The sky over the Dragon Mountains didn't break; it hemorrhaged.
It began as a jagged violet bruise against the firmament of the Unclaimed North, a silent scream in the fabric of reality that the scholars would later christen The Tearing. It was not like the Conjunction of old, which merely shuffled beasts of flesh and blood across dimensions. This was a psychic rot. Where the violet light touched the tundra, the laws of nature curdled. Shadows detached themselves from their owners, and the wind carried the weeping of things that had never been born.
On the Continent, terror always translates into blood. In cities like Novigrad, the sight of the purple aurora triggered savage pogroms. Zealots of the Eternal Fire claimed non-humans had summoned the 'Dark' through forbidden rites. Meanwhile, the Brotherhood of Sorcerers felt Chaos grow 'heavy'—drawing it now felt like staring into an abyss that stared back.
Deep in the heart of the Nilfgaardian Empire, Emhyr var Emreis stood on a balcony overlooking the City of Golden Towers. He ignored the reports of failing crops and restless provinces. His eyes were fixed on a single scroll from Xarthisius, the Imperial Astrologer. The stars had shifted. A power was rising in the North that matched the frequency of the Imperial Bloodline—but it wasn't Ciri.
"Prepare the vanguard," Emhyr commanded. "We go North."
******
In a mud-caked village at the edge of the world, twelve-year-old Corvus looked up at the sky. He didn't see an omen or a god. He saw a User Interface.
In his previous life, a botched titration in a chemistry lab had ended him in a flash of white heat. In this one, he was the only person on the Continent who understood that the "Dark" wasn't a curse—it was a mechanic. While the villagers wailed and prayed to Melitele, Corvus watched a blue, translucent prompt flicker:
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[WORLD EVENT: THE TEARING]
[DARKNESS LEVEL: RISING]
[SANITY: 10/10 (LUCID)]
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"The reagents are all wrong," Corvus whispered, watching the violet mist creep toward the village gates. He reached into his satchel, pulling out a bundle of dried purple flowers and a vial of mineral oil he'd treated himself. His interface chimed, confirming the formula he remembered from Grim Quest.
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[CRAFTING UNLOCKED: SOMA]
[RECIPE: LAVENDER + CATALYST]
Effect: Restores +2 Sanity. Essential for surviving the Dark.
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He didn't have a laboratory, but he had Refined Chaos. By channeling the energy of the Continent through the "filter" of his chemistry knowledge, he bypassed the violent backlash that usually accompanied magic. He focused on the lavender, his mind balancing the molecular equation until the flower began to glow with a soft, stabilizing light.
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[SKILL POINT SPENT: GNOSIS (RANK 1)]
[PASSIVE UNLOCKED: +10% RESISTANCE TO ALL MAGIC TYPES]
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A low growl echoed from the village barn. Something was taking shape—a Manifestation born of the villagers' collective terror. Corvus gripped a rusted sickle, the UI highlighting the creature's weak points in a flickering red hue. As a transmigrator with the blood of the White Flame and the knowledge of a modern scientist, he wasn't afraid. He was calculating.
"Time for the first quest," he muttered.
******
The road to Temeria was no longer a path for merchants; it was a graveyard that had forgotten how to stay silent. As Corvus crossed the border, the violet haze of the Tearing clung to the ancient battlefields of the Pontar Valley.
The UI flickered red.
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[COMBAT INITIATED: WALKING SKELETONS x4]
[THREAT LEVEL: LOW]
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The creatures clattered out of the mist—bleached ribs and rusted mail held together by the oily, sentient magic of the Dark. To a local peasant, they were a death sentence. To Corvus, they were a test of his Arcane efficiency.
He didn't scream or pray. He calculated.
Reaching into the Chaos, he filtered out the volatile "noise" that caused backfires and visualized the molecular agitation of the air.
"[FIREBALL]," he whispered.
A sphere of superheated plasma streaked from his palm. It didn't just burn; it was a perfect combustion. The first skeleton vanished in a localized sun, its bones vaporized before they hit the dirt. As the others closed in, Corvus felt the familiar hum of his Gnosis dampening the stray magical radiation.
He raised a hand, weaving the thermal energy in reverse. "[ICE SHELL]."
A crystalline barrier of reinforced hoarfrost slammed into existence around him, shattering the rusted blade of a skeleton. With a sharp snap of his fingers, he triggered a static discharge. "[LIGHTNING]." A jagged bolt of white-blue energy arced between the remaining three, finding the conductive iron of their armor and shattering the dark magic holding them together.
The silence returned. Corvus didn't stop to catch his breath; his Refined Chaos left him fresh, untouched by the exhaustion that usually plagued sorcerers.
******
By evening, he reached White Orchard. The Woesong Bridge was quiet, and the local inn was crowded with refugees and weary travelers.
Corvus walked up to the bar, his small stature drawing curious glances. The innkeeper, Elsa, wiped a rag over the wood and looked down at him. "A bit young to be out alone, lad. You looking for a warm bed?"
"I need a barrel of Oaken Tea," Corvus said, his voice calm and unnervingly mature.
Elsa paused. She'd seen kids try to sneak ale before, so the request for tea made sense—it was safe, sober. But the quantity was madness. "A whole barrel? You planning on bathing in it, or is your whole village hiding in the woods?"
"I have a long journey," Corvus replied simply, sliding a handful of crowns across the table.
She shrugged, silver being silver, and rolled a small cask of the bitter, tannin-heavy tea to a corner table. Corvus didn't head for a room. Instead, he reached into his Spatial Pouch—a tear in dimensions he controlled through the interface—and pulled out a heavy iron cauldron and a shimmering vial of Catalyst.
The inn fell silent. Travelers leaned over their mugs, watching as the boy began to brew.
He poured the Oaken Tea into the pot, but he didn't light a fire. Instead, his hands glowed with a soft, controlled amber light. He was "balancing" the tannins of the oak with the magical properties of the catalyst, accelerating the reduction process until the liquid thickened into a dense, fragrant green resin.
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[CRAFTING SUCCESSFUL: OAKEN SALVE (BATCH x20)]
[EFFECT: PERMANENT +10 VITALITY / +1 PHYSICAL RESISTANCE]
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The smell of deep forest and ozone filled the inn. Corvus began scooping the salve into jars, ignoring the gaping stares of the patrons. He wasn't just making medicine; he was augmenting his stats. In a world of monsters and kings, he was the only one playing by the rules of the Grimoire.
"By the Prophet Lebioda," a mercenary whispered, crossing himself. "What is the boy doing? It smells like the very heart of the woods."
Corvus didn't look up. "Science," he muttered. "Or magic. Depends on how much you know about chemistry."