In a future world where magic and science coexist, the city of Vespera was no stranger to chaos. The streets often echoed with the sound of mechas—massive mechanical suits controlled by mages—battling in the heart of the city. But today, chaos had escalated. A fight was raging between the police and a group of thugs, each side commanding their own mechas.
In the middle of it all stood Arthur, an orphan with no mana. He had always been an invisible presence in the world—nobody special, nobody important. His life had been a mundane existence, until this very moment.
He didn't know how he got caught up in the middle of the fight. All he knew was that there was an explosion, a flash of light, and then… pain.
As the battle raged on around him, Arthur was struck down. His body lay still, crushed under the weight of debris, the fight between the police and thugs continuing without a second thought. No one noticed his death.
But in the silence of his passing, something stirred. Far above the conflict, something ancient and powerful awoke.
A crimson eye opened, not in the sky, but in the very fabric of existence itself. It was the eye of Origin Energy.
"I need a master." The voice echoed, not in sound, but in thought—deep, ancient, and filled with immense power.
Origin Energy had existed long before the birth of Earth. It had seen the rise and fall of countless worlds, galaxies, and civilizations. But it had never found the one being capable of wielding its true power—until now.
As Arthur's broken body lay beneath the rubble, the Origin Energy made its decision. Without hesitation, it descended upon him, merging with his form. There was no grand explosion, no dramatic shift—just the silent, seamless integration of power.
And just like that, Arthur, the orphan with no mana, became Draegon.
The moment the energy fully integrated with his body, knowledge flooded his mind. Everything—the past, the future, the very essence of existence itself—was now within his reach. But Draegon, the newly reborn god, wasn't concerned with it. He didn't care about the future. He wasn't interested in the past.
He stood up slowly, unbothered by the destruction around him, a dark smile playing across his face.
The police officers and thugs, the ones who had caused his death, were still too busy fighting each other to realize the true threat that had arisen. Draegon looked at them.
With a single, calm gesture, he raised his finger and pointed. "Die."
The moment he spoke, the world seemed to freeze. The air around the thugs and police officers shimmered as if reality itself bent. Within the blink of an eye, they turned to dust, their bodies disintegrating into nothingness, leaving behind only the faintest trace of their existence.
Draegon stood there for a moment, his gaze lingering on the empty space where they had been. A dark, demonic laugh escaped his lips.
"Pathetic."
He didn't care about their deaths. To him, they were nothing more than fleeting moments in an endless world of possibilities. But there was something deeply satisfying in the release.
Turning away from the remains of the battlefield, Draegon took his first step as a god. He had no plan, no purpose—only the knowledge that the world was now his to observe. And he would do so on his terms.
With a flick of his hand, the air cracked open, and he vanished into the space between worlds.