Long before the first kingdoms of humanity rose from the dirt, three primordial creators woke in the silent dark of the cosmos. They held no names, no faces, and no physical forms, existing only as pure wills of absolute creation. Out of the nothingness, they began to weave the fundamental threads of existence, calling forth a raw, vibrant force of magic known as Aether. This energy flowed like a great river through the young universe, spark-lighting stars and giving birth to the first realms of existence. Peace reigned for an epoch, a quiet era of balance where the creators watched their work flourish. Then, a rupture tore through the fabric of the dark. Out from the deepest, most forgotten corners of the void crawled Zirath, a monstrous titan of endless hunger and malice. He did not wish to rule; he wished to consume, to draw every spark of Aether back into the cold belly of the void. A thousand-year war followed, a brutal clash that shattered worlds and turned galaxies to ash. Every corner of the new cosmos trembled under the weight of their battle. Creators fought monster, their cosmic blood spilling across the stars, creating nebulae of brilliant gold and violet. Despite their immense power, the creators found that Zirath could not be killed; his essence was tied to the very concept of destruction. Realizing their inevitable defeat if the war continued, the three pooled their remaining life force into a final, desperate act. They forged seven legendary rings of absolute power, each infused with a unique aspect of Aether energy. Using these rings as cosmic anchors, they dragged the screaming titan down and bound him forever inside a massive prison known as the Eternal Gate. To guard this gate and maintain order across the realms, they erected a monument outside of physical reality and time itself. Far beyond the reach of mortal hands, the Eternal Throne was raised. Cold, silent, and carved from the bones of dead stars, it sat in the absolute quiet of the void. No living creature, no god, and no king could ever hope to sit upon its seat. Prophecy whispered that only one chosen heir, carrying the dormant bloodline of the creators, would ever be able to claim the throne. This unknown savior would hold the power to unlock the Eternal Gate, or to seal it forever against the rising dark. Until that day, the throne remained empty, a silent sentinel waiting in the dark while the universe forgot its creators. --- Rain lashed the dark, narrow alleys of Tokyo, washing away the neon glow of the city's high-end Ginza district. Nineteen-year-old Ilyas pulled his damp hood lower, trying to shield his face from the biting wind. He stood in the shadows behind a prestigious auction house, his breath rising in pale, ragged plumes. Inside, the wealthy bid on ancient relics and forgotten history; outside, Ilyas struggled just to survive another day on the streets. Cold water seeped through the worn soles of his boots, making his toes numb. He kept one hand buried deep inside his coat pocket, his fingers wrapped tightly around his only inheritance. It was a heavy, silver pocket watch, its casing covered in strange, intricate engravings that had faded with time. Anger burned in his chest whenever he looked at the relic, a sharp contrast to the freezing rain. His father had abandoned him five years ago, leaving nothing but this useless piece of silver and a mountain of unanswered questions. He had spent his youth moving from one foster home to another, learning the hard way that trust was a luxury he could not afford. "Keep it safe, Ilyas," his father had whispered before vanishing into the night. Those final words felt like a cruel joke, a hollow promise from a man who had chosen to run away. Ilyas tightened his grip on the watch, his knuckles turning white as he fought back the familiar sting of betrayal. Footsteps splashed in the puddles at the mouth of the alley, breaking his train of thought. Ilyas went rigid, his instincts screaming at him to run. He pressed his back against the cold, wet brickwork, blending into the shadows as he watched three figures approach. They moved with a quiet, menacing coordination that told him they weren't common street thugs. Tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in sharp black suits, they looked like professional executioners. Their pale faces were marked with jagged, identical scars, and their eyes held the cold emptiness of predators. Every instinct Ilyas possessed told him to fight, but his rational mind counted the odds. Three against one. Professional killers against a nineteen-year-old orphan who had spent his life dodging shadows. He slipped his hand further into his pocket, his thumb tracing the worn edges of the watch. "Give us the heirloom, boy," the leader repeated, his voice dropping to a dangerous quiet. "It is a simple transaction. Your life for a piece of old silver." "Why do you want it so badly?" Ilyas asked, hoping to buy even a few seconds. He scanned the alleyway for anything he could use as a weapon. A broken wooden pallet lay near a stack of trash cans, but it was too far out of reach. "Some things are not meant for the minds of rats," the second operative sneered, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his weapon. "Your father was a fool who thought he could hide from us. He learned his lesson, and now it is your turn." Mention of his father's fate made a cold dread settle in Ilyas's chest. He had spent years imagining his father living a lavish life somewhere else, having simply grown tired of raising a child. Hearing that the man had been hunted, that he might have been running for his life, shattered a lifetime of bitter assumptions. "He didn't run because of me," Ilyas whispered, the realization hitting him like a physical blow. The anger that had fueled him for years suddenly wavered, replaced by a hollow, aching void. If his father had been trying to protect him, then his entire life had been built on a lie. "Enough talk," the leader commanded, his patience completely exhausted. He raised his hand, signaling the final strike. "Take the watch from his corpse." Nowhere left to run, Ilyas thought, his back pressed hard against the brick. He braced his weight, preparing to dodge the first slash. He had no weapons, but he possessed a desperate, feral will to survive. "I think you have the wrong person," Ilyas said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. He kept his face expressionless, hiding the frantic hammering of his heart. He backed away slowly, but the brick wall behind him offered no escape. "We don't make mistakes," the second man sneered, pulling a long, black steel dagger from his jacket. His companion did the same, the polished blades catching the dim light of the alley. They moved to flank him, cutting off his only exit. "Your father owed a very powerful man a very large debt," the leader explained, taking another step forward. "That watch is the key to settling it. Give it to us, and we might let you walk out of here alive." Hearing his father mentioned sent a jolt of pure adrenaline through Ilyas's veins. He hated the man who had abandoned him, but he hated these arrogant hunters even more. If he gave them the watch, he knew he would end up dead in a dumpster anyway. "He's dead," Ilyas spat, his jaw clenching tightly. "He left me with nothing. Go find someone else to rob." "Have it your way," the leader said, his eyes darkening with violent intent. He signaled his men, and they lunged forward in unison, their blades cutting through the falling rain. Desperation took over. Ilyas yanked his hand out of his pocket, pulling the heavy silver watch into the open air. His thumb brushed against a small, hidden latch on the side of the casing—a mechanism he had never noticed in all his years of holding it. Without thinking, he pressed down hard on the metal ridge. A loud, sharp click echoed through the alley, momentarily drowning out the sound of the rain. The hands of the watch suddenly began to spin backward at an impossible speed. Violet light erupted from the watch, blinding in its intensity. It wasn't normal light; it felt thick, heavy, and hot, pulsing with an ancient, raw energy that made the air hum. A shockwave rippled outward, slamming into the wet pavement and sending a wave of violet sparks flying. Crackling lines of purple electricity shot across the brick walls, illuminating the alley in a brilliant, unnatural glow. The three attackers froze, their faces twisted in sudden, absolute terror. They tried to bring their weapons down, but the air itself seemed to resist their movements. Before the blades could touch him, the violet energy surged forward, wrapping around the black steel. A high-pitched screech filled the air, vibrating through the ground. Within a fraction of a second, the solid metal of their daggers crumbled into fine, glittering dust, washing away into the puddles. Shaking, the leader dropped his empty hilt, staring at his bare hand with wide, disbelieving eyes. His face was completely pale, all traces of his former confidence erased by the sheer display of supernatural power. He looked at Ilyas as if seeing a ghost. Ilyas stood frozen, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. The suffocating awe of what he had just witnessed paralyzed him, his mind struggling to process the impossible. His father hadn't been a simple coward; he had possessed a terrifying, world-altering secret. "What... what are you?" the leader stammered, backing away slowly, his voice trembling. His men were already retreating, their eyes darting toward the safety of the main street. They had expected an easy target, not a monster in disguise. Silence fell over the alley once more, but the violet light did not fade. Instead, the energy began to pool against the brick wall behind Ilyas, eating away at the mortar like acid. Deep cracks spread across the solid stone, glowing with a brilliant, liquid light. Suddenly, the very fabric of reality seemed to warp and bend. The air grew freezing cold, turning his breath into thick plumes of white frost. Ilyas tried to move, but his legs felt like lead, his boots glued to the wet pavement. As the alley wall cracks open like shattered glass, a pair of porcelain-skinned hands reach through the glowing rift and drag Ilyas headfirst into the blinding void.

Chapter 1: Secrets Written in Cold Blood