Above a small abandoned village, somewhere at the edge of the Calodan desert, the sky was awash with a river of flames as the origin plane of fire breached the fabric of reality, tearing a hole of crimson flames into the sky and bathing the heavens with chaos and wrath.

  The temperature of the desert rose drastically, and mundane birds fell to the ground, their bodies convulsing as the heatstroke overwhelmed them. Fire and heat essence rose drastically, and although it was a peril to some, it served as an opportunity to others, creatures and humans alike.

  Fire affinity creatures crawled out of their holes, some instantly taking to the air, while others simply bathed in the sudden abundance of essence. Fire drakes took to the sky, followed by flame critters, fireflies, and other winged creatures, each one claiming a corner of the heavens for themselves.

  However, despite the abundance of creatures, there were only two humans to be seen within the city. They stood just beneath the burgeoning calamity, far above the protective barriers of Calodan, watching the breach expand and undulate without making any move to manage or contain it.

  Creatures avoided them like a plague, and the ones who didn’t were promptly cut to pieces by a dark-skinned advanced-class woman called Isóba, who was dressed in blood-red robes and covered from head to toe in viscous-looking tattoos. She had blood-red hair that billowed in the wind and a bearing that spoke of barely restrained power, the kind that put her on par with many champions.

  Isóba was no youth despite her juvenile appearance, the wisdom and experience in her eyes betraying her to all who took even the tiniest interest in her. With those wisdom-filled eyes, she observed the growing disaster with disinterest, her blade whip slicing back and forth to hack apart attacking creatures with ease.

  She did this as swiftly and quietly as she could, unwilling to disturb the mediation of the child floating just above her. Yes, despite all her power and strength, Isóba was a mere guard, but then, her charge was no ordinary child.

  At seventeen years old, the one she called a child nearly towered over her, a hunk of muscle and violence covered in the scars of his many victories. A thick aura of bloodlust billowed out from him, punctuated by the fresh and bleeding wounds that covered his body from their recent training session.

  The child’s aura expanded in a fiery wave, lashing out and snapping at any thread of natural essence within their immediate surroundings to devour it. The aura was yet unstable as the boy was still getting used to the willful bloodline he had inherited, but even with his fragile control, the power he emanated nearly eclipsed hers in potency despite all the years she had spent refining her bloodline. It was no surprise, though. Despite her strength and status, she couldn’t compare her meager Epic-ranked bloodline to the unique bloodline the child bore.

  The sky shrieked as crimson flames poured in, but Isóba remained unfazed. She had complete faith in the child’s ability to protect himself. After all, he was a fated one, an inheritor with a vast array of stolen affinities, and most of all, he was the legacy of Sárán Beithir, the father of the children, who was infamous for his unique bloodline ability to steal the seals and innate abilities of awakened individuals at the point of death. Coupled with his actual affinity for spirit, Sárán Beithir had been a terror unlike any other.

  This child was the reincarnation of that terror, and the evidence of a prophecy long made. He was the legacy of a man who had nearly subdued the entire continent under his rule by his sheer might and had torn asunder entire armies with a single word. What was a simple origin breach before his might? What was a sea of roaring flames?

  The child proved her right a moment later when he casually raised his hands to the pulsing breach, his red skin glowing with a dozen seals as they moved across his skin, rearranging themselves according to his will. The rearrangement process only took a few seconds, and when it was done, three crimson seals congregated around his left hand, each one glowing with the quintessence of fire.

  The child smiled as the origin breach expanded to its limit and then exploded, unleashing a fiery river of flames to the earth below. And like a child reaching for his new, favorite toy, the boy harnessed all three seals at once and then pulled, activating {Fire Manipulation} to redirect the flames towards himself.

  With a sound like roaring thunder, the river of flames descended, rushing towards the child like a pillar of wrathful tribulation. Rather than panic, the child smiled, spread his arms wide, and then opened his spirit, absorbing the chaotic flames as if it were an ordinary task.

  He pulled and pulled until the breach was completely spent, yet, even as reality tried to heal itself, the child didn’t stop pulling. His already unstable aura grew even more violent, drenching the entire area in so much fire essence that every single creature below the 20th tier burned to a crisp while others fled for their lives.

  Isóba watched the child with pride and fear, awed by his amazing potential, yet terrified of the calamity he would become when the watchers eventually finalized his training. If he became even half as strong as Sárán Beithir, then—

  Isóba shuddered at the thought. Her grandfather had witnessed the end of Sárán’s rule and had described it as a gloriously bloody apocalypse. It had been that terrible, but Isóba couldn’t wait to experience something even remotely close.

  For so long, the children had hidden in the shadows, cloaking themselves from the outside world and only venturing out in search of the long-prophesied inheritor of Sárán Beithir’s legacy. Now that they had found him, Isóba wasn’t sure how much longer she could hide in the shadows. How much longer would she have to wait before the united world that Sárán had massacred for was brought to fruition?

  From the stories she’d heard, Sárán had had no descendants left towards the end of his reign. He had either killed them himself or they had perished in battle against the opposing army.

  For centuries after his ascension, the children had searched day and night for anyone bearing his bloodline. They had failed constantly and continuously until a year ago when one of their many scouts had found this child in one of the border villages of Unoros, surrounded by the broken bodies of his adopted parents and nearly a dozen neighbors.

  Needless to say, they had stolen away with the child, fleeing the scene seconds before Unoros investigative officers arrived. With only a little time left before their demise, the watchers had quickly taken over the child’s training, and now, a year later, he stood tall and proud, brutal and merciless as he forced the origin plane to give more than it intended.

  The sky screeched and rumbled as reality forced the breach closed. It unleashed another torrent of crimson flames to engulf the sky before snapping shut, causing the temperature of the environment to rise once more before rapidly cooling to normal levels.

  As the density of fire essence declined, the sky slowly returned to its clear blue color as if nothing had happened. The child, however, still battled with all the energy he had absorbed, most likely using it to fuel his evolution to the advanced class.

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  Seals rearranged themselves all over his body, moving fluidly under his skin and glowing with a myriad of colors. His raven black hair flowed as if underwater, and the muscles beneath his skin flexed with each breath he took.

  It took nearly an hour before he finally finished dealing with all the energy he had absorbed, and his aura finally settled into a semblance of calm. The cloud of bloodlust hanging over them receded, and the child finally opened his eyes, revealing a set of blood-red irises ringed with a band of black and silver.

  He turned to look at her and muttered in disappointment. “It wasn’t enough. I need to find another breach or force one open before I can complete the energy requirements for my evolution. The system is hindering me.”

  “It is not, Fated.” Isóba bowed and shook her head. “It is simply setting you up for greater heights. The bigger your potential, the higher the price to pay. Besides, no matter how difficult the system makes your ascension, it cannot stop you.”

  “No, it can’t.” The child smirked. “Let’s go back to the tower first before setting out to find more breaches. I’ve gained some insights I need to condense.”

  “As you wish.”

  Isóba took out a customized talisman out of her spatial ring and activated it with a fusion of blood and willpower. There were only a few of these talismans, and they were created in such a manner that only the blood and willpower of devotees could activate them.

  A black portal appeared before them, and they both flew into it, arriving within the pocket dimension that served as the headquarters for the children of the watch. The space was easily the size of a country, and for centuries, the children had recruited mercilessly.

  Granted, most of their members were vagrants and ne’er-do-wells, but a few elites and champions had risen up among them. Isóba herself was among the latter group, and although they were not much, their numbers were more than respectable.

  Pushing forward, Isóba streaked through the sky, following only a meter or two behind the fated as they made their way to the grand tower that was the seat of the watchers.

  “How fares the war between Sunstone and Ragnarok?” The child asked, and Isóba shook her head.

  “It’s going as predicted, Fated—

  “Call me Jethro.” The child cut her off firmly and then smiled. “You’ve earned it.”

  “Thank you, Jethro.” Isóba smiled and continued. “Ragnarok has upped the stakes of the war again, and there’s talk that Sunstone is preparing for a brutal retaliation. It’s the same cycle all over again.”

  Jethro scoffed. “This thing between Ragnarok and Sunstone isn’t a war. It’s a fucking game. I can’t wait to give them a taste of what real war will be like.”

  Isóba’s smile widened. “When do you think that’ll be?”

  “Soon.” Jethro chuckled. “Very, very soon.”

  They arrived at the watchtower a few minutes later, and as Jethro descended towards the entrance, Isóba followed suit, maintaining vigilance even in the heart of their sanctuary.

  The watchtower was the tallest building within the pocket dimension, nearing about 900 meters in height. Unlike the colorful appearance of most buildings within the dimension, the tower was an ancient mass of reinforced gray stone, designed with black bronze and sheer glass windows.

  The tower housed their temple, their library, their war room, their artifacts, and every other thing that signified an important part of their history. However, the most important room within the tower was the watch room, which was located at the very top of the tower and housed all that was left of the watchers.

  When they reached the entrance, a trio of elders who had been discussing amongst themselves turned to glance at them. The moment they saw Jethro, they fell to their knees and bowed, their right hands curled into fists while the left was splayed out on their chest.

  The sight of Mythics on their knees nearly made Isóba chuckle, but she quickly restrained herself. The hierarchy of the watch was no respecter of class or status and was measured solely by the devotion to Sárán’s dream, as well as their beliefs and his prophecy of world dominion.

  There were five ranks in total. Those at the bottom were called the acolytes—vagrants and ne’er-do-wells that had no attachment to the cause and would simply do anything for some bread and coin. The next rank was the seekers—people who had now come into the understanding of Sárán’s mission and vision and were willing to bring more people into the fold.

  The people they brought in almost always became potential sources of seals for the fated or as sources of entertainment in the arena, but sometimes some survived, and after a lot of orientation, those who chose were drafted into the cause as acolytes.

  The third rank was that of devotees—trusted members of the cause who accepted Sárán’s mission with their whole heart and gloried in each victory. This was Isóba’s rank, but after several years of devotion, Isóba hoped to be promoted soon to the prestigious rank of elder.

  Elders were the next rank of children—a prestigious position earned through many years of dedication and service. Due to how long one must serve to become an elder, it was no surprise that nearly all the elders were Mythics.

  The last rank was the rank of a watcher, and it wasn’t a rank one could reach through dedication alone. There were only three watchers left, and even they had become wizened. They were people who had witnessed Sárán’s rise to power more than a millennium ago. They were people so devoted to Sárán’s mission of total world dominion that they had willfully stalled their own advancement, exchanging their potential for longevity through the use of several forbidden techniques and rituals.

  They were the truest of disciples, people who had given up their own advancement in exchange for longevity, all so they could find Sárán’s descendant and train him. Now that they had, everyone knew it was only a matter of time before death took them now.

  Jethro passed by the kneeling elders without sparing them a glance, but Isóba couldn’t afford to do the same, so she bowed to each in turn before continuing deeper into the castle. Isóba followed behind him in silence, taking several twists and turns until they reached the watch room, which was a dark chamber heavy with the essence of death and decay.

  There was no light within the chamber, yet the thin streams of karma and fate that danced through the air brightened the room enough for anyone to see the wizened figures sprawled on their individual thrones.

  Isóba fell to her knees immediately, only a second before Jethro did the same as three pairs of calamity eyes opened to stare at them, revealing a cluster of runes rather than irises. Silence reigned for more than a minute before one of the watchers rasped. “You’re still very far behind, Jethro. Disappointing.”

  “I’m doing the best I can.” Jethro responded calmly. “The system isn’t making it easy.”

  “We anticipated that.” The second watcher spoke, their voice nearly a whisper from how faint it sounded. “It did the same to Sárán. That didn’t limit him, though. It made him stronger.”

  Isóba dared not breathe too loudly as the conversation continued. Even in their dying states, the watchers only required a word to wipe her from existence.

  Their conversation continued easily, but after a while it shifted to current matters, and the 2nd watcher said. “As always, ants have sprung up to deter our cause. They destroy our outposts and erase our acolytes from existence. They seek to halt a roaring river with a broomstick.”

  The other watchers chuckled as if the deaths of hundreds were just a topic of amusement, and perhaps they were. Perhaps she just needed to murder a few thousand people to get to such a prestigious level.

  Jethro, however, didn’t share their amusement. He raised his head and growled. “Let me go to them. I can defeat them.”

  “Foolish child.” The first watcher rasped. “You’re not ready yet. When you are, whichever one of us is still alive by then will tell you.”

  “But—

  “Sit down and meditate, child.” The third watcher cut him off. “The little insight you gained from the origin breach is evaporating from your mind.”

  Isóba cracked an eye open and watched as Jethro hesitantly lowered himself to a meditative position. Fire essence billowed out of him as he began meditating, and after a tense moment of silence, the first watcher spoke.

  “Do not be too eager to spill blood, Jethro. It is not the time yet. Soon, you’ll have to fulfill your destiny, and by then there will be more than enough blood to paint the earth red. You will unite the entire world under yourself, squash any resistance with your fist, and kill until you’re drowning in blood. Picture it, Jethro. Can you picture it?”

  “I can.” Jethro whispered as more fire essence billowed out of him. “I just need to exercise patience.”

  “You’re learning.” The first watcher replied, and Isóba couldn’t help but shudder with excitement as she pictured the image in her head. So much blood. Enough blood to paint the world red. Pleasure roiled through her, and she let out a whimper of ecstasy as the image played in her mind like a loop.

  A war like no other was coming soon, and this time she would be a part of it. She would spill so much blood that the earth itself would weep.

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