I am Asen Velarion, the youngest son of Valric Velarion, patriarch of the Velarion Clan—the supreme clan across all seven continents.

  I walk the path of no master, bound by no fate but my own.

  And in every battle I’ve faced, from childhood duels to continental wars, not once… have I tasted defeat.

  Some say I was born invincible.

  At nineteen, I abandoned the ancestral keep of my clan and vanished into the world. Eight months have passed since. In that time, I’ve crossed oceans, walked through the ruins of forgotten kingdoms, and clashed blades with heroes, tyrants, and legends. An army once knelt before me after I razed their continent’s siege.

  They call me many names:

  The Sword Sovereign.

  The Unbound One.

  The Apex.

  The Dual-Wielder.

  Swiftblade.

  The Unmatched.

  The Undefeated.

  But none of those matter to me.

  What matters… is the myth.

  The whisper of something greater.

  Three weeks ago, I climbed this nameless mountain, drawn by tales spoken only in half-truths and firelit murmurs. Since then, I’ve explored its ancient paths. There is power here. Old. Watching. Waiting.

  Tonight, the sky is clear. An endless ocean of stars stretches above me like the memory of a god’s forgotten dream.

  “Beautiful,” Asen Velarion whispers to the night.

  And I sleep beneath the starlight.

  Morning.

  The sun never quite reaches this far. Shadows cling to the stone like old regrets.

  I follow a narrow trail, winding between cracked cliffs and withered trees. The wind stops. The birds fall silent. Even the forest seems to hold its breath.

  The deeper I move, the quieter it becomes—until even the sound of my own breath feels intrusive.

  Then I see it.

  A scar in the earth—half-hidden beneath twisted roots and mossed stone. Not a cave… no. It’s a wound carved into the mountain itself. Like something once tried to tear free.

  I step closer. The air turns colder. It’s not just the chill. Something presses against my skin—watching, waiting, something ancient that almost makes itself known.

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  A scent follows: iron. Earth. Decay.

  Familiar. Wrong.

  I should leave.

  But I don’t turn back. I never turn back from the unknown.

  I cross the threshold.

  The silence changes.

  Not broken. No. It grows deeper.

  The kind of silence that presses against the world itself, like time is holding its breath.

  At the heart of the cavern, I see it.

  The book.

  It floats in the air, untouched by dust, undisturbed by wind. It hovers above a worn stone dais—golden, bound in symbols that slither across its cover like living ink. The markings shimmer with no light. Shift with no breeze.

  The book isn’t just there. It’s alive.

  It’s watching me.

  I take a step forward. Something unseen pushes back.

  A weight presses on my chest—not on my body, but deep inside my soul. The book’s presence refuses to be approached lightly. It doesn’t defend itself. It tests me.

  I feel it. A subtle pressure.

  A force I can’t ignore.

  And then—like a thread snapping silently in the dark—reality… shifts.

  I stand on a battlefield carved into the sky.

  Time moves wrong here.

  Light bends at strange angles.

  The air shimmers like a memory rewriting itself.

  Blades clash in the distance—sharp, ringing echoes that crack the clouds.

  Figures move like gods among mortals. One raises his arm, and flame coils like a living serpent. Another weaves shadow and steel into a single, twisting arc. Winds carve through stone. Magic dances like poetry on the edge of war.

  The ruins stretch beyond—not ancient, impossible. Structures defy gravity, logic, and time itself. Glyphs move across them like language remembering itself.

  And amid it all… a crow.

  Perched on a blade stuck in the ground.

  Its eyes meet mine—black, endless. It doesn’t blink.

  And in that gaze… I see.

  Not just the battlefield.

  But echoes of something far older.

  A man steps forward. Cloaked in white and gold, his presence doesn’t dominate—it embraces. A warmth that somehow cuts deeper than cold. His smile isn’t cruel. It’s inevitable.

  “You have arrived,” he says, his voice not merely heard, but felt.

  Like it has been waiting for centuries.

  The vision shatters.

  I am back in the cave.

  The book still hovers. The silence returns, but it’s different now.

  The air hums—gentle, almost inviting.

  There’s no pressure.

  The resistance has lessened.

  No longer a force keeping me at bay—more like a gentle tug, urging me closer.

  I step forward once more.

  No pressure.

  Just the faintest echo of a crow’s caw, deep within the mountain’s throat.

  I reach out my hand.

  “What… was that?” Asen murmurs.