It's been over two centuries since humanity's great leap forward, an era of unimaginable advancement. But the explosion of knowledge and technology was just the beginning. Now, a strange new energy has entered Earth's atmosphere—mana. Its arrival changed everything.
Half of the world's animals mutated overnight. Legendary creatures, once extinct or lost to myths, returned to roam the Earth. As if summoned by this shift, beings from the supernatural realms emerged from the shadows—creatures once confined to our wildest imaginations. Werewolves, vampires, dracotaurs… even humans with extraordinary abilities: invisibility, lightning control, teleportation, eyes that see beyond time, and some with the rare power of sheer luck.
Earth became a battleground of factions, a world ruled by power. Ordinary humans? They fell to the bottom of the food chain.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Another day. Jamir groaned, rolling over in his bed. Maybe they've forgotten about me, he thought. It'd be nice to stay under the radar for once.
He closed his eyes, trying to push away the flood of thoughts. I miss you, Mom. And Dad… where are you? It's been eight years. Eight freaking years.
Jamir clenched his fists, a pang of frustration cutting through his chest. Everyone else has powers. Anna can teleport; Dan absorbs matter and energy like it's nothing. They were destined for greatness while he… well, he was just trying to stay out of trouble in this rundown dump. Will I ever awaken?
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Jamir's head snapped up. Who'd be knocking here?
Cautiously, he opened the door. Standing there was a figure in a cloak, its fabric dark and weathered, traced with strange golden symbols that pulsed faintly in the dim light.
"Are you… Jamir?" a raspy voice asked from beneath the hood.
The cloaked figure reached out a skeletal hand, offering a thick, ancient-looking book. The cover was blackened, with a dragon skull engraved in the center, hollow eyes staring back at Jamir. Beneath the skull, a title glinted in faint letters:
"The 55 Dances of Destruction."
Jamir blinked, bewildered. "What… what's this book?"
But when he looked up, the cloaked man was gone—vanished as if he'd never been there.
The 55 Dances of Destruction? Jamir ran his fingers over the rough cover. A strange thrill bubbled inside him, his curiosity overwhelming. When he set the book down on his desk, an intense vision washed over him.
---
He was in the midst of a battlefield, surrounded by the roar of war. Soldiers in black armor with the same golden markings as the cloaked man clashed in brutal combat. Their movements were almost poetic—every twist, every swing of their weapons like steps in a deadly dance that left waves of destruction in its wake.
Jamir's gaze locked onto a young woman commanding the battlefield. She wore shining gold and bulky armor, her hand wielding a wickedly sharp chain blade. Behind her, a massive mammoth with gleaming tusks trampled through the ranks.
She stepped down from her mount, releasing an aura so intense that it radiated both beauty and death. With a single swing of her blade, she cut through thousands, the ground littered with the fallen. Raising her free hand, she unleashed a storm of lightning that rained down indiscriminately, annihilating both friend and foe.
High above, Jamir saw a man with a pale face and a long beard, riding a fierce black wyvern. Its wings blazed with fire, and its clawed feet shimmered like ice. The man's eyes were locked on the woman. Raising a spear infused with dark energy, he hurled it with devastating force at her mammoth.
"Bavi, no!" the woman cried, horror flooding her face as the spear struck her loyal beast.
In that instant, she tore off her helmet, her face revealed. Jamir felt his heart jolt, his voice caught in his throat as he whispered in disbelief:
"Mom?"
The vision shattered, and Jamir found himself back in his room, his heart racing, his fingers trembling over the book.
First Dance: Phantom Flare
The description read: "Deliver a series of strikes in quick succession—chest, stomach, knee, head—using only fists, knees, and elbows." Jamir studied the intricate diagrams, noting how every movement seemed both fluid and brutal. How am I supposed to learn this without a teacher?
---
With a deep breath, Jamir began, attempting to mimic the dance as best he could. Each strike was followed by another—chest, knee, head, elbows—but it was exhausting. An hour in, he felt like his limbs were made of lead. Finally, he managed to complete the sequence, but something still felt off. He was slow. Empty.
Frustrated, Jamir glanced back at the book, noticing a strange script scrawled along the margin. Oddly, he could understand it, as if the words were meant just for him:
"Those who forge the heart of a warrior will face no limits, only endless potential. One must confront the truth within. A life lived oblivious to oneself is like a shadow—a dead, empty existence. Look within yourself, young warrior. Subdue what you lack."
Is this… talking about some kind of meditation? Jamir wondered. He closed the book and sat down, focusing on the Phantom Flare in his mind's eye, visualizing each strike, feeling the energy flow through him.
Unseen, a shadow moved in the corner of the room.
"Come out, you creep!" Jamir's voice sliced through the silence, low and fierce, almost a growl. "I know you're there!"
In an instant, the cloaked figure appeared before him, revealing himself as a man in his mid-thirties. He looked at Jamir with a faint, amused smile.
"You dare to speak with such ferocity when clarity is what's needed?" The stranger's voice was cold, almost mocking. "You're just like your mother—naive and fierce."