The wind howled a mournful dirge through the skeletal remains of the city of Veridia, a song of despair echoing the lives of its inhabitants. Veridia, once a beacon of prosperity, was now a festering wound on the face of the world, ruled with an iron fist by King Malachi, a man whose heart was as cold as the obsidian mines that bled the lifeblood from the land. The King's greed had consumed the kingdom, twisting it into a grotesque hierarchy where the rich and noble reveled in luxury while the poor, like discarded scraps, were left to rot

Laspi, at the tender age of five, had witnessed the brutality of Malachi's reign firsthand. His parents, once hardworking merchants, had fallen victim to the King's insatiable greed, their livelihood stripped away, their meager savings plundered. He remembered the fear in his mother's eyes as she shielded him from the King's sons, their laughter echoing with cruel delight as they taunted and beat his father. He saw his father's face contort in pain, his screams swallowed by the cold silence of the night, his life snuffed out by a brutal blow from one of the King's sadistic offspring

His mother, a broken shell of her former self, was forced into servitude, subjected to the relentless cruelty of the King's sons. Laspi was ripped from her arms, his cries of anguish falling on deaf ears. His sister, barely a year old, was stolen away by the King, her innocent face lost to the depths of the castle's dark corridors

Laspi, now a frail and hollowed shell of a child, was thrown into the unforgiving streets of Veridia. He was just another face in the crowd, a nameless, faceless entity, a pawn in the King's twisted game. The streets became his home, his sanctuary a cold corner beneath a dilapidated building, his blanket the remnants of a torn canvas

The years rolled by, a constant ache in his soul, a reminder of the life he had lost. His days were a relentless cycle of hunger, hardship, and the ever-present fear that followed him like a shadow. He learned to steal, to scavenge, to survive. But his heart remained a cold, empty void, a monument to the suffering he endured

When he turned nine, a flicker of hope ignited in his despair. While working in the depths of the obsidian mines, a cold hand clasped his own. He looked up, his heart pounding in his chest, and saw a figure cloaked in shadows. The creature spoke, its voice a whisper that echoed within him, promising power beyond comprehension

"Young boy," the creature rasped, "you are chosen. I see your pain, your suffering. I will grant you the power to rise above this world, to become a god. You will have vengeance, power beyond imagination. But it comes at a price."

Laspi, his mind clouded by desperation and the promise of retribution, felt a strange glimmer of hope ignite within him. The creature's words were a poison that seeped into his soul, twisting his desire for revenge into an insatiable hunger for power

As he stared into the abyss of the mine, a dark shadow flickered across his face. The path laid before him was one of suffering, a road paved with the bones of the innocent. But Laspi, starved for power and consumed by a thirst for vengeance, was ready to walk it. The price of his ambition, however, would be far greater than he could ever imagine