The sky cracked.
It did not shatter with thunder, nor scream with flame. It simply... split — as if reality itself had forgotten its place.
From the rift poured shadows too ancient for names, too vast for stars. Mountains wept and oceans boiled, but none could stop what followed.
And at the heart of it — five stood alone.
Clad in tattered legends and faceless masks, they did not kneel. Elf, dragon, demon, dwarf, beast... each bore the weight of a dying world in silence. And in their arms, wrapped in scorched cloth, was a child whose eyes had not yet opened.
He did not cry.
He simply stared — as if even newborn, he had already remembered.
The five did not speak of fate, prophecy, or destiny.
They only said this:
"If he awakens... the world will burn again."
"Seal him. Hide him where no god dares peer."
"And may he never recall who he truly is."
Centuries passed.
Empires rose and crumbled. Towers were climbed and fell. Heroes became myths, and myths became dust. But the boy — now twelve — rode quietly in the back of a creaking merchant cart, staring at a letter sealed in golden wax.
His name was Lucen Rythe.
He had no family, no past, no origin — only fading dreams of battles he never fought, weapons he never wielded, and voices he should not remember.
Last night, he dreamed again.
Five masks.
A broken world.
A voice, calling to him from beyond the stars:
"Sovereign… wake."
He blinked.
The academy gates loomed before him.
And something inside his chest — long sealed and silent — began to stir.