Out of the fissure came a vast and terrible being, a monster of myth so ancient and unholy that even the stars recoiled in silence. It was a great dragon, taller than mountains, wider than valleys, a force of calamity incarnate. Its body was clad in scales of obsidian, each one larger than a fortress wall, and etched with runes older than time. From its necks rose six towering heads, each with a maw of jagged fangs that dripped molten flame and a voice that roared like a thousand war horns.
Upon each head rested a crown with six in total. Wrought from gold so bright it seared the eyes to look upon, yet twisted and malformed, as if divinity itself had been corrupted. These were no royal adornments, but symbols of conquest, of dominion over all that lived, breathed, and hoped.
The beast moved, and the world wept. Its wings which were six in number, unfurled with the sound of cracking whips. With a single beat, they summoned cyclones that flattened forests, turned mountains to dust, and scoured entire cities from the face of the world. Where it flew, the sky blackened. Where it roared, the air split apart like shattered glass. Its breath came not as fire, but as an inferno, a burning cataclysm that melted rivers into steam and turned the soil to glass.
But it did not end there.
From the torn and boiling sea, another horror stirred. The waters trembled, then screamed, as if the ocean itself was in agony. Out of the abyss rose a leviathan of nightmares, born of the deep where light dares to not dwell. It towered into the heavens, eclipsing the horizon with its grotesque mass. Its body was without end, a serpent of infinite length that coiled through sea and sky alike. Its flesh was dark as the void between stars, a black so pure it devoured the very light around it.
And upon the shattered land strode a giant, monstrous and profane and a colossus whose mere presence fractured the ground. Towering above mountains, it stood as a monument to wrath and ruin, a juggernaut born not of flesh, but of sin itself. It had three terrible heads, each bearing a cruel expression. One screaming in fury, one grinning in madness, and one weeping tears of melty blood. Their voices never ceased, each howling a different curse: rage, insanity, sorrow.. A cacophony that drove men mad and turned resolve to ashes.
Its six arms were like siege towers made of sinew and stone, each hand clutching weapons. An axe too large to be swung by mortal hands, a flail of chain lightning, a hammer that shattered air. Every step it took cracked the bedrock, sent fissures racing like spiderwebs across the land. With each stride, entire valleys crumbled, forests collapsed, and mountains groaned beneath its weight.
It did not walk; it marched, and its march was death.
The world was ending.
Rowan gasped awake, heart hammering in his chest, eyes snapping open to pitch darkness. For a split second, panic gripped him as the fabric of a rough burlap sack pressed against his face, the scratchy texture scraping at his skin.
"What the—?" he muttered, struggling to make sense of his surroundings. Everything was moving, jostling violently. He was being carried somewhere—fast.
Then, without warning, he came to an abrupt halt. A sudden jerk sent him tumbling painfully out of the sack and onto cold, rocky earth. Rowan sputtered dirt from his mouth, blinking rapidly as his vision adjusted to the dim predawn light filtering through towering trees.
Above him, his master loomed, arms crossed with a grin sharp enough to carve bone. Her eyes glittered menacingly, amusement and mischief clear.
"W-where the hell—?" Rowan stammered, pushing himself upright and glancing around. Trees stretched endlessly in every direction, gnarled and ancient. Ahead rose a foreboding mountain, shrouded in mist and shadow, the eerie shapes of titanic skeletal remains jutting from its slopes like forgotten monuments.
His master tilted her head casually, as if discussing the weather. "You're outside your comfy little village, brat.. far outside. Welcome to the outskirts of the Kingdom of Lorne."
Rowan paled visibly. "Lorne? Why would...?"
She chuckled darkly. "I'd tell you the name of the mountain but the official name ain't that important. Folks around here call it the Mountain of Graves." Her eyes glittered with a dangerous light. "Cute nickname, right?"
He swallowed hard, his throat going dry as he stared at the ghostly shapes of massive bones littering the rocky slopes. Each bone looked ancient and weathered but undeniably belonged to beasts larger than anything he'd imagined.
"Why?" he croaked, forcing himself to meet her unsettling gaze. "What exactly am I supposed to be doing here?"
Her grin widened, eyes dancing with barely restrained anticipation. "Training, kid. Consider it your graduation test. This mountain is one big mana hotspot, dense enough to choke you if you ain't careful. Lower levels'll only test your endurance. Higher up, though…" She leaned closer, lowering her voice to a dangerous whisper, "that's where breathing gets hard, movements slow, and beasts become your worst nightmare."
Rowan felt sweat bead along his spine, fear gnawing at his gut. "You.. you're joking, right? This is insane. You're actually trying to kill me this time."
She laughed, a short, sharp bark of genuine amusement. "Kill ya? Nah. But if you survive and reach the summit in a week…" Her expression softened, just slightly, sincerity flickering beneath the menace. "Then I'll finally give you my real name. Might even officially make you my apprentice."
Rowan stared at her, jaw slack. "Your name…?"
She winked. "Yep. But if you fail, then, well…" She shrugged casually, indifferent. "Guess names won't matter much anymore."
"Wait..!" Rowan reached out desperately, but she simply raised her hand, flames rippling between her fingers, and offered a mocking salute.
"Clock's ticking, kid. Better get climbing."
And with a swirl of fire and a crackle of mana, she vanished, leaving Rowan staring helplessly at the grim peak towering above him, the echoes of her laughter fading into oppressive silence.
"One week, huh?" he muttered bitterly, dragging himself to his feet. "Easy for her to say."
He sucked in a breath, squared his shoulders, and took his first shaky step forward, determination beginning to spark within him.
He had no choice.
Rowan's breath steamed in the cold morning air as he took his first cautious steps forward, boots crunching on rocky soil littered with dry leaves and fragments of bones. The mountain loomed ahead, a dark colossus shrouded in mist, its jagged peaks clawing skyward.
As he trudged through the shadowy trees, every rustle of leaves and snapping twig sent adrenaline jolting through his veins. His master's warnings echoed vividly in his mind. Mana beasts. He'd heard stories—nightmarish creatures filled with overwhelming mana, possessing strength and aggression far beyond natural limits.
"Great," Rowan muttered bitterly, gripping the rough hilt of his training dagger tightly. "Just me, alone, on a mountain full of angry, mana-charged beasts. What could possibly go wrong?"
A sudden growl erupted nearby, low and menacing, freezing Rowan mid-step. Heart racing, he slowly turned, eyes wide with panic. From the underbrush emerged a hulking shadow, its form shifting into visibility: it was a grey wolf except it was twice the size of a normal wolf, its eyes glowing a sickly red.
"Already? Seriously?" Rowan cursed under his breath, gripping the dagger until his knuckles whitened.
The creature lunged, jaws snapping viciously. Rowan barely managed to dodge aside, the hound's teeth scraping his arm and tearing the fabric. Pain flashed hot through him, but he twisted sharply, pivoting on instinct born from his harsh training.
"Breathe," he reminded himself fiercely. He forced mana through his limbs, channeling it desperately. A surge of energy burned through his veins, sharpening his movements. Rowan lunged forward, dagger slicing through the air. It connected with flesh, sinking into the beast's flank. The creature howled in pain, stumbling sideways, giving him just enough time to scramble backward and regain his footing.
Panting, he faced off against the injured beast. It snarled furiously, blood dripping from its wound as its eyes blazed brighter with madness. Rowan knew he had to end this quickly, or he'd be too exhausted for the climb ahead.
Channeling mana into his feet, he shot forward with a burst of speed, narrowly evading another lunge. His dagger found its mark again, plunging deep into the beast's side. This time, the hound staggered, letting out a final, mournful cry before collapsing to the ground.
Rowan stumbled back, breathing heavily, sweat mingling with blood on his forearm. He stared down at the defeated beast, heart hammering in disbelief. "Holy shit," he whispered shakily, realizing he'd actually survived his first encounter.
Taking a few ragged breaths to steady himself, Rowan looked up at the towering mountain ahead, resolve hardening within him. He couldn't waste more time. If this was just the foothills, he couldn't imagine what horrors awaited him further up.
He tightened his grip on the dagger, wiped sweat from his brow, and resumed his march upward, determination burning bright in his chest.
"One week," he reminded himself grimly. "No turning back now."