Chapter 1: I Didn't Mean To Break The World
The air in the outer district of Last-Hope always tasted of soot and despair. Leander moved through the muddy streets with a quiet grace that seemed out of place, his grey eyes taking in the familiar scenes of slow decay. A mother shooing her children inside as the sun began to dip below the jagged ruins of the old city walls. The clang of the blacksmith forging yet another blade that would likely break against demon-hide. The pervasive, low hum of fear.
It was this hum that Leander felt most acutely. A constant pressure behind his eyes, a chill that no fire could warm. He was nineteen, but the elders often said he had the eyes of a man who had lived a dozen lifetimes. He didn't feel wise; he just felt… aware. Aware of the fragility of their existence, of the invisible walls that seemed to cage their very spirits.
"Leander! The ration bell rang ages ago!" called out Elpis, the baker's daughter, her face smudged with flour. She held out a small, hard loaf. "You'll starve yourself, staring off into nothing like that."
He offered a small smile, accepting the bread. "Just listening, Elpis."
"Listening to what? The wind? It always sounds like screaming out here," she shuddered.
"To something beneath it," he murmured, but she was already turning away, nervous of the growing shadows.
That was when the first bell tolled. Not the gentle ration bell, but the deep, brazen clang of the alarm from the watchtower. One. Two. Then a third, continuous, shrieking note that froze the blood in every vein.
**Breach.**
Panic erupted like a dropped vial of wildfire. The streets became a river of frantic bodies. Leander stood firm, his gaze locked on the eastern wall. The sky there was darkening, not with night, but with a swarming, living cloud of shadows. The Scavengers—lesser demons that moved in packs, all gnashing teeth and razor-sharp limbs.
"To the barricades!" Captain Vorlik roared, his voice cracking with terror he tried to mask. "For your lives!"
Leander saw Elpis frozen in place, her eyes wide with terror. He moved towards her, but a force like a physical blow slammed into his mind. It wasn't fear. It was worse. It was a profound, soul-crushing *despair*, a whispered promise that resistance was futile, that pain was the only truth.
*A Dream Weaver,* he realized, the knowledge surfacing in his mind from some deep, unknown well. This was how they fought—not just with claws, but by poisoning hope itself.
He saw soldiers drop their weapons, weeping. He saw a man turn and run, screaming, only to be set upon by the descending Scavengers.
This was it. This was the end of Last-Hope. The end of everything. The pressure in his head built to a blinding peak, the collective terror of a thousand souls screaming in silent unison inside his skull. He couldn't fight it. He couldn't save them with a sword. He was nothing.
*No.*
The word was not a thought, but a command. It erupted from the core of his being, a silent detonation of pure will.
The world *shattered*.
A wave of visible, golden light exploded outwards from him, passing through stone and flesh as if they weren't there. It didn't hurt. It felt… like a lock clicking open. A fundamental barrier, one he never knew existed, ruptured into a billion glittering fragments in its wake.
The wave hit Elpis first. She gasped, stumbling back. A Scavenger dropped from the roof above her, maw gaping. Instinctively, she threw up her hands—not to shield herself, but in a pushing motion. A torrent of searing orange flame erupted from her palms, engulfing the creature in a shrieking inferno.
She stared at her hands, horrified and amazed.
All around, the impossible happened.
The guard, Roric, moments from being overrun, roared, and a shield of solid light materialized before him, deflecting a demon's charge. A young boy, cowering in a corner, vanished and reappeared ten feet away. The blacksmith, hefting his hammer, found it wreathed in crackling lightning.
The tide of despair didn't just halt; it reversed. A new sound rose above the chaos—not screams of terror, but fierce, determined battle cries. Humanity was fighting back, not with cold steel, but with the fire of their own awakened souls.
Leander stood at the epicenter, breathing heavily. The pressure in his head was gone, replaced by a profound, echoing silence and a deep, resonant *knowing*. He looked at his own hands. They were trembling, but they felt no different.
But the world was. He had broken it. And from its cracks, power bled through.
As the newly empowered humans began to push the demons back, a figure detached itself from the deepest shadows of an alley. It was not a Scavenger. It was tall, elegant, and clad in armor that seemed to drink the light. Its eyes, pools of molten gold, were fixed solely on Leander.
It didn't attack. It simply watched. And then, it spoke, its voice a silken thread that cut through the cacophony and wormed directly into Leander's mind.
*"So,"* it whispered, a tone of chilling, almost pleased discovery. *"The Prophecy's little spark. The Catalyst is found. My master, Lord Deimos, will be most… interested."*
With a final, chilling smile, the figure—Pythios—dissolved back into the darkness, leaving Leander with a new kind of coldness settling in his gut.
The battle for Last-Hope was won. But his war, he knew with a certainty that shook his very soul, had just begun. He had shattered the world to save it. Now, he had to face what he had unleashed.