Six months after the Abyss vanished in silence and blinding light, the world began to believe again.
Not in gods. Not in empires. But in a man named Kalem.
At first, it was whispered through shattered taverns and scarred temples. Then, written in ink across banners, letters, and coded missives. Kalem survived. Not only that—he ended it.
What followed was a frenzy. From scholars to spies, beggars to barons, everyone wanted the same thing: the truth.
And with truth, came theories:
Some said Kalem took the Abyss into himself, sealing it within as a living prison.
Others insisted he struck a bargain with the sealed beings, bound now to his will like chained titans.
One cult even proclaimed him as a Primal reborn, the ancient embodiment of creation through fire and metal.
But there was one truth no one could deny:
Kalem went down the Abyss.
Kalem killed it.
Kalem returned.
And he brought something back.
Whatever it was—power, knowledge, or madness—the world wanted it.
Ash Desert — Obsidian Castle
The black castle shimmered under the desert sun, surrounded not by silence, but commerce.
Merchant houses from every continent were camped in shaded caravans, flanked by guards, envoys, and talking scrolls. They jostled for an audience with the mysterious smith, their hands full of bribes dressed up as "diplomatic tokens."
But Nara, self-proclaimed mistress of the castle and one-time informant of Kalem, was losing her patience.
"Just how many times do I have to repeat myself?" she shouted at the latest envoy. "HE. DOESN'T. GIVE. A. DAMN."
The sweaty man adjusted his brocade robe, wilting under the heat. "Surely, with the right incentive—"
"He only crafts what he wants," Nara interrupted. "If you want something, give him a price and no instructions. That's the only way you get anything out of him."
"We... believe he will see reason."
"You don't know him," Nara snapped. "I do. The only thing that idiot cares about is crafting."
As the envoy retreated, defeated and sunburned, Nara leaned against the obsidian walls and watched the sun crawl westward.
One of her lieutenants, a lithe woman in desert armor, approached with a smirk. "Is this guy really as unbreakable as you say?"
Nara snorted. "The only way I see him tying himself to someone is through a love marriage. Which is like asking a Glass Serpent to eat grass."
Her expression turned sour. "It's his fault. Because of him, everyone and their mother is crawling through this desert to knock on my door."
Frozen North — Eversea Glaciers
At the other end of the world, frost howled against iron.
Isolde, daughter of the North and wielder of Frostmourn's legacy, stood tall on the frozen fields as twenty knights lay groaning in the snow.
"You are too slow," she declared, sheathing her blade. "I'm increasing the training time to ten hours a day."
One of the knights groaned. "With all due respect, my lady, you are way too powerful."
"I'm not even using frost magic," Isolde snapped. "Just swords and physical enhancements. Stop crying."
Daemos, her father, chuckled from the watchtower nearby. "Give them a break, daughter. They're not built like you."
"You made them soft," she accused.
He raised his brows. "Soft?"
"You gave them a two-hour break and suspended training because they complained."
Daemos coughed. "Ahem. Well, speaking of news—seems like a new 'Lord of War' will rise soon."
Isolde raised a brow. "Kalem?"
He nodded. "Rumors from the desert. He's active again."
She smirked. "Let's invite him to help with training. Back at the Academy, he worked so hard his social life died. Maybe he can whip these slackers into shape."
A chorus of voices behind her: "Nooooo!"
The Wilds — Hunter's Steppe
Across the open plains, Jhaeros stood tall in front of his tribe, his new mantle marking him the youngest chief hunter in living memory.
But the moment of his greatest pride was not the title.
It was the message he received before the ritual:
Kalem survived.
His childhood friend. The one who vanished into madness.
He came back.
"Looks like I'm not the only freak with a new title," Jhaeros grinned to himself.
Roaming — En Route
Garrick, former priest and wandering scholar, had not stopped walking since he heard the news. There were no letters. No sendings. Just a name whispered in the wind and written in the bones of his compass:
Kalem.
He didn't know if he was seeking truth, redemption, or just closure.
But his feet moved. Always toward the Ash.
The West — Alchemical Council
Golden domes gleamed under a stormy sky. Inside the Western Alchemical Council, battles were fought not with blades, but words.
At one end of the long council table sat Lyra Everwood, arms crossed, expression bored. Her silver uniform, perfect as ever, gave nothing away.
Beside her, Mathias Everwood, her father, sat impassively as council members erupted into another debate.
"He's a geopolitical variable of unprecedented scope!" cried one archivist. "If the rumors are true, Kalem wields destructive power comparable to the 'Lords of War'!"
"Which is exactly why we must approach him diplomatically," another said. "Lyra, you are uniquely positioned—"
"I'm not," Lyra replied coldly.
"Miss Everwood," the head of the merchant consortium cut in, "You test our patience. We allowed you a seat despite your failure in recruiting the 'Lord of Frost' and the 'Lord of Rage.'"
"If I had approached—" Lyra started.
"We've heard it all before," another grumbled. "The 'Lord of Rage' would've incinerated us. The 'Lord of Frost' refused a marriage alliance. What's your excuse this time?"
Lyra's eyes burned. "Kalem will fold you into a history book and shelve you like dust. He hates politics more than low-quality metal. Back in the Academy, he knew I was noble-born and kept his distance. What makes you think now would be any different?"
A tense silence.
"Everyone has a price," someone muttered.
Lyra laughed—short, sharp, dismissive.
The head scribe slammed a palm on the table. "Lord Mathias, if you will not restrain your daughter—"
"Lyra," Mathias finally said. "Enough."
She exhaled and stood. "Do you all remember the cauldron I brought from the east?"
"The 'Thousand-Potion'?" the scribe replied. "The very reason we secured trade dominance in the South? Yes, what of it?"
"It was made by Kalem," Lyra said.
The room fell silent.
She continued, calm and surgical. "He made it when he was still inexperienced. Now, do you still think he needs your money?"
A pause.
"…What about trade?" another ventured. "Like... at a fair price?"
"Oh, he's open to that," Lyra said with a smirk.
Mathias narrowed his eyes. "That doesn't make sense. Explain."
Lyra leaned forward, hands behind her back. "Because he doesn't need the deal. He just likes building things. If you come to him with something useful, he'll trade. Not because he wants your coin... but because he wants to see if your idea is worth forging."