They say there was once a man who held them all. Every gift. Every Generation. Every origin of power.
He was the first, the source before the system. A vessel too full of life to be human, yet too human to be god.
But he did not keep it.
In every century, he gave away one part of himself.
First, he gave water — calm, rushing, still, or raging — it bent to their will.
Then, sand — summoned from thin air or commanded like a loyal beast.
Then, thunder — raw, crackling power that didn't just strike, but became the wielder.
Then, magma — fire beneath their feet, splitting earth with molten fury.
Then, fire — pure and wild, ignited by breath, skin, or thought.
Then, sound — where a whisper could deafen, and silence could kill.
Then, age — the mask of time, bending memories, youth, and identity.
Then, life and death — granting breath or stealing it, bringing back the fallen, if they dared.
And finally, time — unstable, fraying the past, present, and future like loose threads.
From his soul, the world was divided. And from his scar, the Generations took form.
And then... he vanished.
Some say he died. Others say he walks still, a ghost in the wind, watching the world unravel from what he once gave freely.
He watched as the Eighth Generation began to play god, ending lives, reviving them, and cutting down even the sick without reason.
He watched the rise of dungeons and the spread of the Vyraks, as Raikuro Tsukihana, wielder of three abilities, carved peace from the bonds of chaos.
And then... he chose again.
Not a king. Not a leader. Nor a warrior.
Just a boy.
Quiet. Withdrawn. Scarred.
And the Origin Scar appeared just after his birth deep across his back, where even mirrors couldn't reflect what was hidden. A mark of power that had been lost for centuries.
Only his family knows.
Even he doesn't ask.
But when the world begins to fall apart, when Generations clash and the balance collapses, they will remember the scar.
And the one who carries it will decide what remains.