A torrential rainstorm poured down on the lands of the Republic of Intis, as if the heavens themselves were weeping over the tragedy unfolding below. However, the thousands of drops of water falling from the night sky were incapable of extinguishing the blackish-red flames that were devouring the village of Verrières. In the year 1352 of the Fifth Age, just as a great being known as The Fool was entering a deep sleep above the gray mist, the balance of the supernatural world began to waver, and darkness seized the opportunity to creep out from the deepest corners of the universe. On this supposedly peaceful night, hell had descended upon the earth.
Marcel Bénet, a twenty-year-old who had previously led an ordinary life, now lay helpless beneath the rubble of his own home. The scorching heat and the thick stench of burning flesh choked his lungs every time he tried to breathe. Half of his body, from his chest down, was crushed by the massive, heavy wooden beams supporting the roof, trapping him in a torturous position. The excruciating pain, sharp and piercing to the very marrow of his bones, blurred his vision intermittently. A rib was undoubtedly broken, and warm blood continued to flow from his temple, dripping past his eye and blurring half of his vision with red.
However, the physical pain was nothing compared to the psychological torment he had to witness through a narrow gap between the charred remains of the wood. The center of the village square, once a place for children to play and neighbors to laugh, had now become a gruesome slaughterhouse.
The corpses of Verrières villagers were piled haphazardly, forming an altar of flesh and blood that exuded a thick aura of evil. Around the gruesome altar, dozens of dark-robed figures moved in a frenzied, erratic dance. They waved their arms in the air, tore at their own skin with rusted daggers, and chanted hymns in a foreign language that sent a ringing pain through the ears of anyone who heard them. The words sounded like the scraping of rusted metal and the whispers of millions of insects, penetrating directly into the mind and threatening sanity.
They were worshippers of the Mother Tree of Desire, a heretical sect belonging to the Outer Gods faction that exploited the weakening of the world's barrier to spread their deranged influence and bloody rituals. The trees surrounding the village square appeared mutated, their branches twisting like slimy tentacles, drinking blood from the ground.
Among the pile of corpses on the altar, Marcel saw a sight that made his heart stop. His father, a hardworking man who had always taught him logic and rationality, lay with his chest ripped open. His mother and young sister were thrown nearby, their bodies mutilated beyond recognition. The family he loved, his home, had been destroyed overnight by a madness he couldn't understand.
For most people, this scene would have sent them screaming hysterically, begging for mercy, or losing their minds entirely. However, Marcel's mind was structured differently. As a highly analytical and introverted person, the despair and grief that threatened to destroy his soul were slowly being suppressed by a cold survival instinct. His sharp mind refused to succumb to madness. Amidst the ravaging pain, his ash-colored eyes continued to observe, recording every detail of the killers. He noticed a strange tattoo of a bloody sword on the neck of one of the cult leaders, noted their posture, and stored the sound of their maniacal laughter in the deepest corners of his memory.
"Praise the Mother of Desire... Let this blood wash the world..." whispered one of the cultists in a hoarse voice that echoed unnaturally amid the roar of the fire, digging a dagger into his own arm in a disgusting expression of ecstasy. They weren't robbing; they were performing a mass sacrifice to a cruel cosmic entity.
Suddenly, the blood-red and black night was torn apart by a blinding golden light. A blast of holy light struck the eastern side of the village square like the sun falling to earth. Pillars of pure gold flame shot into the air, incinerating the cultists' dark robes and reducing the mutated tree tentacles to ash in seconds. The official Beyonder faction of the Church of the Eternal Blazing Sun, the dominant force in the Intis Republic, finally arrived on the scene to purge the heretical sect.
A high-level battle unfolded far away.
A force beyond human comprehension erupted. Explosions, sacred incantations, and demonic screams collided, creating a shockwave that tore apart the remains of the buildings in the village of Verrieres. Stone walls shattered, and the ground cracked open.
Amidst the chaos of this clash of supernatural forces, a low-ranking cultist from the Mother Tree of Desire sect was thrown into the air by the impact of a pillar of holy light. The cultist's body flew like a broken doll and crashed into the ruins of Marcel's house with a horrifying sound of breaking bones. The cultist died instantly on top of the pile of rubble that had fallen on Marcel, his black blood dripping through the gaps in the wood.
With the impact, something fell from beneath the cultist's robes. A small, cylindrical glass bottle, its end sealed with a wooden cork, rolled slowly across the slanted floorboards, through shattered glass and ash, finally coming to a stop right in front of Marcel's crushed face.
Marcel squinted his smoke-stung eyes to see what it was. Inside the glass bottle, a thick, deep red liquid was boiling and bubbling slowly, as if it possessed a life and will of its own. Occasionally, the red liquid formed illusory silhouettes resembling predatory eyes or small swirls of flame. It was clearly no ordinary blood or chemical; it exuded a mystical aura that was oppressive and dangerous.
The young man knew nothing of the world of mysticism. He was completely unaware of the Law of Conservation of Beyonder Characteristics, unaware of the risks of losing control, and unaware that consuming a magical potion without the proper ingredients or sedative ritual was a suicidal act that would almost certainly lead to insanity or a horrific mutation.
However, Marcel's logic at that moment was both simple and brutal. His breath was becoming shallow from the weight of the wooden beam pressing on his lungs. The flames from the neighboring house were creeping up and licking the tips of his shoes, slowly but surely burning him alive. His bones were shattered, and he had no muscle strength left to lift the debris. He had only two choices: stay here and die to ashes alongside his family, or risk the slightest risk of this anomaly before him.
For Marcel Bénet, dying helpless and without resistance was an unforgivable sin. If he had to die, he refused to die today. At least, not before he made those who destroyed his world pay with their lives.
With great effort, ignoring the pain that turned his vision white, Marcel moved his bloodied right hand. His trembling, scarred fingers crawled across the ash-strewn ground, finally grasping the cold glass bottle. The red liquid inside seemed to react to his body heat, boiling ever more fiercely.
Marcel pulled the bottle close to his mouth. He used his teeth to remove the cork, then without a second's hesitation, downed the entire, dark red liquid to the last drop, swallowing the potion from the cultist's corpse.
Burn me, his heart was filled with frozen vengeance. Burn me now, so that one day I can burn them all.
In the next instant, hell descended upon his body. The sensation of explosive molten magma ripped through his throat, rushing down his stomach, and spreading throughout his veins like thousands of fiery needles being stabbed simultaneously. Marcel let out a hoarse scream, caught in his throat as his muscles felt like they were being ripped apart, crushed, and stitched back together by an invisible force. His body temperature soared, causing any raindrops that touched his skin to instantly evaporate into a hiss of steam.
The veins on his face and neck bulged, turning a deep, blackish red. His eyes widened, their ash-cold pupils slowly beginning to glow a dangerous red. Amidst the pain that threatened to rob him of his sanity and humanity, an ancient and mystical, instinctive knowledge was forcibly etched into his brain. The potion that had fused with his soul gave him a new identity.
Along with that identity, the world around Marcel changed drastically. His senses exploded beyond the limits of mortals. The smell of smoke, the scent of cheap tobacco from the corpses above him, the stench of blood from the plaza, and the ozone from the Inquisitors' magic suddenly became crystal clear and distinct in his nostrils. His ears could pick up the muddy footsteps of enemies from dozens of meters away, distinguishing between panicked steps and those filled with murderous intent.
The wounds on his body weren't entirely smooth. But his pain tolerance had increased dramatically. His previously thin muscles were now filled with dense, efficient fibers of strength like a leopard's. This newfound strength flowed freely, energizing his previously paralyzed limbs.
With his jaw clenched and his eyes filled with terrifying determination, Marcel pressed both palms against the massive wooden beam resting on his chest. He pushed upward with a low groan. The thick oak beam, once impossible for even three grown men to move, lifted and slid with the creaking sound of splintering wood.
The young man crawled out of his own fiery grave. His body was splattered with soot, mud, and dried blood. His clothes were torn in various places, but he stood upright. The storm rain pelted his face, cooling his body temperature, still unstable from the potion's mutation. As he looked around, the flash of fire from the ruins triggered a slight tremor in his hands—a pyrophobia, a subconscious fear of fire from his past trauma, was taking hold. However, he forced his rationality to suppress it.
Marcel gazed out at the village square, now a battlefield between the golden-glow Inquisitors and the remnants of the heretical cult's monsters. The Hunter's instincts stirred within him for a moment, urging him to leap into battle, to hunt down his prey and tear them to pieces in a wild rage. The blood in his veins demanded war.
However, Marcel's analytical personality took over. He assessed the situation coldly. Official Beyonders of the Church possessed powers capable of leveling buildings with a wave of their hands. If he approached now, distraught and emanating the aura of the potion he had just illegally consumed, he would be considered nothing more than a monster to be exterminated. The prey before him was too great, and he was now only a novice hunter who didn't even know how to use his weapons. A foolish hunt would only lead to death. This revenge wouldn't be resolved overnight. He needed information. He needed control. He needed greater power.
With a very calm movement, as if numb to the world, Marcel lowered his head toward the corpse of the cultist who had given him the potion. He grabbed a dark hunting hat typical of the Republic of Intis from the corpse. He donned it, pulling the brim down to partially hide his face and his eyes, which now radiated a deadly predatory aura. The faint scent of ash and rusted iron now clung to his body.
He turned, facing away from the ruined village of Verrieres, his family's corpses slowly being swallowed by fire and debris, and silently stepped into the shadows of the dense forest trees. His goal was now single: to make his way to the nation's largest metropolis. With his newfound abilities, he fled to Trier for survival, hiding within the city's maze of sewers and dark alleys, where he would learn the laws of the jungle of the mystical world and begin his hunting conspiracy.
Under the gloomy and merciless skies of the Fifth Age, an anomaly had just emerged from the ashes of destruction. The aspiring Red Priestess' dance of conspiracy, blood, and iron had just begun.