To the world, he was "defective." The quiet, empty-eyed, "Shattered" child of a dead maid.
His life was a 7-year, 24/7 war.
His entire consciousness was focused on one thing: holding his mind together. By age four, he'd managed to "etch" a microscopic, makeshift First Heart Circle. It was a flawed engine. It produced no power. Its only function was to run a constant, automated "mental cage" for his own mind: [NAS] + [ILI] (Stabilize/Dampen). It was the only thing keeping him sane.
He was seven now. A kind, older maid—his mother's friend—tucked him into his thin cot.
"Time for your favorite story, Aris," she said softly.
Aris winced internally. That name.It was the universe's cruelest joke. He'd never know why his mother had chosen it. Was it a coincidence? Or had this brutal family forced the name of the 'Heretic King' onto a 'defective' maid's son as a final, spiteful brand?
Aris just stared at the ceiling. "My favorite, huh? She probably thought I liked it after I reacted so strongly the first time I heard it. The first time I heard my own name used as a monster's. What a cruel, perfect irony. Naming the 'defective' child after the 'Heretic Demon King.' Seven years, and I still can't believe it."
The maid began, her voice full of awe. "And so, three hundred long years ago, the 'Great Heroes'—Prince Rian, Saintess Elara, the Flame Knight, and the wise Tower Master Corvus—confronted the Demon King."
Aris's mind recited the words with her.
"He was a heretic from their own ranks," the maid whispered, "a man named Aris, who had created a twisted, demonic magic that could mimic all attributes. In the final battle, the Prince struck him down with 'Pure Light,' saving the world from the 'Heretic King's' chaos..."
Aris closed his eyes. The cold, logical fury he felt was his only warmth. He wasn't just murdered. He was erased. His name, his face, his magic... all of it had been the ultimate taboo for three centuries.
This realization came just a week before the "Awakening" trial. He stood before the Hall Master, a man whose skin was plated in bone, who unleashed the intent of FEAR.
Aris felt nothing. The Hall Master's "intent" was a toy compared to the storm in his mind.
"Defective," the Master declared.
"Good," Aris thought, shuffling away.
"They're all fools. A sane man can build power. An insane man can only break. This is my starting line."
...
The night after the "Awakening" trial.
He was alone in his cold servant's room. For the first time in seven years, he was safe. He was officially "useless."
He took a piece of charcoal from the cold fireplace. On a loose floorboard, his 7-year-old hand, shaking from years of constant mental strain, drew a complex symbol: [NAS].
He stared at it. The familiar sight of it was his only comfort. It triggered a memory. Not of this life, but of the one before.
...
He was 10 years old, Aris the commoner, in a dusty, small-town library, having just been told he was "attributeless." He was staring at a tattered book, "Fragments of the Elven Age." He saw the Elven "prayer glyph" [IEN] for "Fire."
The memory shifted, going deeper, to a life before even that. A different name, a different world.
He was in a dark office, lit only by a monitor. The screen was full of texts—it was a code. if (user.mana < spell.cost) { return false; }. He was a game programmer, slowly fading because of overwork, his head slumping onto his keyboard as his heart gave out.
The memory snapped back. He was the 10-year-old boy in the library again, the memories of a programmer from Earth now his own. He looked at the "prayer glyph" [IEN] with new eyes.
"This... this is a 'function call.' [CallWorldFire]. It's a 'black box.' It asks the world for fire. But... what is fire?"
He remembered high school physics. "Heat. Fuel. Oxygen. The rapid vibration of molecules."
He took a piece of charcoal. He didn't just write [IEN]. He scanned the book's glossary, his mind racing. His eyes lit on two different glyphs: [VIBRO], 'to shake,' and [IGNIS], 'to spark.'
"I don't need to 'call' fire," he thought, his hands trembling with discovery. "I just need to make it. I don't need to write a 'prayer.' I need to write an equation."
He didn't copy the Elven spell. He used their language to write his own."
...
The 7-year-old Aris stared at the [NAS] rune.
"They called my magic 'heretical.' They were wrong. It's not heretical or demonic. It's science. And I'll use this to uncover the truth behind my death. They think I'm 'empty and useless,' and I'll make them regret thinking that."