In the beginning, there was nothing, and from nothing, there was magic, and from magic, there was the world.
- Tome ofEvermore, Book I, Chapter I
*****
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In the depths of the Shattered Lands, abandoned and lifeless, a field of perfect white snow stretched in all directions, larger than human comprehension, reaching towards and far over the twilight horizon. The sun was blinding, its golden rays brilliantly radiant against the endless ice, and despite the lustre of the star's gaze, there was no warmth; only the soul-chilling nip of the frigid wind.
They remained a place of ruin, unfit for even the the most corrupted of magical beings. They were an ancient battlefield of the old 'gods'; tainted with the raw essence of nature itself by a devastating war between the Thaumata, the eleven miraculous heroes of the human race, the only of their kind to break through the limit of magic potential to grasp Stage 10 magic, and the Rathak; the price that the universe had paid for the glorious gift of magic.
A place of mourning, where the strongest undertook their final pilgrimage, embracing the solitude of the mystical place.
The Shattered Lands were a dead place. A prison. Floating in deep space, near the outer edges of the universe, alone forever, and unreachable to all but a few.
Yet in the middle of the infinite snowscape, staining the age-old white, lay the corpse of a child, gruesomely torn like a broken puppet.
The world was silent. Even the wind hid its whispers away, and the sun, abandoned by the clouds, slowly sank beneath the horizon, delicately painting the sky in beautiful shades of red and purple, before falling to the slumber of the night.
There were no owls to welcome the moon, no flowers to close their petals at the departure of the light, no people to stare fondly at the starless sky.
There was only the twitching hand of the child's bloody corpse, gasping hoarsely at the touch of the moonlight, splashing out of the puddle of blood-stained snow, drawing in the delicious, icy air of the wintry night.
Bones cracked, and flesh tore as the boy rose from the ground, rupturing the unhealing wounds across his battered body, dried crimson cracking off his chestnut skin in large flakes, falling onto the snow like the dark petals of some grisly flower. His shoulders were marred with long claw marks, stretching along his bare arms, and savage bite marks ravaged his torso, tearing through his ruined shirt, revealing white bone in patches near his ribs. His legs were similarly damaged, the left twisted at a sickening angle at the ankle, and the right shredded, covered with pink flesh like trampled meat.
And his face, once youthful and innocent, joyful and curious, thin and bright, was now scarred with gory scratches up from his jaw, along and through his cheekbones, skull peeking through the red, and through his left eye.
Despite the child's terrible injuries, he stood to his feet, swaying unsteadily, and stared upwards to the starless sky, his one hazel eye glimmering with a tear, speckled in moonlight, and exhaled with an indescribable sadness, gut-wrenching and tragic.
"I am alive," he coughed, flecks of blood spattering from his lips, the words falling mechanically from bruised lips, emotionless and eerie.
'Again.' he thought, his mind sluggish, and his body unbearably heavy.
"I am alive," he spat, dried blood spluttering from his mouth, forcefully injecting hatred into his wavering voice. Swaying suddenly, black spots clouding his vision, he felt himself drift away, back into the embrace of the cold and the dead, his life fading slowly away into the bloody snow...
"I AM ALIVE!" he roared, stamping his foot with a sickening crack, bracing his body, falling like a leaf, and then he screamed at the sky, bestial and rabid, yet he revelled, his heart burning, in his life, and in the feeling of existence.
In the Shattered Lands, the home of the dead and the mighty, the corpse of a weakling rose from the dead, and stepped back into the world of the living.
***
[Avuna 'Old Town', Nethel. TERRA YEAR: 109502.]
"If the world is like a prison, and you're feeling dead inside..."
"If the world for you is over, then there's no more need to hide..."
"For when your days are over, come embrace the night..."
"Just find me on the other side..."
The faint sounds of drumbeats and singing tinnily seeped out of the gaps in a discarded pair of headphones, lying abandoned on a smooth wooden floor, playing one of the popular songs in the system at the time from the famous deepmetal bands, New Ender. Next to them sat a deflated grey air-mat, depressed and sunken, entirely failing to support the weight of a long-limbed boy, dark-skinned and curly-haired, who wore a ratty T-shirt sporting the skull-serpent logo of the famous band, faded black jeans and a pair of clunky plastic spectacles perched precariously on a long nose. A faint scar ran up his jaw, stretching along his cheek and piercing through his left eye, the hazel iris clouded over with the grey of blindness.
The other eye, vibrant and brown, leisurely scanned the contents of a thick leatherbound book, plated with metal along the spine, with a bone-chilling image of a skull carved in jet-black liquid metal emblazoned on the front cover. There were no recognisable letters within the ancient-looking book, its pages tattered and grey-green with rot and age, but rather twisting runes, elusive in sight and meaning, in dense rows and columns, crammed tightly into each rectangle of paper in elegant cursive.
Without warning, Torna snapped the book shut, and raised his free hand towards the ceiling of his flat, fingers splayed, and closed his eyes tightly, focusing on the flow of energy through his magic channels, and guiding magic along the vessels of his body until it gathered at the tips of his fingers, blurring and glowing with soft grey light before his unseeing eyes.
"As'vandha. The bard forsaken; new moon's gaze."
The ancient tongue hummed from his lips in mellifluous layers of sound, sending a warm feeling rushing from his heart to his feet and fingertips, and as heat began to grow on his fingers, tingling with increasing discomfort, he exhaled deeply, letting the power pour freely from his body and into the world, expressing his intent gently upon his surroundings.
[Spell 'Mindscape' has been successfully activated.]
[Congratulations, Torna!]
[Advancement: 'static' -> 'awakened' authorised.]
[Please visit the nearest academy for your trial.]
The boy's eyes remained tightly shut, hand raised to the unseen sky, and remained completely still, expect for the brief flicker of a triumphant grin.
A rush of euphoria filled the boy as magic rushed to replenish his depleted reserves, warming his limbs as the power flowed through his magic channels, seeping into his body and strengthening it slightly.
Torna felt himself grow physically stronger, more mentally acute, more attuned to the world around him, and most importantly, his intuition to magic manipulation became sharper.
Waving his fingers deftly, he sent a pulse of pure power through his body, opening his eyes as tendrils of light flowed from his fingertips, weaving through his hands, and cloaking them with blurry grey light like gauntlets. Unable to control himself, he smiled widely, and then he laughed, manically and joyfully with increasing volume, tears welling up from his one good eye, spilling down his cheeks uncontrollably until he was curled up, doubled over and shaking with hacking sobs, his face gleeful and melancholic, almost choking on the confusion of his mind.
Love and hate, joy and fear, power and weakness, confidence and self-loathing all bubbled up simultaneously as Torna released his magic, shattering the luminous grey gauntlet into fading fragments.
"I'm a mage...a mage...a mage...!" he gasped, adrenaline pumping through his head with deafening thuds, gulping down deep breaths amidst the sobs.
Memories of the ice, and of the lonely snowscape, and the flashes of blood-stained terror all flickered like a film reel in his mind's eye, and as he remembered his trauma, and both the physical and mental scars twinged with the pain of reminiscence, Torna steeled himself, quelling the flood of emotion, and dragging his arm across his face, sweeping off the mess of tears and snot, shakily exhaling, and calmed his raging mind in an instant.
Rising from the mattress slowly, he picked up the ancient tome, slotting it onto a magnetic holster pinned to his belt, and strode towards the door.
Would it be suicidal for him to take his advancement trial?
Certainly.
Could he die?
Almost certainly.
But would he die?
"That's what we'll find out, I guess!" Torna laughed brightly, white teeth flashing, and his eyes gleamed with mischief and determination.
"It's time for me to become an awakened!"
***
Far away from Nethel, in a barren system, on the broken moon of a dead planet, airless and empty, a robed man sat on an opulent throne, studded with gems and plated with silver. Only the deep green light glowing in his irises pierced the cover of his flowing garments, and a regal sceptre was clasped tightly within his right hand, pulsing intermittently with the same magical light projecting from his eyes.
He sat unmoving, like a godly statue, mystical and captivating, for an unknown length of time, before he shifted suddenly, his head turning slightly to the left, observing something unseeable in the distance, and slowly whispered something inaudible, lost to the vacuum of space. The light in his eyes dimmed for a moment, and the magical light surrounding him rumbled ominously, disrupting the unchanging environment of the lost planet.
On the back of his throne, a silver-plated plaque, caked thickly in dust, was suddenly blown clean by a sudden gale, and a series of maddening, contorted runes were revealed, etched raggedly into the metal.
It read:
"Avidair, Reforged Pantheon of Time."