Immortality is the flame that lures even gods into the abyss. They would claw at the threads of their own divinity, strip themselves bare of pride, just to grasp it—ignorant of the price it demands. To live beyond time is not to conquer death, but to drown in its shadow, again and again.

A wise man once said that with great power comes great responsibility but I say that—great power comes at a great price.

Who am I? And why am I telling you this you ask?

Well! That's a great question, let me see what's my name again? s...sa...se... Ha! I got it! It's Serion Veyl. 

it seems that I have forgotten it for a second. My memory has gotten a bit hazy, you know living for so long I even stopped counting time after 1000 years. I don't even know which era it is now.

As for myself in my prime people used to associate me with different titles, some called me warden of the void, some as the corrupted saviour while others as the ashen sovereign. 

But each name was a reflection cast by another's gaze, fleeting and hollow. If you ask me of all these titles what do I prefer the most, well I would say why bother.

"Names are nothing but whispers on the wind, fragile echoes that fade with time. They are cages crafted by others, shallow attempts to define what they cannot comprehend. A name is a mask, a flicker of meaning in a void that cares for none of it.

Do you think the storm cares what you call it? Does the abyss pause to answer to a name? Power does not require a title, and darkness does not need a voice. I am what I am—not because of the name given to me, but because of the will I have forged and the path I have carved.

Call me what you like. It changes nothing. A name is a fleeting shadow, but the fear, the silence, the inevitability I bring—those are eternal."

This is the story of my pursuit for power, the strength to stumble upon the heavens and the earth and the price I had to pay for it.

"I was born in a magical world shaped by power—power carved into the flesh, bound to the soul. Imprinted on the back of our hand We call them crests. To most, they are gifts, a sacred inheritance passed down by the gods. A crest defines you from the moment it appears. It whispers of your potential, your strengths, your purpose. It is your identity, your worth, your fate.

In this world, power is not earned. It is assigned. A blacksmith's crest might let him forge steel that bends to his will, a soldier's crest might sharpen his reflexes and blade, while a scholar's crest might grant him insight into the mysteries of the arcane. But these gifts do not come equally. Some are born with marks of greatness, while others are left to languish in mediocrity, shackled by their inferior crests.

Crests are everything here. They are currency, authority, and survival. The strong thrive, and the weak... are forgotten. This is the truth of our world. A truth we are taught to accept, to embrace. But power has a price. The stronger the crest, the heavier the burden it brings.

And yet, no one questions it. Not the kings in their thrones, nor the peasants in the dirt. They worship these marks, these symbols of divine favour. They fear them. They live and die by them.

That is the world I was born into—a world ruled not by choice, but by the marks burned into our skin. A world that demands obedience, that crushes those who stray from the roles it has written for them. A world that rewards conformity and punishes defiance.

But not everyone plays by its rules."

So am I who was an anomaly in the void. A piece of puzzle which never fits in the cracks.

"But crests are not the only force that governs us. Beneath the surface, another power stirs—one far older, far more elusive. We call them Echoes. They are fragments of those who came before us: warriors, scholars, rulers, and villains. Their memories, their essence, linger in the fabric of existence, waiting to be claimed.

Not everyone can hear them. It takes more than strength or ambition. It takes... resonance. When a person's soul aligns with an Echo, they awaken a power that defies the limits of their crest. Through an Echo, the past whispers its secrets, lending its strength, its knowledge, its fury.

But Echoes are not gifts freely given. They are dangerous. Unstable. They demand understanding, control, a bond forged in struggle and will. Those who fail to master their Echo risk losing themselves, their minds consumed by the voices of the past.

And still, there are those who seek them. Desperate souls, driven by ambition or necessity, willing to gamble their sanity for the chance to transcend their limits. To wield power that even the gods fear.

Crests define who we are. Echoes challenge who we can become. Together, they form the foundation of this world's power—a balance of destiny and defiance. But balances are fragile things. Even the smallest disruption can send them crashing down."

I am an anomaly in the void. A piece of a puzzle that never fits the cracks. Perhaps that's why I was cast aside—feared, hated, reviled. They did not understand me, nor did they try. In their eyes, I was an abomination, a shadow cast too long, too dark. But in their ignorance, they gave me clarity.

The world may brand me a monster, but monsters, you see, are born when the world is cruel enough to make them. And I? I embraced that cruelty. Because to survive, you must first conquer. To rise above the chains of mortality, you must be willing to forge your own path, even if it is paved with the ashes of others.

Immortality is not a gift. It is a prize. A prize hidden in the depths of legends, buried beneath the ruins of a forgotten age. Echoes whisper of it—of gods who sacrificed themselves to protect it, of mortals who dared to reach for it and were burned. A flame eternal, hidden beyond the reach of even the Eternals themselves.

And I will find it.

They say to search for immortality is to court madness. But I have no need for sanity. Sanity is a luxury for those content with the fleeting, those who accept the lie of an end. Me? I will cast off this flesh, this weakness, and become something greater. To do so, I must burn brighter than anyone before me, even if it consumes everything in my path.

The first step toward immortality lies in the ruins of Arkhaven, an ancient city lost to time. Its Echoes sing of secrets—secrets of the Shapers themselves. The Eternals have forbidden entry, claiming the ruins are cursed, a domain of the Mantle's wrath. But I care not for their rules. Rules are nothing but walls built to keep the ambitious in check.

Under the cover of night, I made my way through the frostbitten mountains, where Arkhaven's remnants slumbered beneath layers of ice and time. The journey was perilous. The cold clawed at my skin, the howling winds whispered promises of death. But fear is an indulgence I have long since abandoned.

When I reached the gates of Arkhaven, I understood why the Eternals feared this place. The air was heavy, suffused with an unnatural energy. Symbols etched in stone pulsed faintly, resonating with a power far older than the Mantle itself.

I knelt before one of the carvings, running my gloved hand over its surface. The stone was warm, alive with whispers. The Echoes of Arkhaven reached out to me, faint and fragmented, a cacophony of voices that spoke of pain, betrayal, and sacrifice.

"This is it," I murmured, my voice barely audible over the rising storm.

To most, these ruins would be a graveyard. To me, they were a map—a labyrinth of forgotten knowledge that would lead me to my goal.

But I was not alone.

The faint crunch of snow behind me made me turn, hand instinctively going to the hilt of my blade. From the shadows emerged a figure, cloaked and hooded, their face obscured. They carried no crest upon their visible flesh, which made them either a fool or something far worse.

"You shouldn't be here," the figure said, their voice calm but laced with warning.

I smirked. "Neither should you."

They drew closer, revealing a glimmering shard of crystal in their hand—a fragment of a crest, severed from its owner. My gaze narrowed. "A Mantle Hunter?"

The figure nodded. "And you're the anomaly everyone whispers about. Serion Veyl, the cursed one. The one who defies the Mantle's will."

I tilted my head, my smirk fading. "What of it?"

"Arkhaven belongs to the Mantle," he said. "And those who defile it pay the ultimate price."

"Good," I replied, unsheathing my blade. "Because the price of power is the only currency I deal in."