living vines. Rivers of ethereal energy pulsed beneath bustling streets, illuminating those towering structures that pierced the heavens, casting long shadows over the masses below. Humanity worshipped these gifts, building empires on the backs of the awakened—those blessed few who could tap into the System's boundless mana. Temples rose in honor of the first awakeners, rituals performed daily to maintain the fragile balance between sorcery and science.
But where light flourished, darkness festered. Anti-sorcery viruses erupted like plagues from the void—raw, chaotic forces unbound by the System, thriving on domination and decay. These curses weren't mere anomalies; they were sentient storms of malice, corrupting mana streams and twisting technology into grotesque parodies of itself. Machines would rebel against their creators, runes exploding in bursts of uncontrolled power that leveled districts. Whispers spoke of entire bloodlines wiped out by these viral entities, their essences absorbed to fuel the growing shadows.
At their apex loomed Morvethis Ravok, the King of Curses.
Dubbed the Devil's Curse, his might eclipsed nations. Mountains pulverized to dust at his gaze, reduced to swirling clouds of debris that choked the skies. Oceans surged into tsunamis of boiling fury, swallowing fleets whole and salting the earth with their remnants. Empires crumbled under his shadow, their heroes reduced to ash, their legacies erased in fits of unholy laughter. Ravok wasn't just a curse; he was a cataclysm incarnate, a being who had merged with the void, drawing power from the fractures in the Sorcery System itself.
Yet humanity rebelled. A grand alliance forged every scrap of sorcery and tech into a weapon of defiance—artifacts of pure mana-forged alloy, spells woven with quantum precision. The cataclysmic clash rent the skies, shattered continents into archipelagoes of ruin, and churned seas into maelstroms of light and void. Armies clashed in fields where reality warped, soldiers aging decades in seconds or reverting to infancy amid temporal rifts. The final battle lasted seven days and nights, the air thick with the screams of the dying and the hum of overloading runes.
In the end, Ravok fell.
But as his form disintegrated into wisps of black ether, his eyes—pools of eternal malice—locked onto the victors. "I will return," he rasped, voice echoing through the ether like a death knell, imprinting itself on the souls of all who heard. "And the world shall kneel before my wrath."
Legends whispered he lingered still, a spectral predator biding time in the shadows, awaiting the fracture that would unleash him anew. Some claimed his essence fragmented into lesser curses, hiding in artifacts or bloodlines, waiting for a host weak enough—or desperate enough—to invite him in.
The classroom fell into a hush as the teacher snapped the ancient tome shut, its leather binding cracking like thunder in the vaulted hall. Dust particles swirled in the air, caught in the soft glow of floating orbs that mimicked sunlight filtering through stained-glass windows depicting heroic awakeners.
"That's the legend," he intoned, his gaze piercing the rows of wide-eyed students, each seated at desks etched with protective glyphs to prevent accidental mana surges. "The bedrock of our history. The world as we inherit it."
He paused, letting the weight sink in like mana settling into stone, his robes shifting with a faint rustle that amplified in the silence. The room smelled of aged paper and faint ozone, a reminder of the spells that preserved these halls.
"Our realm brims with wonders—magic that bends fate, tech that conquers stars. Yet buried deep are secrets that could unravel it all. Forces of cataclysmic power... waiting to awaken."
The book thudded onto his desk, dust motes dancing in the rune-lit air. A sly, knowing smile creased his weathered face, lines etched from years of delving into forbidden archives.
"Questions?"
Silence reigned. Every child had been force-fed this tale from the cradle—drilled into their souls like a glyph etched in bone. It was more than history; it was doctrine, a cautionary epic recited at festivals and bedtime alike.
Then Baron's hand shot up, tentative but firm. "Sir... if the Devil's Curse was vanquished eons ago, why do we still sense echoes of his power? In the storms, the glitches in the System?"
The teacher's eyes sparkled with approval, his bushy eyebrows rising like arches of triumph. "Ah, a mind that probes the depths. History isn't mere ink on pages—it's the pulse of now, a warning of shadows that never truly fade. Those echoes? Remnants of his viral essence, perhaps. Or harbingers of something new stirring in the void."
Kael slumped forward, forehead thumping against his desk with a muffled thud. Boring. Pointless. He'd memorized that drivel years ago, regurgitating it in exams with mechanical precision. What good were legends when the real world kicked you in the teeth? His mind wandered to the streets below, where unawakened like him scraped by in the shadows of the elite.
Baron elbowed him as the bell chimed, a melodic cascade of crystal notes echoing through the corridors. "Not bad, right? He actually smiled at me."
Kael groaned, hauling himself up, his uniform rumpled and tie askew—a deliberate rebellion against the pristine standards of Alerion Academy. "Whatever. I'm bouncing. Catch up at home."
Baron smirked, trailing him into the marble corridors veined with glowing runes that pulsed like veins carrying the city's lifeblood. Students streamed past, some levitating books with casual flicks, others chatting via telepathic links that excluded the unawakened. "You mock the System, but it's our legacy, Kael. Father's always saying—"
"Father says a lot," Kael cut in, voice laced with acid, his silver eyes flashing with barely contained frustration. Roderick Draven, Lord of the Second Circle, pillar of the elite—his words were law in their household, but to Kael, they were chains forged from expectation and disappointment.
Brotherly banter flowed like always—Kael jabbing at the elite's hypocrisy, how the System favored bloodlines over merit, Baron defending the order that kept their world spinning, arguing that without it, chaos like Ravok would reign. Jabs turned to laughs, the rhythm familiar as their footsteps, a bond forged in shared blood despite their differences.
Outside, Alerion sprawled under twin moons, a metropolis of shimmering towers and floating isles connected by bridges of solidified light. Lanterns bobbed on invisible winds, casting ethereal glows that painted the streets in hues of sapphire and gold. Runes slithered across walls like living serpents, warding against curses and powering the city's endless hum. The air thrummed with ozone and raw mana— a symphony for the awakened, a taunt for those like Kael.
For Kael, it was a mocking whisper. At sixteen, unawakened in a city where toddlers conjured whirlwinds for play, he was a specter. Invisible. Useless. His peers soared on mana wings; he walked. They commanded elements; he relied on wits and fists. The Draven name opened doors, but his lack of power slammed them shut in his face.
"I'm out," he declared abruptly, silver eyes igniting with that wild spark that Baron both admired and feared.
Baron froze mid-step, his neatly combed hair catching the moonlight. "Out where?"
"Night Owl Race. Illegal. Lethal. My kind of fun." Kael's voice carried a thrill, a defiance against the suffocating order.
Baron's face paled, his golden glyphs flickering faintly on his fingertips—a subconscious defense. "Kael—Father'll flay us alive. Those races are for scum, not Dravens."
Kael straddled his bike—sleek matte black, no runes, no mana hum. Just raw combustion, a middle finger to the System, pieced together from scavenged parts in hidden garages. "Then stay invisible."
He thumbed the ignition. The engine roared to life, a guttural snarl that drowned the city's hum, vibrations shaking through his bones like a promise of freedom.
Baron hesitated, glancing back at the academy's glowing facade, then swung on behind with a resigned sigh. "If we crash and burn, I'm blaming you eternally."
Kael's grin flashed like lightning, feral and unrepentant. He twisted the throttle, and the bike surged forward, tires screeching defiance as they blurred from nobility's gleam into the underbelly's grit. The wind whipped through their hair, carrying scents of oil, smoke, and desperation—the raw pulse of Alerion's forgotten layers.
The starting line perched on a crumbling sky-bridge, two hundred meters above the slums' neon haze, where flickering holograms advertised illicit enhancements and curse-wards. Thirty bikes idled in a ragged line, engines belching azure flames that licked the night, mixing with the acrid tang of overcharged batteries. A holographic countdown pulsed in crimson: 10... 9... 8... The air crackled with tension, riders exchanging glares through visored helmets, bets murmured in the shadows.
Kael rolled his shoulders, adrenaline coiling like a spring in his gut. No sorcery crutches. Just skill, steel, and sheer spite. The crowd—bookies with glowing ledger implants, thrill-seekers in patched leather, underworld scum with curse-tattoos—had wagered stacks on whether the Draven reject would splatter tonight. Whispers rippled: "Kid's got guts, no spark. Won't last the Alley."
3... 2... 1...
GO.
The pack exploded forward, a thunder of revs and chaos, the bridge trembling under the assault.
First: Razor Alley—a gauntlet of jagged shipping crates fused into a narrow maw, gaps barely handlebar-wide, edges sharpened by years of collisions. Riders braked, weaving cautiously, sparks flying as metal scraped metal. Kael gunned it, body low, heart pounding in sync with the engine's roar. Sparks erupted in a fiery cascade as his armored shoulders kissed metal, the bike shuddering but holding. He burst out the end, claiming six spots, acrid smoke trailing like a victory banner, his breath ragged but triumphant.
Next: Spiral of Knives—a vertigo-inducing corkscrew ramp slick with iridescent mana-oil, edges gleaming like blades under the moons' light. The descent twisted stomachs, gravity pulling riders toward the abyss. A rival on a lightning-veined bike flanked him, arcs crackling toward his visor like hungry serpents. Kael downshifted hard, rear tire sliding in a controlled skid that sprayed oil like blood, the scent burning his nostrils. He snapped upright, rammed her tailpipe— she fishtailed wildly, slamming the rail in a burst of electric fury, her scream swallowed by the explosion that lit the night in blue-white flashes.
Then: Leap of Faith—a yawning forty-meter abyss where the ancient highway had crumbled to void, remnants of a long-forgotten curse-war. The ramp? Spell-warded planks, frayed and groaning under the weight of desperation. Riders ahead hesitated, but Kael hit it at 190 kph, the bike's frame groaning in protest.
Time dilated. The bike soared, city lights streaking into infinity below, a kaleidoscope of neon and shadow. Wind howled through vents, heart slamming like a war drum against his ribs. Three eternal seconds of freefall—then impact. Front wheel bit asphalt, rear slamming down with bone-jarring force, cracks spiderwebbing outward like fractures in the System itself. Behind, a miscalculation: a rider's wail cut short by a plummeting fireball, the explosion blooming like a deadly flower.
No glance back. Survival demanded forward. Kael's mind raced, calculating angles, speeds—pure instinct honed from countless secret runs.
Final: Neon Straight—two klicks of arrow-straight mag-lev, flanked by roaring thousands in makeshift stands, holograms amplifying their cheers. Four riders left. Kael, dead last, his bike smoking from the abuse.
He killed his lights, vanishing into shadow, the engine's growl muffled by a custom silencer. The leaders never sensed him—until his bumper tapped the front-runner's with surgical precision. Chaos erupted: bikes entangled, flipping in a maelstrom of sparks, screams, and twisted metal, debris scattering like shrapnel.
Kael threaded the wreckage, crossing first amid holographic fireworks and deafening cheers that shook the bridge. He skidded to a halt, chest heaving, the taste of victory metallic on his tongue.
Baron vaulted the barrier, slamming into him with a bear hug that nearly toppled them, his face flushed with relief and awe. "You lunatic! I died seven times watching that! That leap—gods, I thought you were done."
Kael yanked off his helmet, silver hair sweat-matted, grin feral as he wiped blood from a minor scrape. "Told you. Unstoppable. No magic, no problem."
The crowd parted like prey scenting a wolf, murmurs turning to wary silence.
Darian Korrin strode through, six-five of coiled menace, black coat rippling unnaturally, as if devouring light, shadows clinging to him like loyal hounds. No runes. No insignia. Just an aura that thickened the air, pressing like unseen chains, making breaths come harder.
He halted close, storm-gray eyes dissecting Kael's bike with clinical interest. "Impressive relic. No core. No glyphs. Pure defiance. How does a Draven pup end up with such a beast?"
Kael's hand rested casually on the tank, every nerve primed, senses heightened by the post-race high. "She wins. You here to gawk or grab? This circuit's mine now."
Darian's laugh slithered out, low and edged, echoing oddly in the night. "Bold words for a whelp claiming the circuit. Topsiders like you don't last down here."
Kael held his gaze, unyielding, silver eyes mirroring the moons. "It's mine. No vacancies. Walk away while you can."
Darian's smile turned razor-sharp, revealing teeth that seemed too perfect, too predatory. "Your name shines topside, boy. Down here? We bow to darker thrones. Curses, not kings."
Air grew leaden, the crowd edging back. Baron edged nearer, fingers flickering with golden glyphs, ready to unleash if needed.
Kael didn't budge. "Tell your shadows: touch my turf, my ride, my kin—and I'll haul them screaming into the sun. Magic be damned."
Tension hummed, taut as a bowstring, the air crackling with unspoken threats.
Then Darian barked a genuine laugh, clapping once with a sound like cracking bone. "Spine of fire. Rare in your kind." He leaned in, breath cold as the void. "Savor the throne, Draven. Falls come swift in the abyss."
He dissolved into the throng, leaving a chill in his wake.
Baron exhaled shakily, glyphs fading. "That's Darian Korrin. Runs the undercity syndicates. We gotta tell Father—"
"No," Kael snapped, steel in his tone, mounting the bike with a wince from lingering aches. "Our fight. He wants a war? He'll get one on my terms."
He revved the engine, ignoring the icy dread gnawing his core, the sense that eyes lingered in the shadows.
Shadows trailed them, unseen, as they weaved through back alleys toward home.
Ambush struck like lightning.
Sky-bridge empty one breath—then three obsidian vans screeched in from side streets, hemming them tight with precision born of practice. A sonic blast ripped the air, high-frequency waves that disrupted balance; the bike bucked wildly, flipping end-over-end in a blur of motion. Kael tumbled, shoulder grinding pavement, vision exploding in white-hot stars, the world spinning in disorienting chaos.
He surged up, helmet shattered, blood streaming from a gash above his eye, warm and sticky against his skin. The metallic taste filled his mouth as he spat.
Six assailants in tactical black, bone masks leering like skulls from ancient tombs. Darian emerged from the lead van, sleeves rolled, casual as death, his presence warping the air slightly, a subtle anti-sorcery field.
"Plans evolved," he purred, voice smooth as silk over a blade. "Your daddy's shield crumbles here. Lesson time for the unsparked prince."
Baron leaped forward, glyphs igniting like suns, golden light flaring around him. "Baron Draven, Second Circle—back off! This is elite territory!"
A lance of gold fire speared from his hand, hot and precise.
Darian flicked two fingers. It shattered mid-air, shards evaporating like mist, the backlash knocking Baron off-balance.
Baron's jaw dropped, eyes wide with shock. "How—anti-sorcery? That's forbidden tech!"
A casual backhand hurled him ten meters, crumpling against a post with a sickening thud, the impact echoing. He slumped, still, blood trickling from his temple.
Rage ignited in Kael—a inferno devouring doubt, fueling his limbs with raw fury. "Baron!"
He charged, raw and relentless, no plan, just vengeance.
First foe swung a rune-baton, humming with lethal charge that buzzed like angry wasps. Kael ducked low, drove upward—shoulder smashing ribs with a crack like breaking branches, the man gasping wetly. He hoisted the thug, slammed him into the van's side, denting steel with a resonant boom. Snatched the baton, whipped it across the mask: once, shattering ceramic in a spray of shards; twice, caving skull with a wet snap that turned Kael's stomach but didn't slow him.
Second lunged with a vibro-blade, edge whispering death, vibrating at frequencies to slice through armor. Kael parried bare-handed, blade slicing deep into his ribs—agony flared, blood hot and slick, soaking his shirt. He twisted inside the arc, elbow crushing the throat in a gargled crunch, the body dropping, twitching in final spasms.
Third grappled from behind, chokehold vise-tight, arms like iron bands. Kael dropped low, flipped him overhead—impact shook the bridge, the man's mask cracking on pavement. Boot stomped down: mask fractured further, blood sprayed in arcs, mixing with Kael's own.
Panting, ribs screaming with each breath, blood pooling at his feet in a dark puddle, Kael whirled, vision blurring from pain and blood loss.
Darian lounged, amused, untouched, his coat unstained. "That it? Three down, and you're already fading, pup."
Kael spat blood, crimson flecking his lips, stance wavering but defiant. "Come on, then. Finish it yourself, coward."
Darian sighed theatrically, cracking his knuckles. "Entertaining pup. Pity. But lessons must be taught."
He advanced. Gravity warped—tripled, quadrupled—crushing Kael downward like an invisible press. Pavement splintered under his knees; spine bowed like under a titan's fist. Breath came in ragged gasps, veins throbbing, black spots dancing in his vision.
Darian crouched, patting Kael's cheek with mock tenderness, his touch cold as ice. "No System spark, eh? Watching the world dance while you crawl... must devour you inside. All that potential, wasted."
Kael growled, muscles quivering, inching upward against the invisible anvil, willpower alone defying the force. Bones ground; sweat stung his eyes, mixing with blood. "You'll... regret this."
"I'll mail your father the scraps," Darian murmured, eyes gleaming with sadistic glee.
His boot lifted for the kill, time slowing as Kael braced for the end.
Silver radiance detonated the night, blinding and pure.
Draven guards swarmed from the gloom—ebony armor aglow with stellar runes, moving with disciplined fury. Spells lacerated the air: bolts of plasma searing flesh, chains of light binding limbs. The remaining enforcers vaporized in seconds, screams cut short by incinerating fury, the smell of charred meat hanging heavy.
Darian tsked, retreating into ether with a swirl of shadows. "