The night was restless. A pale moon sat high above a forest that stretched endlessly in every direction, whispering with the sound of unseen creatures. Rayon wandered alone, his footsteps light, deliberate, but carrying that quiet arrogance that marked every motion he made. The Obsidian Web was gone, their banquet already fading into memory. For the first time in years, he was untethered, walking not for conquest or war—but for something else.
The forest was old, ancient in a way that pressed against his skin. Roots twisted like gnarled veins through the soil, and strange runes, faded by centuries, scarred the bark of forgotten trees. It was there, deep within the wood, that he felt it. A pull. Subtle, but undeniable.
A cave waited for him. Its entrance was jagged, yawning like the maw of some ancient beast. The air around it hummed faintly, time itself thickened. Even before he stepped inside, Rayon could sense power radiating from the darkness.
"An artifact," he murmured, his lips curling in a faint smile. "Finally… something worth my attention."
Artifacts were older than empires, older than recorded history. They were the remnants of gods, titans, and forgotten calamities, each carrying echoes of their creators. They were ranked, known across the world in hushed tones:
Common: Useful trinkets, often tools with a whisper of magic.
Rare: Practical weapons and charms with steady strength.
Epic: Coveted treasures that shifted battles, each with unique quirks.
Unique: Singular in their creation, never duplicated, bearing individuality like living beings.
Legendary: Carved into history, capable of rewriting fate itself in the right hands.
Forbidden: Too powerful, cursed by nature, driving mortals into madness or tearing the world apart if mishandled.
Artifacts could bind themselves to a user—choosing, not being chosen. And in this cave, Rayon had stumbled onto one of the rarest types: a time-bound artifact.
The chamber deep within the cave was small, yet oppressive. A pedestal of black stone rose in its center, cracked and ancient. Hovering just above it was a timepiece—an ornate pocket watch, its casing etched with runes that seemed to shift with every blink. Its hands ticked in erratic patterns, sometimes moving forward, sometimes backward, sometimes stopping entirely. The faint sound of a heartbeat echoed with every tick.
Rayon reached for it, and the air folded in on itself. Memories flashed—wars fought, civilizations burning, gods dying. Then silence.
The watch snapped into his palm. Instantly, it bound to him, its cold metal searing his skin before settling. A thin scar shaped like a clock hand etched itself across his wrist, faint but permanent.
The Artifact of the Forgotten Hour.
Rank: Unique (with potential to evolve into Legendary or Forbidden).
Type: Temporal.
Ability: Once per day, if the user dies, the artifact rewinds time to the day before their death, granting another chance.
Secondary Skills Gained:
Chrono Step: Briefly accelerate or decelerate personal time for evasive movement.
Afterimage: Leave a lingering "echo" of self for a few seconds, confusing enemies.
Temporal Thread: Weave strings of time into his Hollow Strings, allowing them to anchor moments in time—either to trap, rewind, or accelerate.
Potential Evolution: As Rayon grows, so too will the watch. Its limits are unknown.
Rayon stared at the artifact on his wrist and let out a low chuckle. "A second chance. How poetic. But one use a day? That's all you offer me?" His grin widened. "Then you'd better keep up."
Rayon's Current Power
Type: Hollow Strings. Subtypes:
String Manipulation: Razor-sharp threads, unseen until it's too late.
Mind-Bind: Threads that connect to the nervous system, creating perfect hypnosis.
Hollow Weave: Threads can cut through non-physical forces—sound, light, even spells.
Thread Puppetry: Control over corpses or weakened enemies, making them extensions of himself.
Level: Ascendant (rough estimate: far beyond ordinary generals, touching near-mythic levels).
Now with temporal augmentation, his Hollow Strings had grown from deadly to almost untouchable.
Rayon didn't emerge from the cave in blood-stained rags. No—fashion, to him, was as much a weapon as any blade. Deep in the cavern, tucked away in a chest older than the pedestal itself, he had found a suit wrapped in protective cloth. Who left it there, and why, was a mystery. But it was as if it had been waiting for him.
When he stepped out into the moonlight again, his appearance was transformed:
A dark tailored suit, sharp lines hugging his lean frame, stitched with faint, silver-thread accents. A long hooded trench coat, its fabric sleek, whispering against the wind, the hood shadowing his face when drawn. A plain black shirt, collar open, simple but sophisticated. Slim, polished boots, silent as death.
The entire ensemble radiated quiet menace and elegance, the look of a man who could walk into a palace or a battlefield with the same deadly confidence.
He pulled the hood over his head, adjusting the cuff of his new sleeve, the faint scar of the artifact glimmering beneath. "Now," he said softly, his voice sharp as silk, "let's see what this little watch can do."
And as he vanished into the night, the forest seemed to exhale, relieved at his departure.
The world would never be ready for Rayon Veynar-reborn, sharpened, and dressed for war.