The wind howled like a dying god.
Above, two moons tangled in an eclipse, painting the sky with blood and silver. Below, in the heart of the Ruined Ascendant Spire, a boy stood alone, surrounded by the bones of the old world.
He was tall for his age—eighteen, though the weight in his eyes belonged to someone far older. His hair, long and midnight-black, danced wildly in the wind. His robes were torn, his body bruised, but his stance... unshaken.
A shattered altar lay before him, carved with runes long erased by time. Here, centuries ago, the Ashborne clan defied the heavens—and were burned from history.
Now only one remained.
Zairo.
He knelt, touching the scorched stone, fingertips trembling—not from fear, but from memory. The echo of screams, fire, betrayal… it still lived beneath his skin. He had come to this place not for answers, but for something deeper.
Proof that he was not wrong to want revenge.
A low chime resonated beneath the earth.
Zairo's amber eyes narrowed.
The runes flickered. Not with light, but with soul pulse—a rhythm that danced with his heartbeat. The legends were true then. The Soul Veins still lingered here. Hidden beneath rubble and ruin, waiting for one who could hear their cry.
"The world forgets," he whispered, "but the ashes remember."
He drew a blade from his back. Not a sword of steel—but a sleek, jagged weapon of lost-tech origin, its edge humming with dormant circuits and spirit-engraved glyphs. It had belonged to his father. He'd never used it. Until now.
"You wanted to live forever, didn't you, old man?" he muttered. "Then watch me. From wherever Heaven buried you."
He stabbed the blade into the altar. The spire groaned like a creature waking from a long sleep.
Cracks spiderwebbed beneath his feet. From the altar, a shockwave pulsed outward—not physical, but spiritual, as if something inside the world had blinked open for the first time in ages.
Then it spoke.
Not in voice, but in vision.
A flash—cities in the clouds, gods falling like broken statues, chains of light binding the sky itself, and a woman… eyes closed, floating, glowing with stars.
Zairo gasped, staggering backward.
"Her…"
He had seen her before—in a dream, a memory not his own. A girl surrounded by death, hunted by gods, yet untouched. A secret even Heaven feared.
And now… he knew she was real.
The Soul Veins had shown him his path.
Not cultivation for strength.
Not for power.
But for protection. For her. For justice. For vengeance.
A whisper echoed across the shattered hall.
"Break fate... or be broken by it."
Zairo rose, fire burning behind his eyes.
"Then fate," he growled, "can burn."
Above him, the twin moons parted.
Below him, the Soul Veins lit the path forward.
Behind him, the past was ash.
Ahead... was war.