It has been over ten thousand years since the founding of the Corrit Clan.
Ten thousand years… and not once have we been chosen.
Not once have we produced a hero worthy of standing among the Derger Six.
Because of that, our name carries a stain—
The Fallen Clan.
Now, it's my turn.
If I fail, Corrit remains a joke whispered across the realms.
If I succeed… history will have to be rewritten.
Oh—right.
I should probably introduce myself.
Name's Ken.
And no, I won't tell you how this story ends just yet. Where's the fun in that?
Every hundred years, the Grand Avalin is held—a tournament that decides who will become the next guardians watching over the seal of Akarin, the Great Destruction.
Those chosen are called the Derger Six.
Sounds glorious, right?
Too bad my clan's power has been fading with every generation. Bad luck, weak mana, broken bloodline—people love their excuses. We've never even made it to the Grand Avalin semifinals.
My mother says it's punishment.
A price paid for a sacrifice made long ago.
As for what that sacrifice was…
That's a story for another time.
All you need to know is this: our founder was once a hero—and because of a choice he made, Corrit began to fall.
Until I was born.
They call me a prodigy.
A fluke.
A mistake.
I don't care what name they use.
With this power of mine, I'll silence every realm that's laughed at us.
And when I'm done, they'll never dare call Corrit "fallen" again.
Twenty years ago, the High Priest Uro delivered a prophecy—
one that was never finished.
He died before he could speak the final words.
"…Hey! Move it already!"
Tch.
Perfect timing.
The commentator's voice booms across the arena.
"Warriors from the Twenty-Four Supreme Realms, welcome to Nexus City!"
The crowd erupts.
"So—who among you will rise as the next watchers of the seal?"
I smile.
Guess that's my cue.