A millennium ago, a tempest of catastrophic proportions devoured the vast expanse of the Empire. Torrents of crimson rain fell like the spilled blood of mortals, while violent gales tore through grand cities and towering monuments. Outside, screaming crowds ran blindly in search of shelter, terrified of a sky that bled open. Yet deep within the heart of the world's most formidable imperial palace, an eerie, suffocate silence reigned over the delivery chamber.
Upon the grand silk-draped bed lay the Empress, completely motionless. Her once-radiant gold hair was scattered across the pillows; her face was impossibly serene, as though caught in an eternal slumber. She had drawn her final breath moments after birthing her child. Restless and unmoving in her lifeless arms lay a newly born baby boy—a child who did not cry.
Near the foot of the bed stood the Emperor, his jaw set in a rigid line as his knuckles turned white against his sword's pommel. Kneeling beside the newborn, the chief physician reached out with trembling hands to examine the boy's tiny form. But as his fingertips grazed the child's chest, the old healer's face drained of all color.
"Your... Your Imperial Majesty..." the physician stammered, his voice choked with pure terror.
The Emperor turned his sharp, icy gaze toward him. "What is it?"
The physician did not answer immediately. The child's heartbeat was dangerously faint. His physical frame possessed no strength, his Mana was virtually undetectable, and his very vitality was dwindling with every passing second—as though an unseen force inside his small body was consuming his life from the within.
Staring at the infant in utter horror, the physician breathed a single, cursed phrase:
"The Purge."
The Emperor froze. He knew that name all too well. It was an ancient, catastrophic affliction that appeared only once every few centuries. It had no cure, no counter-sorecery, and no salvation. Everyone who carried it was destined to lose all physical power and fade into absolute nothingness.
Yet what made this birth a harrowing nightmare was the child's identity. He was the son of the Sovereign of the entire continent. The Emperor refused to accept that his bloodline was tainted by a disease that even the heavens could not heal. His grief warped into absolute, blinding rage. He did not see a natural illness; he saw a divine curse.
Walking over, the Emperor gently brushed the hair of his fragile son. "Erebus..." he whispered, his tone dripping with malice as his eyes turned toward the storm-ridden skies. "Wait for me, my son. Your father will sever every single head of those arrogant gods."
He turned on his heel and strode out of the chamber with vengeful fury.
And thus, the Great War began.
For years, the world burned. Cities crumbled into ash, and neighboring kingdoms rallied under the Imperial banner. In response, the gods themselves descended from their heavenly thrones into the mortal realm. Humans forged forbidden anti-god weaponry and wielded world-shattering magic to strike at the heavens. For the first time in recorded history, humanity waged an all-out war against their creators—not out of an ambition to claim the divine thrones, but because a desperate father believed the gods had cursed his child.
Yet, in the very heat of this apocalyptic conflict, there existed a place completely hidden from mortal eyes and divine perception alike.
It was a realm of absolute whiteness—a void devoid of floor, sky, or earth.
Standing in the center of this endless emptiness was the Celestial, the First Primordial God. He observed the cataclysmic war playing out across the mortal realm from afar. Floating above his palm was a small sphere composed of black and white energy, resembling a Yin-Yang motif, yet pulsing with something that looked suspiciously like liquid blood.
"They truly believe it is a disease," the Celestial murmured softly.
He slowly closed his hand, and the sphere dissolved into nothingness.
"Let them believe so."
His eyes flickered with ancient, unreadable wisdom as a chilling prophecy escaped his lips:
"When the Outer Gods descend... he will be the final answer."
Without another word, the Primordial Celestial vanished into the void, leaving behind an unanswered mystery as to who "he" truly was.
In normal circumstances, a newborn's loud cries should have filled the tragic delivery room. But there was only the metallic stench of blood, the heavy breathing of terrified healers, and the relentless pounding of rain against the grand stained-glass windows.
The Empress lay dead, her silver hair spilling like frozen silk. Beside the bed, another figure stood like an immovable mountain.
It was the Patriarch of the empire's greatest noble house—a man with long, snow-white hair falling over his shoulders. He was an individual who had never shown weakness to anyone in his entire life. Yet tonight, he had watched his wife perish.
"Your Grace..." a physician whispered faintly.
The Patriarch offered no reply. His gaze was fixed on the cold body of his wife.
The head healer carefully lifted the newborn wrapped in linen. Everyone braced themselves for a cry, but the infant merely opened his eyes. They were a pair of pitch-black irises, paired with hair as dark as the abyss—strikingly different from the white hair of the Patriarch and the silver hair of the deceased Empress. There was not a single trace of resemblance.
The physician frowned, checking the boy's frail limbs. "His body... it is impossibly weak," he reported, his hands shaking. "His vitality is almost nonexistent, his Mana channels are completely stagnant, and his physical constitution will never develop like that of an ordinary human."
The room fell into a heavy silence. The Patriarch stared down at the child. Black hair. Black eyes. Zero resemblance.
Then, his eyes shifted back to his wife's cold face.
"Cassian Esderva... a name created with deep love by my wife..."
Something inside the Patriarch shattered completely. His hands clenched into tight fists. "So..." he rasped, a dark chuckle escaping his throat. "My wife sacrificed her life... just to give birth to a creature like this?"
"WHY?!"
His roar shook the room, causing the physicians to flinch. In a flash of blinding rage, the Patriarch unsheathed his blade.
CLANG!
The sharp sound of steel echoed throughout the chamber. He leveled the cold tip of his sword directly at the silent, black-eyed baby.
"That child... is no son of mine," the Patriarch growled coldly. "My hair is white. His mother's was silver. Yet he is born with hair as black as night. He bears none of our blood!"
"Your Grace, please, calm yourself—" his assistant tried to intervene, but the suffocating pressure emanating from the Patriarch locked everyone in place.
"He is a bastard child," the Patriarch declared cruelly, stepping forward with his blade raised high. "There is no reason for him to draw another breath."
He swung the sword downward—
"Stop."
An authoritative, aged voice resonated from the doorway. An elder stood there, his hair completely white, his posture weathered by time yet his eyes as sharp as a forged blade.
"Lower your sword," the old man commanded softly.
"He killed my wife! He is weak, a bastard who bears no resemblance to my lineage!" the Patriarch snarled.
"He is an innocent child who killed no one," the grandfather replied firmly, stepping forward and taking the silent infant from the terrified physician's hands. He looked down at the newborn, catching a subtle, unexplainable glint in those pitch-black eyes. "If you cast him aside, then from this night forth, he shall be under my protection."
The Patriarch glared at his father in silence before bitterly sheathing his sword. "Fine. If you want him so badly, take him."
Without a shred of warmth, the Patriarch snatched the child back and recklessly threw the tiny body toward the old man. The grandfather caught the baby swiftly, pulling him close to his chest before he could hit the hard floor.
"From this moment on, I have no son," the Patriarch spat cold words, turning his back and walking away without looking back even once.
The grandfather sighed deeply, wrapping the child tightly in warm cloth as he looked into those calm, dark eyes. "Even if the entire world rejects you... I will raise you."
And yet, unbeknownst to anyone in that dark, tragedy-stricken room—deep beneath the infant's pale skin, something ancient and terrifying stirred.
It was faint, minuscule, and almost unnoticeable. Like a sleeping primordial power that had just opened its eyes for the very first time in thousands of years... The Purge had finally found its true vessel