Three centuries ago, the heavens tore apart with a sound like the wailing of gods, a deafening roar that shook the earth and made mountains tremble. The sky cracked open like a wound that refused to heal, bleeding despair into the hearts of all who gazed upon it. From that fissure came the unending tide of demons, blackening the lands and drowning nations. The crack in the sky was no mere scar; it was a wound that bled despair into the world. The Incarnates, the ones chosen by gods, are humanity's way of resisting the demons' takeover. These Incarnates possess superhuman powers that defy common sense. Most are good, reflecting the nature of their divine patrons. But not always.
Through relentless strength and unimaginable sacrifice, humanity clung to survival, their hope flickering like a fragile candle against an encroaching storm. In that time, the world has changed. Cities once known have been reshaped, combining medieval simplicity in food and clothing with advanced technology—most of it dedicated to the war. Nations have fallen; everything has been rebuilt.
Our story begins in Lorthal, a remote village far from the tensions of the front lines. This is the tale of Kael, a young man who has just reached the age of fifteen. Kael dreamed of becoming a great Incarnate, one who would make his family proud and carve a name for himself in history.
Kael's family lived on the edges of survival, their poverty etched into the sagging beams of their home and the frayed edges of their lives. Despite his circumstances, he trained day and night with his sword, determined to improve. Today, however, his training was driven by a different reason: his coming-of-age ceremony. The annual event saw every fifteen-year-old tested by the village priest. With the help of a divine stone—a relic infused with ancient machinery—the priest would measure the probability of being chosen by a god. It was only a probability, but for many, it was a glimpse of hope.
Kael's wooden sword cut through the heavy air, his strikes unsteady but determined. With each swing, he clung to the thought of the coming ceremony. "I have to show a good percentage," he told himself, each word driving him forward. His hands ached, his arms felt leaden, but he kept moving, chasing the faint hope that this day would be different.
Nearby, a group of his peers passed by, their laughter cutting through the air.
"Look at him," one boy jeered, his voice loud enough to carry but soft enough to sting, his lips curling into a sneer as he nudged his companion with an elbow. "All that swinging, like he thinks he's an Incarnate already. He hasn't even won once."
"No surprise," another added with a sneer. "He's from the lowest class. How could someone like him have talent for the sword?"
They laughed and walked away, leaving Kael clutching the hilt of his wooden sword, his anger bubbling like molten iron beneath his skin. His grip tightened as their voices faded, but the word they left behind lingered: "Weak." Their voices echoed in his mind, sharp and cutting: "Weak." The word hung there, relentless, feeding the fire in his chest. He tightened his grip on the sword and swung harder, as though each strike might silence the jeers, the laughter, and the weight of his insignificance.
"One day," he muttered to himself, his voice low but fierce. "One day I'll surpass all of you." The blade shuddered with each strike, as though it, too, was tired of being wielded by unskilled hands. His muscles screamed, but he didn't stop. He couldn't stop. Sweat dripped down his face, stinging his eyes, as the ground beneath him turned dark with effort. He practiced as if striking down his failures, one swing at a time.
As he practiced, a young woman approached him, her presence breaking his focus. She had blonde hair, slightly messy, and wore a tattered dress that did little to diminish her natural beauty. Her smile was radiant, enough to lift anyone's spirits. She bent down, grabbed Kael's discarded shirt, and tossed it at him.
"Kael! The priest has arrived. The ceremony is about to start. Go quickly!" she said.
Kael caught the shirt mid-air, his chest rising and falling with effort. "It's time?" he asked, his voice caught between a breathless hope and lingering dread. His sister's gentle smile softened the edges of his nerves.
"Really," she replied with a laugh. "Now hurry up!"
Kael's face brightened, a rare flicker of light in the shadowed corners of his life. He yanked his shirt on, his feet carrying him toward the square as if drawn by the threads of destiny itself. His mind raced with thoughts of the ceremony. "This is it," he thought. "If I'm chosen, I can make my family proud. I can make a name for myself." The excitement built with each step. "Who cares if I'm bad with swords? If I get chosen by a god who uses magic or a different weapon, I'll find my strength."
In the square, five others stood waiting. The priest, an elderly man in faded robes, placed the divine stone on a wooden table. One by one, the youths stepped forward, placing their hands on the stone. The priest announced their probabilities: 15%, 12%, 6%, 22%. Each result drew murmurs from the crowd. Even a 30% probability was considered extraordinary in Lorthal.
Finally, it was Kael's turn. His heart pounded as he stepped forward. He placed his hand on the stone, its cold surface sending a shiver through him. The machine hummed, and light began to build. For a brief moment, it grew brighter than anyone had ever seen. Gasps rippled through the crowd.
"This is it," Kael thought, his heart racing. Hope surged in his chest, overwhelming his doubt. "Could it be? Am I special after all?"
The light flared brilliantly, seeming to rewrite his fate—only to gutter out, leaving behind a void that mirrored the pit forming in Kael's stomach. A single number burned into the air above the stone: 0%.
Silence fell over the square. The priest's face was a mix of confusion and unease. The crowd erupted into murmurs.
"Zero?" someone whispered, their voice trembling with disbelief. "That's impossible. It's never happened before."
"What does it mean?" another asked.
Kael's gaze locked on the number—0%—as if seeing it made it real. His pulse roared in his ears, a sickening drumbeat of disbelief. The priest's voice cracked, softer than a whisper yet echoing louder than the world around him. "Kael Eryndor... zero percent."
Laughter broke the tension. "Even the gods don't want him!" Daren's voice rang out, sharp and mocking.
Kael staggered, his vision swimming. Faces dissolved into smears, the ground tilting beneath him. His breath hitched, the air refusing to fill his lungs. Sweat trickled down his back as his hands began to tremble.
"No," he thought, his voice an echo in his spinning mind. "This is a dream… just a dream." The world tilted, the murmurs of the crowd warping into a distant hum, meaningless and unreal. He tried to focus, but the number—0%—seared into his mind, unrelenting, as though mocking his very existence.
For a fleeting moment, Kael thought he might wake up. He wanted to wake up. But the cold stone beneath his hand grounded him in the truth—an unforgiving, unchangeable truth.
The crowd's noise faded further, swallowed by the roar of his own pulse. His legs buckled slightly, and for a second, he thought he might collapse. Then, like a lifeline, he felt Elara's hand on his shoulder, steadying him.
"Kael," she said softly, her voice barely piercing the haze around him. Her presence was warm, but it couldn't stop the tidal wave of despair washing over him. Every dream he had, every hope, shattered in that moment, scattering like ash in the wind.
Kael's gaze dropped to the stone as his fingers slid away. "What now?" he whispered, his words lost in the cacophony of his spiraling thoughts.