The world had long forgotten the name Ignivar.
Once, a thousand years ago, it had been a name that shook empires and humbled kings. The House of Ignivar stood as a dynasty of flame and shadow—warriors who mastered both martial might and arcane sorcery. Their banners burned like crimson suns, their shadows spread across continents. At their peak, the Ignivars were whispered as Sovereigns of Fire, their bloodline carrying the dual inheritance of destruction and concealment.
But then, as swiftly as fire devours itself, they vanished. Records were erased, allies turned traitor, and the House was hunted into oblivion. Within a generation, they disappeared from history, leaving only rumors—an ember extinguished by time.
For the world, Ignivar no longer existed.
For Draven, it was the only name that mattered.
---
Draven's consciousness tore through darkness like a spark breaking through ash. He did not remember how he died. A fleeting moment of pain, then endless void—and then a crushing weight, suffocating, drowning him in agony.
He gasped. His lungs felt as though knives were carving them apart. Heat surged through his veins, not warmth but fire. At the same time, icy shadows coiled within his marrow, whispering, dragging him deeper.
He opened his eyes.
What he saw was not his world.
The ceiling above was cracked stone. Mold dripped from its edges. The air was damp, foul with the stench of rot and spilled ale. Around him, distant voices echoed—the coarse laughter of drunkards, the barking threats of thugs. Somewhere nearby, a child screamed before being silenced.
"This… isn't Earth."
The realization hit like a blade. Draven sat up—or tried to. Pain lanced through his chest. His body was frail, bones fragile, skin pale. He could feel blood trickling from his lips.
And then the memories came. Not his own, but forced upon him like a flood.
The boy whose body he now inhabited had been born of an ancient bloodline—a forgotten descendant of the House Ignivar. But the line had thinned, decayed, reduced to nothing but poverty and whispers. The boy had lived on the fringes of a decaying district known as Grey Town, barely surviving, until he was beaten by local thugs and left to die in an alley.
The moment his heart faltered, Draven's soul descended.
Two lives. Two sets of memories. One body.
And one truth burned above all else:
The Ignivar name must rise again.
---
Draven staggered to his feet. His limbs trembled, but something stirred within his blood. Heat and cold warred in his veins, but neither destroyed the other. Instead, they spiraled, like fire feeding on shadow, shadow sheltering fire.
The boy's final wish echoed in Draven's skull:
Find the truth. Rebuild our name. Avenge us.
Draven clenched his fist. "I swear it. From this moment, I am no longer just Draven of Earth. I am Draven Ignivar—the last of my bloodline."
---
Grey Town.
The slums of the southern borderlands, a festering wound of lawlessness. By day, it was choked with merchants of scraps and beggars with hollow eyes. By night, it belonged to gangs and syndicates. Crime ruled here, not kings.
It was here that the weak were trampled, and the strong devoured.
Draven limped through the narrow alleys, the moonlight barely cutting through the mist. Broken windows stared like hollow eyes from crumbling walls. Fires burned in barrels where the destitute huddled. And everywhere, eyes watched—hungry, hostile, waiting.
"Oi, look at this one," a rough voice sneered.
Draven turned. A group of men stepped from the shadows. Their leader was a broad-shouldered thug with scars down his jaw, a crude iron blade hanging at his hip. His name surfaced from the boy's memories—Krell, one of Grey Town's minor gang leaders.
"Well, well. Thought you were dead in the gutter." Krell's grin was cruel. "Guess I'll fix that."
The thugs laughed.
Draven's body trembled. He was weak, starving, barely able to stand. Yet within his chest, the fire and shadow coiled tighter, demanding release.
Martial Art. Magecraft. Fusion.
Fragments of knowledge seeped from the bloodline memories. The world was divided into three paths:
Martialists—those who hardened their bodies with mana, channeling power through fists, blades, and raw strength.
Mages—those who wove mana externally, shaping flame, ice, lightning, and countless elements.
Hybrids—the rarest, who walked both paths, embodying body and spell in unison.
The House Ignivar had once been supreme among Hybrids.
Draven drew a breath. "You chose the wrong prey."
Krell barked a laugh. "This runt's lost his mind. Kill him!"
The first thug lunged, swinging a rusted club.
Draven's body moved on instinct. Mana flared—not his, but the bloodline's. His palm ignited, crimson flames bursting to life. The thug's eyes widened a second before the fire slammed into his chest, hurling him back screaming.
The others froze.
"Magic…?" one muttered.
But it wasn't only flame. Behind Draven, the alley darkened. Shadows deepened unnaturally, stretching, curling like talons. They clung to his back, forming faint wings of smoke and night.
Krell's eyes narrowed. He drew his blade, mana surging along its edge. "So you've got tricks. Doesn't matter. You'll die like the rest."
He charged. His blade came down in a brutal arc.
Draven caught it. Sparks exploded as his burning hand clashed against steel. Pain lanced through his palm, but the fire did not falter. He twisted, shadows coiling around his legs, propelling him forward. His fist slammed into Krell's gut—flame seared, shadow crushed.
Krell gagged, spitting blood.
Draven's voice was cold. "Remember this. The name you tried to kill tonight—Ignivar—will be the last name you ever hear."
The shadows surged. Flames roared.
Krell's scream was swallowed by darkness.
When the smoke cleared, Krell lay broken on the cobblestones, his blade shattered beside him. The other thugs fled, their courage burned away.
Draven stood alone, chest heaving, blood dripping from his knuckles. The flames dimmed, the shadows withdrew, but the power within him remained.
He looked down at Krell's corpse. "One rat down. An empire of vermin left to burn."
---
Draven turned his gaze skyward. The moon hung high, pale and cold, watching. For a thousand years, his house had been erased, their name spat upon, their blood forgotten.
Not anymore.
"Ignivar," he whispered, fire flickering in his eyes, shadows curling at his feet. "From tonight, the world will remember."
And so began the rise of the last heir of flame and shadow.