"Hand it over!, You demon you do not deserve it. You will rot in hell"
"Give us the artifact, Asher!, we will kill you and spread righteousness over the continent. Your end will make this world a better place"
"That thing belongs to the world, not a monster like you!"
Dozens of voices rang out, loud and venomous, echoing across the scorched battlefield.
A circle of robed figures surrounded a lone man. Blood dyed the soil around him red. Cracked earth stretched as far as the eye could see, littered with broken weapons, shattered bones, and the mangled corpses of magi—some still smoldering, their flesh burnt black by cursed flames.
Asher stood at the center, hunched, breathing hard. His once-black robes were torn, burnt at the edges, stained with blood that wasn't his.
His gray eyes flicked over the crowd that boxed him in. More than fifty spellcasters, blades drawn, staffs raised, elemental energy humming in the air.
And every single one of them wanted him dead.
Or more precisely… wanted what he held.
His fingers tightened around the glowing crystal artifact in his hand. Dark veins of crimson pulsed through its core like a beating heart.
The Bloodroot Lotus Core.
An artifact refined with the lives of thousands.
A forbidden creation that could twist mana, bend spells, corrupt even divine light.
Asher smiled, just barely.
It wasn't joy.
It was defiance.
"You all came for this, didn't you?" he rasped, his voice dry and cold. "I see the Sacred Order is still as greedy as ever."
"You dare mock us, butcher!?" a man in gold-trimmed armor shouted. His white cloak fluttered in the wind, marked by the sun-shaped crest of the Sacred Order—rulers of the so-called "Pureblood Alliance."
"You're surrounded," said a woman beside him, clad in robes of flowing silver and blue. "You will not leave this place alive."
Asher chuckled weakly, wiping blood from the corner of his lips. "I never planned to."
The wind howled through the dead trees behind him. Smoke curled from a shattered tower in the distance. The battlefield was the remains of a forgotten city—a city whose name had been erased, just like its people.
He had used them all.
Slaughtered every last one to forge the artifact now pulsing in his hand.
And he had no regrets.
"You think you're righteous," Asher whispered. "But you're no better than me. At least I never lied about who I was."
"You're a plague on this world!" the golden-armored man roared. "A disgrace to the name of magi!"
Asher's smile widened.
"Good," he said. "I was never a part of your world."
He could feel it now. His body failing. Mana leaking through his skin like spilled wine. The artifact had taken too much. The battles before this one had taken even more.
He had maybe a minute.
Maybe less.
Still, no one dared to step forward.
Not yet.
Because Asher Greaves was a magus of the Umbral Court—the faction feared across continents. His clan had raised him to kill before he could read. Taught him to curse before he could write.
The Sacred Order called themselves righteous.
Asher called them liars in white robes.
And now they wanted his creation.
They wanted the Bloodroot Core.
Asher glanced down at the artifact again. It pulsed, as if sensing his thoughts.
It had cost him everything—his sanity, his soul, even his past.
But now… it was over.
The circle around him began to close in.
Fifty feet.
Forty.
A wall of power and judgment, step by step.
And still, none dared attack first.
He was dying, but even a dying beast could kill.
So they waited. Cowards in silk.
"I'm not giving it to you," Asher said quietly.
The crowd stopped.
Someone shouted. A blade of light shot toward him. Asher raised his hand, and a wall of black fire erupted from the ground, devouring the light in seconds.
It took everything out of him.
His knees buckled.
His vision blurred.
But he was still smiling.
"You're going to die for nothing!" someone screamed.
"No," Asher said, falling to one knee.
A drop of blood trickled from his nose. His eyes dimmed. His hand still clutched the artifact tightly.
"I've already lived for nothing."
The crowd surged forward.
Dozens of spells lit up the sky—flames, bolts of ice, golden spears of holy light.
Asher didn't move.
He couldn't.
And then—
Silence.
Total, suffocating silence.
And darkness.
——
The pain was gone.
The fire was gone.
Even the sky was gone.
He floated in nothingness. No weight, no body.
Just a thought.
Just a whisper.
Is this death...?
He couldn't tell how long he stayed there.
Time didn't seem to move.
It just… existed.
And then—
A flicker.
Light.
A sudden yank, like a hook inside his chest, pulling him down, down, down—
And Asher gasped as his eyes flew open.
In the ancestral hall of the Greaves Clan, incense smoke drifted lazily through the air, curling around stone pillars carved with serpents and shadowed eyes. Candles burned low, casting flickering orange light across a circle of robed figures.
The elders had gathered.
At the far end of the hall stood a towering black statue—an ancient magus in battle armor, hands clasped around a twisted staff. The First Patriarch of the Greaves Clan. A reminder of their bloody roots and darker ambitions.
Elder Kellen Greaves, oldest among them, cleared his throat.
"Today," he said, voice gravelly yet firm, "another generation will awaken. Another step toward reclaiming what we've lost."
"The Umbral Court has grown silent," said Elder Vera, her silver eyes sharp beneath her hood. "Too many of our clans are stagnant. Weak. But the Greaves... we are still strong."
"Provided our young ones are not disappointments," muttered Elder Haron, ever the skeptic. "Half of last year's initiates couldn't even awaken proper affinity seeds."
"There is promise this year," Vera replied coolly. "Reid has shown remarkable talent in training. And Asher…"
She trailed off.
The other elders glanced at one another.
"Asher," Kellen said slowly. "He's… an odd one. Quiet. Detached."
"But clever," Vera added. "Too clever, perhaps."
Elder Haron frowned. "Clever doesn't win wars. Power does. I'd rather have a brute with fire than a thinker with wind."
"There is strength in still water," Kellen murmured, folding his hands before him. "Do not underestimate that boy."
Silence settled over the group again.
Then, one by one, the elders turned to face the statue. Each knelt, heads bowed.
"We pray to the First Shadow," Vera intoned. "To the one who carved the path in blood and carved deeper in silence."
"Grant our children strength," the elders echoed. "Grant our enemies fear."
"Let the Greaves rise again."
A gust of cold wind blew through the hall though the doors remained closed.
The candles flickered violently.
And though no one spoke of it… several elders felt it.
A stirring.
Faint.
Unseen.
As if something in the dark statue had… listened.
Kellen slowly rose to his feet. "If either of the Greaves boys awaken with rare affinities, our position in the Umbral Court will shift. And if both do…"
He let the thought hang in the air like a loaded spell.
More land.
More votes.
More say in the next Lord Magus appointment.
Elder Haron smirked. "The other clans won't like it."
"They never do," Vera said calmly. "But they will bow. In time."
Kellen nodded. "Then let the ceremony begin."
They turned and walked out one by one, their robes trailing across the cold stone floor, each step echoing with ambition.
Unaware that the boy they spoke of—the quiet, forgettable one—had already lived and died a life that would one day make the entire continent kneel.
The first rays of sunlight spilled through the narrow window, casting golden stripes across the cold stone floor of the room.
"Asher… young master Asher. It's morning."
A soft voice called out, followed by the creak of a wooden door opening. A young servant boy, barely older than twelve, stepped into the dimly lit chamber holding a tray of warm cloth and a small basin of water.
The figure curled up on the simple bed didn't move at first.
"Asher, the elders will scold me again if you're late," the boy said, with an awkward chuckle that didn't quite reach his eyes.
Then the figure stirred.
Asher's eyes fluttered open. They were sharp. Too sharp.
His gaze was far too calm for someone who had just escaped death.
Memories surged into his mind like a tide—flashes of blood, fire, curses, and betrayal.
And pain.
So much pain.
He slowly sat up, the blanket slipping off his lean frame.
Stone walls. Worn wooden furniture. The old pendant by the bedside. Familiar.
But everything felt… smaller.
His breath caught in his throat.
This room.
This view.
These frail arms.
"…I'm back."
The servant blinked, tilting his head. "Sir?"
Asher's fingers tightened into a fist beneath the sheet. His voice was hoarse, low, almost a whisper.
"How old am I right now?"
The boy gave him a strange look. "Sixteen, young master. It's a day before your awakening day, remember? All of us low-rank servants were praying for you since morning."
Asher exhaled, almost a laugh.
Sixteen.
So it had worked. He had really died. That cursed day, surrounded by enemies, his blood mixing with the very artifact he forged through a genocide… it had dragged him back.
Back to the day everything began.
His second life.
He turned toward the small mirror by the table, barely recognizing the younger face reflected in the tarnished glass.
No scars. No white streaks in his hair. Just a calm, unreadable expression and eyes that had already seen too much.
The servant, unsure of what to do, quietly placed the basin down.
"I'll… wait outside. The elders want everyone ready for the ceremony."
Asher gave a nod, eyes distant.
Once the door closed, silence returned.
He stood slowly, barefoot against the cold stone floor, and moved to the window.
Outside, the training field buzzed with life. Young clan members running drills. Instructors shouting commands. Smoke from breakfast fires curling into the sky.
So familiar. So… untouched.
This was before the betrayals.
Before he earned the title "Butcher of Sablemarch."
Before the Artifact of Dread had been completed with rivers of blood.
He ran a hand through his dark hair, lips curling into a cold, bitter smile.
"So this is mercy?" he whispered. "Or one last punishment?"
Either way, it didn't matter.
He was back.
And this time… he wouldn't be so merciful.