The night was heavy with magic, thick and suffocating like a burial shroud. Ancient stone pillars, cracked with age, formed a decaying circle in the heart of the Ashen Wastes. The ritual had begun.
A dozen figures, clad in blackened robes, stood motionless. Their shadows twisted unnaturally, stretching toward the center of the gathering where a lone figure knelt—Veyrath, the Betrayed One. Chains of cursed obsidian bound his limbs, locking him into submission. His once-magnificent form, sculpted by millennia of power, was now skeletal and frail, his magic sealed by the very people he had once called kin.
"You have defied the Pact," intoned a deep voice. It belonged to Ezael, the leader of the cabal—a Mahjra'ka of terrible power, a king among their dying kind.
Veyrath met his gaze, his crimson eyes burning with an intensity that belied his current weakness. "The Pact is a lie," he spat. "You bow to fate like cowards, sacrificing our strength for fleeting survival."
A ripple of energy passed through the assembled Mahjra'ka. Some averted their gazes; others curled their lips in disdain.
"The Ritual of Blood must be upheld," Ezael continued, unshaken. "Without it, our kind will fade into nothing."
"Then let us fade!" Veyrath roared, straining against his bindings. "I would rather die a thousand times than kneel to the cycle that keeps us weak!"
For the first time, Ezael's cold mask wavered. Pity flickered in his gaze.
"No, Veyrath," he said softly. "You will not die. You will be erased."
The chant resumed, the voices of the gathered Mahjra'ka rising in unison. The circle ignited in a darkened glow, symbols of power swirling in a dance of doom. The ritual was not one of death, but exile—a fate far crueler.
The world twisted. Veyrath felt his very essence being ripped from reality, his power shredded to nothing. The last thing he saw was Ezael's regretful gaze.
Then—darkness.
Pain.
It was the first thing Veyrath knew. A pain unlike anything he had ever experienced, raw and suffocating, as though his body was rejecting existence itself.
When his senses returned, he realized he was lying on scorched earth beneath a twilight sky. The land stretched endlessly in all directions, jagged obsidian spires piercing the heavens like the remnants of some long-forgotten war.
This was not the world he knew.
Veyrath pushed himself up, his limbs trembling. He felt weak—pathetically weak. His once-boundless magic was reduced to a flickering ember, his body barely able to support itself. The Mahjra'ka were creatures of power, sustained by their ancient bloodlines and rituals. But here, in this unknown land, he was nothing.
He clenched his fists. This was no ordinary exile. They had stripped him of his strength, his very identity.
A bitter chuckle escaped his lips. "So this is how they rid themselves of me? By casting me into a world that does not remember me?"
He looked down at himself, inspecting the extent of his degradation. His once-immortal body had changed. His flesh was gaunt, his arms thinner than they had ever been. He had been reduced to the state of a mere mortal.
Status Window
Name: Veyrath
Race: Mahjra'ka (Weakened)
Level: 1
Health: 100/100
Mana: 5/1000
Strength: 3
Agility: 4
Endurance: 2
Magic: 5
Skills: None
Veyrath stared at the window in disbelief. Level 1. His power, which had once been beyond measure, was now quantified in a system designed to mock him.
A slow rage built in his chest.
"This is temporary," he muttered. "I will rise again."
A dry wind howled across the wastes, carrying the scent of something distant—life.
If there was life, there was power to be taken.
For the first time since his exile, Veyrath took a step forward.
Days passed. Veyrath survived on what little the land provided—bitter roots and stale water pooled in obsidian crevices. His power remained stagnant, but his body slowly adapted.
He began to hunt. Weak creatures, lizard-like scavengers, and twisted beasts that prowled the edges of the wastes. Each kill granted him experience, inching him toward the threshold of power.
+5 EXP
+3 EXP
+7 EXP
Progress was agonizingly slow, but it was progress nonetheless.
Then he saw them—the humans.
At first, he thought them mere wanderers, but as he observed from the shadows, he saw them fighting, leveling up, looting the bodies of fallen creatures as though it were a game.
They wielded weapons of steel and magic unlike anything he had seen before, speaking in strange tongues that his mind could not comprehend.
And then, he realized something else.
They were not of this world either.
They came in groups, moving with purpose. Some bore symbols of factions unknown to him, wearing gleaming armor that should have been impossible for their level.
They were growing stronger.
And worse—they hunted.
Not for food, not for survival—but for gain.
The realization was chilling.
This was a world of conquest. A world where strength was the only law.
A world that suited him perfectly.
Veyrath's lips curled into a cruel smile. If power was the only law, then he would become the strongest.
The next time he hunted, he no longer targeted the beasts of the wastes.
He set his sights on a lone human, a weak player—Level 5—who had strayed too far from their group.
Silent as the grave, Veyrath moved in for the kill.
A male, clad in ragged leather armor, his hands clutching a rusted sword as he moved through the obsidian wasteland. He was weak. Veyrath could tell from his sluggish movements, the way his eyes darted around nervously. He was afraid.
A prey animal in a world of hunters.
Veyrath crouched behind a jagged rock formation, his crimson eyes narrowing. This was the first time he had seen a human up close. Their kind had been nothing more than whispers in his past life—foreign invaders, trespassers on a world that was never meant to be theirs. But here, in this twisted version of reality, they were everywhere.
What were they? Why did they come in waves, always seeking to grow stronger, always killing?
He did not know. He did not care.
All that mattered was this: they bled like everything else.
The human hesitated near a corpse—a slain scavenger beast, its body torn open by a crude blade. He knelt, rummaging through the remains, searching for something of value. His mistake.
Veyrath moved.
The wind concealed his approach, his body still weak but trained by instinct older than this world itself. He did not hesitate, did not second-guess.
His fingers curled into a blade-like shape—one of the few martial techniques still buried in his bones.
A strike to the throat.
The human barely had time to gasp before his windpipe collapsed under Veyrath's clawed fingers. His rusted sword clattered to the ground as he stumbled back, eyes wide with shock, mouth opening and closing like a suffocating fish.
He reached for his belt—a potion.
Veyrath snarled. He would not allow it.
His second strike took the human in the chest, fingers piercing weak leather, cracking ribs beneath. The human crumpled to the ground, gasping, clutching at his ruined throat. His eyes met Veyrath's—begging, desperate.
Veyrath crushed his skull beneath his heel.
The body twitched once, then went still.
Silence.
Veyrath exhaled slowly, his body trembling. This was not the first time he had killed, but it was the first time in this world.
He felt it immediately.
A rush of warmth in his veins, a pulse of energy, subtle but undeniable. His body strengthened—a mere fraction, but it was there.
This was how they gained power, these humans. They killed, they looted, they grew stronger.
How primitive.
Veyrath knelt, inspecting the body. His fingers trailed over the rusted sword, the scraps of leather armor. Weak, useless. But then, he found something better—a small pouch tied to the human's belt.
Inside, he found two silver coins and a strip of dried meat.
He lifted the meat to his nose, sniffing. It was salted, preserved. Food.
His fingers clenched around the pouch. A single thought passed through his mind.
How many must I kill to regain what was stolen from me?
A slow smile crept across his lips.
As many as it takes.
Veyrath moved through the wastes, his steps surer than before.
He hunted again that night.
The second human was a woman—Level 6. Armed with a crude spear, she was more cautious than the first, her movements sharper, eyes scanning the terrain with experience.
She knew she was in danger.
It did not save her.
Veyrath used the shadows, the terrain. He struck from behind, drove his clawed fingers into her spine before she could even scream. The fight was over before it began.
Her pack was heavier than the last.
Inside, he found a small dagger, a few dried roots, a metal flask filled with water. More silver coins.
And a small, glowing shard of amber.
Veyrath held it up, watching the way it pulsed with an inner light. He could feel the power within it—tiny, but real.
A fragment of raw essence.
This world had many such things. He did not understand all of them yet, but he understood one thing:
Power could be stolen.
He crushed the shard in his palm. The energy seeped into his flesh, warm, tingling. Not much, but it was his now.
He would take more.
For the next two nights, Veyrath continued to hunt.
He learned quickly. The humans came in waves, always searching, always killing. Some worked alone, others in groups.
The weak ones died easily.
The strong ones… he avoided. For now.
Six kills.
Two more shards.
Enough silver to fill his hands.
Veyrath felt himself growing stronger. His movements were faster, his strikes deadlier. The humans did not know him yet, did not understand what stalked them in the wastes.
But then, on the third night, he heard something different.
Voices.
"…I swear, something's out here."
"We lost too many. This isn't normal."
"It's not a monster. Monsters don't hide the bodies."
Veyrath stilled. They had noticed.
It was only a matter of time.
Veyrath retreated to his makeshift shelter—a narrow crevice beneath an overhanging rock, hidden from casual sight. He sat, cross-legged, inspecting his spoils.
He had gained strength, experience, knowledge.
But it was not enough.
He needed more.
He needed magic.
In his past life, he had wielded spells that could level armies, bend reality. Now, he could barely summon a spark. His mana was weak, his reserves pitiful.
But he had something now—a foundation.
Magic in this world worked differently. He could feel it, see it in the way these humans wielded their spells. It was structured, bound to rules.
He would learn them. Then he would break them.
For now, there was only one way forward.
He needed a proper weapon.
The humans carried steel, enchanted blades, artifacts of power. If he was to grow, to rule, to reclaim his place, he needed more than just his hands.
His fingers tightened around the dagger he had taken. A pitiful thing. A crude tool.
Tomorrow, he would kill again.
But this time, he would hunt something stronger.