The air was thick with the scent of decay, a stagnant reminder of a world that had long forgotten the true meaning of peace. In the city of Calevor, the wind carried whispers of ancient magic and a history drenched in blood. The streets were choked with ash, the remnants of a thousand battles fought for power, for survival, for nothing more than the twisted pursuit of eternal dominion. The Kingdom of Calevor, once a beacon of alchemical knowledge and fire magic, now lay in ruins, its once-beautiful spires reduced to crumbling silhouettes against a blood-red sky.
And above it all, the heavens flickered like dying embers. The gods, who once whispered their promises of power to the worthy, had fallen silent. The very fate of Varema had been sealed by the ambitions of those like Lysian Valthor—ambitious, ruthless, and hungry for more than what the world could give. But now, Lysian, the Regressor of Light Son, stood at the edge of his own broken destiny, alone in a world that had forgotten him, reborn in a child's fragile body.
Lysian's eyes opened to a reality that was as unfamiliar as it was suffocating.
He blinked against the harsh light filtering through the cracked window, a stream of sunlight breaking into the cold, damp room. The walls, once adorned with the grandeur of power, were now battered and broken. He could feel the cold creeping into his bones, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the once-vibrant city outside.
He sat up, his small hands—too delicate, too weak—gripping the edge of the bed, a silent cry of frustration building in his throat. A child's body. A mockery of the man he had once been. His mind, sharp as ever, reeled from the reality of his regression. He could feel the ancient scars of his past life: the power he had once wielded, the dark rituals he had performed, the enemies he had crushed underfoot. It was all still there, but his body... his body had betrayed him.
Lysian closed his eyes, and the echoes of his past life surged within him. The Iron Citadel, the bastion of the Heng Clan, where he had once walked as the future ruler, cold and unyielding. His mother, Heng Morai, manipulative and calculating, had prepared him for a world where only the ruthless survived. His siblings, Kaelen and Myrra, each with their own dark ambitions, had never seen him as a brother but as a rival. He had once thought himself invincible, but that was before the fall.
A powerful ritual had torn him from the world he had known, unraveling the very fabric of his existence. And now, here he was—Lysian Valthor, trapped in the fragile body of a child, and yet, his memories, his knowledge, remained untouched. The Duality of Fate system pulsed through him, a reminder that he was not truly reborn. He was something else—something more.
The world outside was just as he remembered it—a landscape torn by eternal conflict, where fire and shadow ruled. The continent of Varema stretched out before him, a land of endless war and treachery. To the north, the frozen wastes of Vahlan sprawled, its iron-fisted king, Valthor Skaar, ruling with brutality, carving his kingdom out of cold steel and slave labor. To the south, the jungle of Sardis, a necromantic empire ruled by the undead Emperor Galoth, where death had no meaning, only power. And in the shadows, the Black Hand, the silent assassins who moved unseen, their hands stained with the blood of the innocent.
But it was not just the kingdoms of Varema that were in turmoil. The gods themselves had fallen silent, their once-vibrant domains now forgotten. In their place, dark sects had arisen, each bent on rewriting the rules of existence, seeking immortality through dark magic, blood rituals, and the manipulation of fate itself.
Lysian knew the stakes. He had once played the game for power, for control over the realms of light and shadow. But now, in this broken form, the rules were different. The world had changed. And yet, the game was still the same.
To survive. To rise again. And to break the very laws of fate itself.
Lysian climbed from the bed, his small body trembling with the effort. He felt the weight of the world bearing down on him, but his mind was clear, focused. Reborn though he was, the fire within him still burned with the same intensity. Immortality. That was the ultimate prize. The very thing that had driven him to the edge of the abyss.
He stood at the edge of his shattered existence, and before him lay the world he had once sought to conquer. Varema. A world ruled by the Heng Clan, the Skaar Dynasty, the necromancers of Sardis, and the dark factions that whispered in the corners of the world.
And in the shadows of the world's greatest power struggles, Lysian's path would unfold. For now, he was nothing more than a child—weak, fragile, vulnerable. But he would not remain this way. Not for long.
The Duality of Fate would guide him. And through light and shadow, through deception and manipulation, he would rise once more.
For Lysian Valthor, The Regressor of Light Son, had not yet finished rewriting his destiny. And he would stop at nothing to reclaim what had been stolen from him.
Varema was a land of war and ruin. A land of manipulation, of betrayal, and of blood.
And Lysian would be the one to bend it all to his will.
As he looked out through the window, the crimson sky hung low, casting the world in an eerie glow. It was the beginning of the end.
For the Rebirth of Lysian Valthor had already begun.