Chapter 2: Flames of Yemen 2
In the vast and ancient continent of Breciline, four great nations rose like primordial titans, each shouldering the weight of its own resplendent glory and its own inescapable, blood-soaked curse.
To the far west stood Lymhrst, the legendary City of Eternal Purity. Here, mana did not merely flow, it lived. Crystal-clear rivers of luminous Mana snaked through sacred groves where towering white spirit-trees stretched toward the heavens, their frost-kissed leaves shimmering like captured starlight. Living ramparts of intertwined boughs formed impenetrable walls around the inner sanctum, while colossal monoliths of white jade rose at every cardinal direction, their surfaces carved with runes so primordial that even the eldest Ascendants could only gaze upon them in silent awe. Divine totems floated gently in the air, bathing the entire city in soft, perpetual starlight that never wavered. The guardians of this holy land were called Ascendants, souls kissed by celestial grace, their eyes glowing with an inner radiance that no darkness could extinguish. Ancient legend whispered that any heart tainted by impurity who dared cross the threshold would be unmade by the land itself: flesh dissolved, bones turned to ash, soul scattered on the wind until nothing remained but a sigh carried across the endless plains.
To the east rose Martlock, iron-willed stronghold of the Righteous Alliance. Jet-black banners embroidered with crimson sigils of martyrdom snapped defiantly in the gale above walls forged from adamantine stone, each massive block engraved with the names of ten thousand fallen whose blood had sealed unbreakable oaths. Martlock was never conceived in peace; it was born on the anvil of ceaseless war, hammered into shape by hammer-blows of righteous fury. Its sole, sacred purpose: the complete and utter extermination of every cult, every heretical Academy, every shadow that dared slither across the continent. Beyond its towering gates stretched a savage frontier wilderness crawling with spirit beasts and demonspawn,
monstrous entities of claw, venom, and nightmare hunger. The very earth was a merciless forge. It tempered the devout into living instruments of divine judgment. Martlock granted no comfort, no sanctuary of softness. Yet to perish beneath its shadow was to perish blessed, name forever etched among the martyrs.
Far to the north, entombed beneath eternal black snow and an unending polar night, brooded Fortsterling, the Demon Country. Jagged obsidian spires encircled a citadel of glacial iron and frozen silence so deep it felt like the continent itself held its breath. Here shadows moved with malevolent intent, murmuring secrets older than the first dawn. Cruelty was not survival, it was doctrine, etched into bone and soul across generations. The inhabitants were no longer merely human; they were apex predators sculpted by betrayal, slaughter, and unrelenting night. Their hearts were cold forges; their eyes reflected the void between dying stars. To provoke them was to step deliberately into the jaws of the abyss and beg for the bite.
And at the bleeding, broken heart of the continent lay
Thetford.
Once the exalted cradle of warrior-kings whose peerless blades had cleaved empires from primordial chaos.
Now men spat its new name: the Dying Light.
A desolate realm of ash-choked ruins and skeletal cities ruled by slaver-lords and strangled by terror. Color had long abandoned its streets; pride had been trampled into dust beneath iron boots. The people either wore chains or ceased to breathe. Yet even in such profound decay, Thetford's legacy refused extinction. It lingered in the cracked marble of toppled palaces, in the mournful wind that keened through deserted colonnades, a stubborn, proud ghost that would not consent to fade.
My country, I thought bitterly, and the realization twisted like a poisoned dagger in my guts.
Thetford.
In Breciline, every superhuman soul confronted the same merciless bifurcation.
One road led to the arcane mastery of magic, a perilous path of intellect, sacrifice, and intimate communion with realms beyond mortal comprehension. Those who trod it bound themselves to the flows of mana, submitted to heavenly laws, and frequently paid the ultimate price: sanity shattered, or existence itself dissolved into nothingness.
The other road was simpler, crueler: the way of the blade. Here, raw strength inscribed destiny in rivers of blood. Weakness was obliterated without mercy. True masters fused their souls to living weapons that thirsted eternally for carnage, carving their legends into the annals of history with every life they reaped.
But not every soul enjoyed the privilege of choice.
Some were chosen.
Most… were not.
They called themselves Irregulars, souls branded by a divine ember that refused to gutter out, or inheritors of bloodlines so ancient they remembered the very dawn of Breciline.
For the wretched children born amid Thetford's ashes, both paths remained nothing more than fairy tales, beautiful deceptions murmured around guttering fires to stave off the encroaching cold. Magic and martial supremacy were never destined for the likes of us.
And yet here I was, An Irregular, Reborn, Not by prophecy,
Nor by fate.
But by hate, pure, molten, all-consuming hate.
My body convulsed in agony as I stared at the figure that stepped from the swallowing darkness of the night. Her gaze was ice-cold, distant, and brimming with mocking contempt.
She knelt slowly, fingers curling around my mother's severed head.
"Dalia," the woman intoned, voice dripping venom, "how long did you think you could run?"
With casual brutality she crushed the skull like overripe fruit. Bone splintered. Brains and blood sprayed in a wet arc across her silver armor.
I screamed, raw, animal, throat-tearing, clawing at my own scalp as though I could rip the horror from my mind. My eyes locked on her, twin pits of pure hatred.
Mother's blood painted crimson streaks across the woman's pale face. She lifted her gaze to meet mine.
"How dare you look at me with such useless eyes."
In an instant her longsword flashed free of its sheath. Mantras spilled from her lips in rapid, venomous succession, ancient syllables that twisted the air itself. The blade sang once, a cruel crescent of light,
slashed across my face.
Agony detonated behind my sockets. Vision shattered into blinding white. I clapped both hands over the ruin of my sockets, screaming until my voice cracked and bled.
"What did we do to deserve this?" I whispered to the darkness inside my skull as I crawled blindly away, palms scraping through ash and congealing blood.
I did not get far.
A boot slammed between my shoulder blades, pinning me face-down in the filth.
"Everyone is dead," I sobbed, voice breaking into hysterical horror. "Now it's my turn!"
Every desperate thrash was futile. Cold steel pierced the joints of my shoulders, then my elbows, pinning me like an insect. The blade withdrew only to plunge again, once, twice, three times, deep into my back. Vertebrae cracked. Nerves screamed and then went mercifully silent below the waist.
All I could see in the ruin of my sight was the disgust curling her lips.
"Just die like the rat you are."
One final, savage stroke carved deep channels down my spine, severing cord and life alike.
Then rough hands seized my ankles. My mother's corpse was gathered beside me. Together we were dragged, limp, broken, bleeding, toward the roaring pyres that had once been our village.
Meanwhile, across the burning square, Dabi stood victorious.Erin Heart's severed head dangled from his gauntleted fist, lifeless eyes staring blankly at nothing. No triumph lit Dabi's features, only a faint, weary disgust.
From the shadow of a scorched tree Dalia emerged, dragging our corpses behind her like trophies.
"Dabi," she called lightly, "you've finally finished that fool."
His expression darkened further.
"Look how she toyed with the child," he said quietly. "She played with his body before granting death."
"Dalia… was that necessary?"
She laughed once, a sharp, ugly sound, and flung our corpses into the heart of the flames.
"Why show mercy to the spawn of a traitor?"
She watched impassively as flesh blackened, bones cracked in the heat, marrow boiling away. Only when nothing remained but ash did she turn, signaling the army to withdraw.
"Contract fulfilled."
Then the voice came, not from the world of flame and ruin, but from somewhere deeper.
Race change: Bottomless Pit
Rank: Unknown
Blade: Abyssal Sword
Stamina: 5 , Comprehension: 15
Strength: 4 , Mana: 0 , Senses: 3
Reward for the first of your race: 10 points
I could not speak.
I could not scream.
Only the voice of a great serpentine creature coiled around my body.
"Am I dead?" I wondered.
The answer arrived from every direction at once.
"Yes. You are dead. But that condition will soon change."
Something sinuous wrapped around my neck, cool scales, powerful coils.
"Child of the Abyss… at last I have found you."
The presence scanned my soul with clinical curiosity.
"Where is Mother?" I demanded, clinging to the fragile hope that this was nightmare, not truth.
No answer came,only that cold, unblinking regard.
"Truly pitiful," the voice hissed. "An ant who cannot change anything dares to bare its fangs."
"They are all gone. Dead. Not even a trace of life remains in this village."
For reasons I could not fathom, my heart grew strangely calm, as though some ravenous thing had already devoured my capacity for further grief.
"Your body is undergoing reconstruction," the serpent continued. "In less than two days you will be reborn into your new glory."
Curiosity pierced the numbness.
"Who are you?"
The voice deepened, resonant as an ancient dragon stirring in its mountain tomb.
"I am the Abyssal Sword, Anki the Formless."
It spoke with calm, feminine precision.
"Right now you exist in soul-state." Then it further explained "When your father drove me into your heart, I awakened. But full awakening demanded your death. Only through true extinction could the contract be sealed."
A pause, almost amused.
"Who could have foreseen I would encounter a true Pit, one of the children of the Abyss God himself?"
Suddenly the coils unwound from my neck.
I discovered I could move, arms, legs, fingers. My soul-body was no longer paralyzed.
Yet I could not see.
I lifted trembling hands to my face.
Empty sockets.
No eyes.
Only smooth, cold skin where sight should have been.
My mind went blank.
"Child of the Abyss," Anki murmured, "before your eyes could behold the beauties of the world, they were corrupted by false light, rendering them useless. Even if your flesh is rebuilt from the marrow outward, natural sight will never return."
A longer silence.
"So that means…" My voice emerged flat, emotionless. "…the God of Light permitted this abomination to descend upon my land."
No rage, No sorrow.
Only a gentle pulse of deep purple Aura was unfurled from my soul-body, spreading silently through the darkness like ink in still water.