Ethan "Iron Fist" Wolfe was a name that shook the fighting world. An MMA prodigy, he had been at the pinnacle of human physicality, defeating opponents with an ease that made his rise seem inevitable. His body was a perfect instrument of destruction—muscles honed to perfection, reflexes faster than most could comprehend, and a mind sharpened by years of fighting. Yet, despite the fame, the riches, and the glory, there had always been an emptiness inside him, a void that no victory could fill.
One night, after a brutal championship fight, Ethan found himself alone in his penthouse, his body bruised but still capable of delivering death with a single punch. He sat in front of his floor-to-ceiling windows, staring at the city below, lost in thought. He reached for his whiskey, the glass trembling in his hand as his thoughts wandered into the abyss of self-doubt.
Then, a flash of light. A sudden crackling sound, like thunder splitting the sky, and the world around him twisted. Before he could even react, everything went black.
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When Ethan awoke, it wasn't his penthouse that greeted him. His body felt different—heavier, denser. He looked around, disoriented, as the air around him reeked of decay and magic. The sky above was blood-red, and the ground beneath him was a dark stone, cracked and uneven. Towering structures loomed in the distance—ancient, grotesque, and suffused with dark energy.
"What the hell…" Ethan muttered, his voice rasping. His once familiar physique felt…wrong, as if he had been forced into a new, unfamiliar shell. The familiar weight of his fists and muscles was replaced by an odd sense of power, raw and untamed. But before he could process it, a rush of memories flooded his mind—alien memories, not his own.
He wasn't just Ethan Wolfe anymore.
He was someone else.
A name rose to his consciousness: **Darius Morgath**, the youngest son of **Bartholus Morgath**, the most infamous dark mage in history. Bartholus had plunged entire kingdoms into chaos, his name a whispered curse in the lands. A being of unimaginable cruelty, he had left a legacy of torment and suffering that had cast a shadow across the world. But despite his father's legend, Darius was a nobody—a second-tier son, born of one of his many concubines, destined to be nothing more than a footnote in the family's monstrous history.
Except now, Darius was Ethan. Or Ethan was Darius. It didn't matter. What mattered was that he was in a world that was unlike any he had ever known—a world of magic, blood, and ruthless power. The air around him thrummed with latent energy, but it was unlike anything he had ever felt before. This was a world where even the weakest had the potential to tear apart armies.
And it was a world where he was already at a disadvantage.
Ethan—or Darius—stood, his legs unsteady as the strange new body took its first steps. The memories of Darius Morgath were already shifting in his mind, fueling his sense of purpose. The Morgath bloodline was notorious, but it was also feared. Darius's father, Bartholus, was a god among men—an evil god. His power had shaped the world's very fabric, leaving ripples of suffering in his wake.
And now, Darius was expected to walk in those shadows.
But Ethan wasn't one to be content with merely surviving. He had always sought greatness, and even in this foreign world, that hunger burned brighter than ever. He wouldn't be a mere pawn in this twisted game. He would rise. He would crush everything in his path.
As his feet sunk into the cold stone, a voice echoed from the darkness.
"Ah, you've finally awoken. I thought I might have to dispose of you after your pathetic display in the Mage Trials."
Ethan's gaze snapped upward. A figure stood in the shadows, a cloaked figure, their face obscured. But Ethan knew who it was—the family's *Master of Shadows*, the one who had been entrusted with Darius's training in this dark world. The figure stepped forward, revealing a face half-covered in a veil of shadow magic.
"You… you're the one who brought me here?" Ethan asked, his tone cold, his instincts flaring. He could sense the powerful aura of the figure—the magic radiating off them was potent, dangerous. This was no ordinary tutor.
"Of course," the figure replied, voice laced with amusement. "You've been thrust into the most ruthless world imaginable. Your father's legacy weighs heavily upon you. But the question is—will you be able to bear it?"
Ethan clenched his fists, feeling the strange, unfamiliar power surging through his veins. It wasn't just physical strength, but something deeper, more refined—magical power. His mind began to process the new memories, the abilities that came with being Darius Morgath.
A system appeared in front of him, a golden prompt hovering in the air like a dream:
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**Class: Dual Path – Mage & Swordsman**
**Bloodline: Morgath, Son of Bartholus**
**Unique Skill: Shadow's Grasp**
**Unlocking Ability: Infernal Fury**
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Ethan stared at the system with cold determination. A dual class—a mage and a swordsman? He had always favored fists in his previous life, but this—this was power unlike anything he had ever dreamed. His body, his fists—everything had changed, but with this new bloodline, he had the potential to wield magic, to use swords, to become something more.
"Is this a test?" Ethan asked, his voice low, dangerous.
The figure nodded. "A test, yes. A test of your potential. But make no mistake, Darius Morgath—this is also a test of survival. There are many who would see your bloodline eradicated. But if you can survive, if you can carve a name for yourself in this wretched world, then you may one day surpass your father's legacy. But that is not the only choice."
The figure's tone shifted, becoming dark and chilling. "You can also choose to fall into obscurity, become a puppet in the hands of those who truly wield power. You may even end up like your many half-siblings, forgotten and discarded when their usefulness runs out."
Ethan's eyes narrowed. "I'll carve my own path. I don't need anyone's approval."
The figure seemed pleased with his response, stepping back into the shadows. "Very well. Prove yourself, Darius Morgath. Prove that you have the strength to survive in this brutal world. The first trial awaits."
With a wave of the figure's hand, the air around Ethan twisted and blurred, and suddenly, a massive arena materialized before him. He could hear the sounds of battle—screams, grunts, the clash of steel and magic—echoing in the distance.
The figure's voice echoed one last time. "Kill or be killed. That is the rule here. Welcome to your new life."
Ethan stepped forward, his eyes hard with resolve. This was the beginning of his rise. It was time to show the world that a son of evil could become its greatest conqueror.
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