The ground trembled beneath his feet.
Ashes fell from the blood-red sky like snow, and the winds carried the scent of burning steel and dead gods.
In the distance, the capital of Arkanor was in flames.
Screams of soldiers echoed like broken drums, drowned in the thunder of magic spells and clashing blades.
> "This... is not a war."
"It's a cleansing."
Seventeen-year-old Kael Draven stood motionless, his obsidian armor cracked, his blade—Graveborn—dripping with a mixture of blood and black mist.
His golden eyes weren't afraid.
They were empty.
---
He was the last of the Blood Rank.
A forgotten lineage. A cursed bloodline.
A mistake of the gods.
> "Why did you come back, Kael?"
"The prophecy died with your clan."
The words of the dead echoed in his mind. But Kael was not here for prophecy.
He was here for revenge.
---
As the enemy general—a towering beast wrapped in dragonbone armor—charged with a scream that cracked the air, Kael raised his sword with one hand and muttered:
> "Awaken."
The earth split.
Black lightning tore through the battlefield.
Time slowed.
Everything… stopped.
---
When the light faded, there was silence.
The enemy's army knelt, forced by an unseen pressure. The sky turned dark.
A red symbol glowed on Kael's chest — the Mark of Blood Rank — once thought extinct, now reborn in fire.
> "I'm not here to save this world."
"I'm here to bury it.