The wind carried the scent of damp earth and smoldering torches through the shadowed streets of Eldrin’s Hollow, a town at the farthest reach of Lafina’s borders. It was a forgotten place, lawless in all but name—a haven for exiles, outcasts, and those who sought power beyond the grasp of kingdoms.

  A lone figure in a tattered cloak strode through the dim-lit alleyways. Sir Varian Caelum barely resembled the nobleman he once was. His armor was dull, his sword wrapped in cloth to conceal its lineage, and his face bore the weight of failures he refused to accept. His boots crushed gravel beneath them as he approached a weathered tavern—The Silver Brand.

  Inside, the air was thick with pipe smoke and the low murmur of whispers. But Varian’s eyes settled on one thing—the woman in the farthest booth, cloaked in white, her presence defying the filth around her.

  Sister Aelith.

  The moment their gazes met, the tension was palpable. The fallen knight and the exiled priestess—each driven by their own truths, yet bound by the same thirst for something greater.

  "You came," she said, her voice smooth but cautious.

  Varian slid into the seat across from her. "I don’t waste time when the promise of power is involved."

  Aelith’s lips curled slightly. "Then let’s not waste words. You seek strength to restore your house. I seek proof that the divine is nothing more than another form of magic. We can help each other."

  Varian's hand tightened into a fist beneath the table. "Help? You sound like a merchant peddling trinkets."

  "I am no merchant, Sir Caelum. I am a seeker of truth. And in my search, I’ve uncovered something… ancient. Something buried beneath the foundations of this continent." She leaned forward, voice lowering. "I believe Lafina was never meant to be a ‘low continent.’ The old records speak of something—something that once made this land a center of magic. Until it was stripped away."

  Varian’s gaze darkened. "Stripped away? By whom?"

  "That’s what I intend to find out."

  Before Varian could respond, the air in the tavern shifted—a presence entered, thick with restrained violence.

  The doors creaked open, and the conversations hushed. A man in a dark leather coat stepped inside, his movements effortless, predatory. His eyes scanned the room, locked onto their booth, and narrowed.

  Renier Thorne.

  A bounty hunter. A mercenary. And above all—a man obsessed with strength.

  His lips curled into a grin. "Looks like I found something interesting."

  Varian’s fingers brushed the hilt of his concealed sword. Aelith remained unnervingly calm.

  "Renier," she acknowledged. "I was expecting you."

  The hunter cocked his head. "Is that so?" He pulled out a chair, uninvited, and sat. "Word travels fast in places like these. When a fallen noble and a defrocked priestess start asking about forbidden power, people notice." His gaze flicked between them. "And I don’t like sharing."

  Varian tensed. "Then leave."

  Renier chuckled. "You don’t understand. I’m not here to bargain—I’m here to take whatever you two find for myself."

  Aelith finally sighed, as if growing tired. "You’re free to try."

  A beat of silence. Then steel screeched as Varian’s sword left its sheath, and Renier’s fist cracked against the table. The tavern erupted—tables overturned, chairs shattered, and bodies lunged into motion.

  Varian’s sword flashed, narrowly missing Renier’s throat as the mercenary dodged, countering with a brutal kick. Aelith, rather than intervening, observed.

  Renier was fast. Too fast. His body moved with unnatural precision, like a beast that had learned how to wear a human’s skin.

  Varian gritted his teeth, adjusting his stance. This man… wasn’t normal.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  But neither was he.

  Their battle sent them crashing through the tavern doors and into the streets, drawing the attention of onlookers. Magic crackled in the air as Aelith finally rose, stepping outside. Her gaze lingered on both men before she whispered something under her breath.

  A flicker of mist-like energy coiled around her fingers.

  "We don’t have time for this," she called out. "Unless you both prefer to die here."

  Varian and Renier separated, panting, eyes locked in mutual hostility. But something about her words made them pause.

  Aelith smiled faintly.

  "Follow me, both of you. If it’s power you want, then I have something far greater to offer."

  And with that, the three would-be enemies found themselves walking the same path.

  Toward something far beyond their understanding.

  ---

  In the abyss, time did not exist. There was only darkness—vast and silent.

  Eo floated, his body weightless, his mind untethered. But he was not alone. Specks of light drifted toward him, each carrying something foreign, unknown.

  They brushed against his form, dissolving, fusing with him.

  The first carried the heat of a dying star—Fire. It curled around him like a serpent, its warmth seeping into his being. But where fire should burn, this one merged seamlessly, as if it had always belonged.

  Another drifted in—a weight heavier than stone—Earth. It pressed against him, not crushing but grounding, adding something solid to his otherwise fluid existence.

  Then came something sharper, unseen but felt—Wind. It whispered against his skin, an intangible force wrapping around him in currents, threading through the very essence of his being.

  And yet, among these, there was something else. Something ancient.

  It did not flicker like the others. It did not hum or crackle. It loomed.

  Dense. Overwhelming. A presence that should not exist in this era.

  Eo had no eyes to see, no voice to speak, but the moment it entered him, he knew—

  This was not mist.

  It coiled deep within, sinking past the layers of his being, far beyond where even his Abyssal Instinct could reach. It did not mix like the others. It overrode them.

  A pulse.

  Then another.

  His form shifted, reacting to the sheer force of what he had absorbed. The fragile balance of elements within him compressed, condensed into something denser, heavier, unnatural.

  The Old Magic—the kind that once shaped the world, shattered cities, and birthed legends—had found a new vessel.

  And it was waking.

  ---

  The world of Tangea was in motion.

  Deep within the abyss, where even the most resilient creatures feared to tread, an unseen force pulsed. It was not violent. It was not loud. And yet, it was felt.

  A disturbance that sent ripples through the delicate balance of the abyss.

  Far above, near the ocean’s surface, a fishing vessel swayed violently.

  The crew had been braving these waters for years. They knew the rhythms of the tides, the fury of storms, the lurking dangers beneath. But tonight, something was wrong.

  The waves were too still.

  The air, thick with moisture, felt pressurized, as if the ocean itself was holding its breath.

  Then came the pulse.

  It was not seen. Not heard. But felt—like a silent tremor through their very bones.

  A veteran sailor gripped the railing, his fingers white. “This isn’t normal,” he muttered. “Something’s—”

  The ocean lurched.

  Not a wave. Not a storm.

  But a shift.

  A single, colossal ripple spread outward, disturbing the night’s silence. The ship creaked under the unnatural movement, sending crates tumbling across the deck.

  The crew scrambled to secure their cargo, but their panic was not for the ship.

  It was for the thing below.

  Something had stirred in the depths, something too vast, too foreign, for them to comprehend.

  One of the younger deckhands, barely past sixteen, swallowed hard. “What—what could cause that?”

  No one answered.

  Because no one knew.

  And that terrified them more than anything.

  Beneath the waves, far from the surface but still distant from the abyss, a predator lurked.

  It had hunted these waters for centuries, its form unseen by surface dwellers, feared by all who shared its domain. A monarch of its own hunting grounds.

  Yet now…

  It was restless.

  The water carried something different. A change in the very fabric of the depths. An unfamiliar resonance—not a call, not a warning, but a presence.

  One that did not belong.

  For the first time in centuries, it hesitated before moving forward.

  It was not fear.

  It was instinct.

  Something deep within told it that should it venture too far—should it approach the abyss—it would no longer be the hunter.

  Elsewhere, in the vast caverns of an undersea ruin, a Territorial Lord stirred.

  Unlike the scavengers, unlike the hunters, it understood.

  The abyss was sacred. It had always been. The depths nurtured strength, feeding those who ruled it with the richest magic closest to the planet’s core.

  To leave it behind and travel to the surface would be wasteful.

  The surface was weak. Its magic, thin. Its lifeforms, fragile.

  That was why none of the abyssal kings had ever needed to rise.

  And yet.

  Something below was devouring magic itself.

  The ocean’s natural flow of energy had bent—**no, twisted—**toward an unknown force.

  For the first time in an era, the Lord felt the stirrings of curiosity.

  What manner of being could alter the abyss itself?

  Would it be an enemy?

  Or something far, far worse?

  The surface, the depths, the abyss.

  Everywhere, creatures stirred.

  Something was happening.

  And none of them knew what.