A long way south, the road lay stark and silent.
Kael abandoned the Void Scar under a rain-washed sky. The black crater shrank against the horizon, carrying its whispers with it—at least for now. The new Void inside him curled uneasily, but the open air and rhythmic walking kept it steady. With each step he took, he would gain strength for the first time in years. The storm would faintly crackle as it gathered overhead. Void shadows would gleefully cavort just outside the corner of his eye, dancing with the arrival of night.
Kael traveled light. He carried a pack over his shoulder, his iron sword hung from his belt, and he wore a cloak patched from wendigo hides. He traveled far from the great trade roads, preferring old hunting trails to forgotten ones. Once in a while, patrols from southern strongholds rode the borders, and he did not want to be seen.
Not yet.
Slowly, the landscape transitioned from one mile to the next. Treeless tundra turned to rolling hills covered in tough grass. Then came the pine forests, dark and thick, where little sunlight reached the ground. Rivers became wider and colder, their water sparkling clear. Spring had burst into life in this area; green shoots pushing through the ground, birds flying back north.
Kael traversed amid all this like a specter.
Days passed in a steady rhythm: rise to walk at dawn, hunt at midday, and rest at dusk. He did not speak to anyone. The only voices were those of his own thoughts and the memories dredged up unbidden.
Distantly and audibly, Kael could hear the fading howl of adjourning winds over the crackling of his own little campfire as the day transitioned to night.
He remembered being eight, running around in a muddy training yard of a small border village. His father, a retired Blademaster who limped from an old Breach wound, watched from outside the fence.
"Sword up, Kael! Elbows in!"
The wooden practice sword felt heavy in his small hands. He swung again and again, sweat flooding into his eyes. The other boys laughed when he fell, but Kael kept going until his arms shook.
Kael's father ruffled his hair after practice.
"You've got fire in you, boy. More than I ever did."
Kael had looked up, drawing in mouthfuls of air. "Will I awaken soon, Da? Like you?"
A sad smile tugged at the corner of his father's mouth. "Bloodlines come when they come. Some early. Some late. Some never. But heart—that you can build every day."
The day when it happened was clear in his memory.
Ten years old, playing in the forest at the back of the village, swinging a stick at imaginary beasts. An overgrown shadow wolf—one hardly lifted from a description—wandered too close to the border. It sprang from the bushes, teeth bared.
Kael had frozen for a heartbeat. Then something snapped inside him.
Lightning cracked from a clear sky, striking the wolf dead. Shadows coiled around his arms like protective snakes.
He screamed all the way home—not out of fear, but of joy.
Tears glistened in his father's eyes. "Dual bloodlines… Storm and Void. Gods, boy. You're going to be something special."
The village celebrated for a week. Scouts from Eldren Citadel appeared within a month. They took him away on a fine horse with promises of training, glory, and a future.
He remembered saying goodbye to his father with a wave from the saddle, too proud to cry.
He was twelve then. Full of dreams.
The sound of the wood crackled, bringing him back.
Kael focused on the flames until they burned low. The boy who awoke dual bloodlines now seemed a stranger. That child had believed power was a gift. He knew better these days: Power was a debt. One that demanded payment in blood, in pride, or both.
He smothered the fire and lay beneath his cloak.
The Void whispered softly, urging him to get more. He ignored it.
The coast lay south. Beyond the coast rested the Sunken Empires, ancient cities drowned in some forgotten cataclysm. Legends told that there the greatest sword saints of the old era had trained, imbuing their intent into stone murals that still held power. An intent requiring no bloodline. Pure sword heart.
Kael no longer possessed a blade worthy of the name. His iron sword was practical and served its purpose, nothing more. Intention, however, could be forged anywhere.
Under strange stars, he fell asleep.
Another month's crossing.
Cold currents of pain burned his muscles as he swum across rivers. He skirted a mid-tier Breach once, standing in the distance as a small military legion sealed it. Young warriors, filled with fire and discipline. He felt no envy. Only distance.
One night, while camping in a grove of pines, he did forms with his iron sword, slow at first, faster. Storm crackling along the edge. Void shadows following behind with each swing.
Probing the memory came back to him.
Fourteen years of age, first year at Eldren's elite academy. Sparring against older students teasing him about the "village prodigy."
He had been smaller then. Physically weaker. But his bloodlines were sharper.
The last opponent, a seventeen-year-old with fire bloodline, scoffed as they circled.
"Pretty sparks won't save you, country boy."
Kael said nothing. He moved.
Lightning step. Void bind. Tempest Reaver—not yet named—flashed once.
The older boy lay on his back, wooden blade at his throat, eyes wide.
The yard became silent.
From that moment on, the mocking ceased.
Kael's sword lowered with steady, calming breaths.
The boy who silenced a yard with one strike was completely gone. The man who remained was slower now, heavier. But the will still existed—a will now sharper, maybe, tempered by loss.
Thick fog blanketed the coastlands that morning.
The waves crashed against the dark cliffs. Salt air stung his face. Gulls cried above. The ocean stretched interminably into the gray expanse, concealing beneath its depth all the secrets.
Kael stood on the rocks, gazing down.
Far below, in clear water, he could see the tops of drowned towers. Stone spires encrusted with barnacles and kelp. Murals visible even from where he stood: colossal figures in sword stances, carved into walls that stood for millennia.
The Sunken Empires.
He took a slow, composed breath.
Below was the next forging.
Bloodline not needed. Only will.
Kael took off his pack, tied it up, and plunged into the cold sea.
The water swallowed him like a promise.