Aryn Valorn wiped the sweat from his brow as he squinted up at the midday sun. The path ahead was nothing more than a narrow trail carved into the side of a mountain, barely wide enough for one person to traverse. Loose rocks crumbled underfoot, tumbling down the steep slope to disappear into the mist-shrouded abyss below. Aryn adjusted the strap of his worn leather pack and pressed on, each step sending a sharp jolt of pain through his blistered feet.
He had been traveling for days, chasing after the rumors of Eldara's Abyss—the ancient battlefield where legends said heroes once clashed with gods. Most people in Thornvale called it a fool's errand, a desperate man's last attempt at finding something worth dying for. Aryn couldn't deny the desperation part. He was an adventurer in name only, barely scraping by on odd jobs and the occasional scavenging run. If the stories about the ruins were true, there could be something of value left behind. Something that could change his luck.
Or kill him. But then again, luck had never been on Aryn's side.
The wind picked up as he neared the peak, howling through the crags and whipping his hair into his eyes. Aryn shivered, pulling his tattered cloak tighter around his shoulders. The temperature was dropping rapidly, and the once-clear sky was now obscured by thick, swirling clouds. He needed to find shelter, and fast.
Just as he began to despair, Aryn spotted an opening in the rock face ahead—a narrow cave entrance, half-hidden by overgrown vines and rubble. Relief washed over him, and he hurried toward it, nearly tripping over the uneven ground in his haste. The cave was shallow, barely deep enough to shield him from the elements, but it was dry, and that was good enough.
Aryn dropped his pack with a grunt, wincing as his muscles protested the sudden release of weight. He rummaged through it until he found a piece of dried meat, gnawing on it as he surveyed his surroundings. The cave walls were rough, jagged stone, but there was something odd about them. Symbols, barely visible, were etched into the rock—ancient runes, long worn down by time.
His curiosity piqued, Aryn set aside his meal and leaned in closer, tracing a finger over the faint markings. He couldn't read them—few could, as the language was older than any living memory—but he knew they were important. The stories spoke of such runes, left behind by the gods themselves.
Aryn's heart began to race. Could this be it? Could this be Eldara's Abyss?
He stood, adrenaline pushing aside his fatigue, and ventured deeper into the cave. The tunnel narrowed as he went, forcing him to stoop low to avoid the jagged ceiling. The air grew colder, and a sense of unease settled over him like a heavy cloak. Every instinct told him to turn back, but Aryn pressed on, driven by the thought of what might lie ahead.
After what felt like an eternity, the tunnel opened up into a vast chamber. Aryn froze at the entrance, eyes wide with awe. The cavern was enormous, the ceiling lost in shadow, with massive stone pillars rising from the ground like the trunks of ancient trees. The floor was littered with debris—shattered weapons, fragments of armor, and the skeletal remains of those who had perished here long ago.
But it wasn't the bones or the ruins that caught Aryn's attention. It was the altar.
At the center of the chamber stood a massive stone altar, carved from black granite and adorned with more of those mysterious runes. It pulsed with a faint, eerie glow, as if alive, as if it was waiting for something. For someone.
Aryn approached it cautiously, every step echoing in the cavernous space. The closer he got, the more he could feel it—a strange energy, thrumming through the air, making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He reached out, hesitant, and touched the surface of the altar.
Pain. Blinding, searing pain shot through his hand and up his arm, like molten fire coursing through his veins. Aryn cried out, stumbling backward, but the pain didn't stop. It spread, engulfing his entire body, burning him from the inside out. His vision blurred, the world spinning around him as he collapsed to his knees, gasping for breath.
And then, just as suddenly as it began, the pain vanished.
Aryn was left kneeling on the cold stone floor, drenched in sweat, his heart pounding in his chest. He tried to stand, but his legs were too weak, trembling uncontrollably. What had just happened? What had he done?
Before he could collect his thoughts, a voice echoed in his mind. Cold, distant, and ancient.
"You have awakened the Ascension System, mortal. You are chosen."
Aryn's breath hitched. Chosen? By who? For what? The questions tumbled through his mind, but the voice continued, ignoring his confusion.
"The path to ascension is fraught with peril. Power awaits you, but so too does the curse of Zylarion. Your fate is sealed, Aryn Valorn. Rise, and claim your destiny."
With those final words, the voice faded, leaving Aryn alone in the cavern once more. But something had changed. He could feel it, deep within his core—a new presence, a power unlike anything he had ever known. The Ascension System.
He had no idea what it meant, what it would require of him, or what this curse was, but one thing was clear.
Aryn Valorn's life had just taken a turn he could never have imagined.
And there was no turning back.