Chapter One: A Bargain in the Shadows

The multiverse was a graveyard of ambition. Once-bright worlds were reduced to husks, their skies dimmed and their soil infertile, drained of vitality by the overuse of magic and spiritual energy. Civilizations clung to life like parasites, unaware that the very foundations of their existence were eroding beneath them.

For most, the decay was an unsolvable mystery. For those in the shadows, like soul merchants, it was an opportunity.

At the heart of the decaying multiverse lay a man without a name—a soul merchant who had clawed his way to power by sheer cunning and ruthlessness. To his clients, he was known only as Maelvas, a name whispered in fear and desperation. But Maelvas had not always been this harbinger of doom. Once, he had been a mortal like any other: a laborer, a son, a slave.

Born into poverty on a dying world, Maelvas had known suffering intimately. His village had been sold to a warlord for the promise of protection, only to be harvested as fodder in a war they did not understand. He was dragged to the frontlines, stripped of freedom, and cast into servitude. Every day was a struggle to survive, but he had one rule: never bow.

That defiance, however, nearly cost him everything.

One fateful evening, in the aftermath of a failed uprising, Maelvas found himself bound and beaten, awaiting execution. But instead of a blade to the throat, he was visited by a figure wreathed in shadow—a novice soul merchant sent to claim the spoils of war.

"Your life has no worth," the merchant sneered, holding up a crystal vial. "But your soul? It will serve a greater purpose."

Maelvas did not beg. He listened. He observed. And in that moment of clarity, he saw something the merchant did not: inexperience.

The novice underestimated him. With a cunning born of desperation, Maelvas outwitted the merchant, exploiting a loophole in their hastily written contract. When the dust settled, the novice was dead, and Maelvas held their tools—a grimoire of Ethereal Script and a shard of their stolen essence.

This act of rebellion did not grant him freedom. It marked the beginning of his transformation.

Using the shard to sustain himself, Maelvas taught himself the art of soul manipulation. He carved out a small domain in the crumbling underbelly of his world, bartering fragments of stolen souls for power. Over time, he became what he despised most—a dealer of despair, a harvester of hope.

But unlike the merchant he had slain, Maelvas was careful. Every deal he made was precise, layered with clauses and traps designed to benefit him. He promised freedom to slaves, strength to the weak, and vengeance to the broken—all for a price they didn't truly understand until it was too late.

By the time Maelvas had mastered his craft, his world was no longer recognizable. The overuse of soul energy had rendered it barren, the once-lush forests now twisted and lifeless. Cities floated in the sky, desperate to escape the creeping desolation below, their leaders clutching at ancient relics to stave off collapse.

Yet even here, in the heart of decay, people dreamed. They dreamed of salvation, of power, of escape. And Maelvas was always there to offer it—for a cost.

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the ruins of a forgotten temple. Maelvas stood at the altar, cloaked in black, his eyes glinting like embers beneath his hood. Before him knelt a young man, his face streaked with dirt and tears.

"I… I don't care what it takes," the man stammered. "I want them dead. All of them. My family, my home—those bandits destroyed everything!"

Maelvas regarded him coldly. "And what would you give in return, mortal? Your soul?"

The man hesitated, but only for a moment. "If that's what it takes, then yes. My soul, my life, anything. Just grant me the power to kill them."

The merchant's lips curled into a predatory smile. He waved his hand, and the Ethereal Script appeared in the air—shimmering runes that twisted and writhed like living things.

"Very well," Maelvas said. "You will have your vengeance. But know this: the strength I give you will consume you. Each life you take will strip away a piece of your humanity. When you are nothing but a hollow shell, your soul will be mine."

The man's eyes burned with hatred. He didn't even read the contract before signing.

Maelvas snapped his fingers, and the air around them crackled with energy. A blade materialized in the young man's hands—a weapon forged from a fragment of his own soul. It pulsed with an unnatural light, promising carnage and destruction.

The man rose, his face a mask of determination. Without another word, he disappeared into the night, leaving Maelvas alone in the temple.

As the echoes of the man's footsteps faded, Maelvas turned his gaze to the horizon. The decaying sky bled hues of red and gold, a reminder of the multiverse's inevitable fate.

"People think they desire power," he murmured to himself. "But what they truly crave is freedom—from weakness, from pain, from the chains that bind them."

He stepped down from the altar, his cloak billowing behind him. "And yet, in seeking that freedom, they only bind themselves further. Fools."

The temple dissolved into shadow as Maelvas vanished, leaving behind no trace of his presence.

For him, this was just another day—a small step toward a much greater ambition. To rise above the decaying multiverse, to become an Eidolon, was not merely a dream. It was his destiny.

And nothing—not heroes, not rivals, not even the multiverse itself—would stand in his way.