The wind gnawed at Kael's skin, cold and sharp, carrying the scent of blood, ash, and the dying echoes of a once-mighty name.
With every step he took, the burden on his shoulders grew heavier.
He could feel it pressing down on him—the weight of expectation, the voices of the dead whispering through the ruins, their silent cries twisting in the wind. His father's fierce gaze. His mother's quiet hope. His elder brother's proud, scornful smirk.
They were gone.
But the weight they left behind… it was crushing.
Kael was nineteen—barely a man, barely anything in the eyes of the multiverse. His body ached, bones still mending from the night his world had been burned to the ground.
And yet, the burden demanded more.
It wasn't just grief that twisted in his chest. It was the knowledge that he was the last.
The last Xelvor.
The last seed of a bloodline that had once ruled cities, commanded sects, and made kingdoms bow.
He could almost hear them—the ancestors in the ashes, the weight of their eyes pressing into his back, their voices curling around him like chains:
You carry our name. You carry our blood. You must not fail.
His breath shook, sharp and ragged in the cold air. His hands clenched into fists, knuckles white.
He wasn't strong. Not yet.
His veins burned faintly with the ember of the Ashen Primordial Bloodline, but his tier was low—Tier 1 Low, barely more than a mortal with a spark of power in his blood.
The System's awakening had given him the key, but the door was still locked by his own weakness. His body felt stretched thin, like cracked glass holding back a flood, ready to shatter if pushed too hard.
He was fragile.
But he had no choice.
The burden was his alone.
And if he faltered, if he failed…
The Xelvor name would die with him.
That was a death he refused to accept.
As the first light of dawn broke over the horizon, Gravewood rose into view.
It was a wretched thing.
A sprawl of rotting structures clinging to the dirt like parasites, built from scraps of stone, warped planks, and rusted metal. The outer walls were a joke—patchworks of scavenged iron sheets and crumbling brick, barely held together by twisted ropes and rusted nails. Parts of it leaned at odd angles, sagging like old men ready to collapse under their own weight.
The gates were crooked slabs of wood, stained dark by years of grime, their hinges groaning as they swayed in the wind.
Beyond them, the city festered.
Narrow streets wound like veins through a body already rotting from within, alleys choked with debris and filth. The air stank of rot, smoke, and the copper tang of blood.
Cries echoed faintly—merchants barking out prices, the clash of metal from some scuffle in the distance, the weak, hoarse sobs of the broken and the damned.
The people here were thin, hollow-eyed, their faces pinched by hunger and fear. Their auras barely flickered—Tier 1 Low, the lowest rung of the hierarchy, scrabbling for scraps in a world that had long since moved on without them.
Kael watched it all from the ridge above, the weight in his chest pressing heavier, the burden growing sharper.
This city wasn't just a ruin.
It was a mirror of what his clan could become—forgotten, if he failed.
That would not happen.
Not while he still breathed.
The System's pulse was a faint ember in the back of his mind, but Kael pushed it aside.
This wasn't about the System.
This was about him.
His choices.
His burden.
He descended into Gravewood as the sun climbed higher, his steps slow and deliberate, every stride measured beneath the crushing weight of legacy.
The gates loomed before him, half-open, sagging on rusted hinges.
Two guards slouched nearby, their armor dented and stained, swords sheathed in cracked scabbards. Their auras flickered—Tier 1 Low, brittle and weak.
They didn't even look up as Kael approached, too dulled by boredom and complacency to recognize the storm that had come for them.
Kael's eyes burned—white, glowing faintly in the gloom, the black emblem of the Xelvor coiled at their center, a brand of blood and fire.
His own power was fragile, barely more than a whisper—Tier 1 Low, same as them. But there was a difference.
Kael carried the weight of the dead.
The burden of a bloodline that had once made the multiverse tremble.
The responsibility of ancestors who had bled, fought, and built—only for it all to be torn down in a single night.
That weight pressed into his spine, crushed his ribs, twisted in his gut.
It whispered: You must not fail. You must rise. You must make them remember.
A shout cracked the air, sharp and ugly.
Kael's eyes snapped to the source.
Near the gate, a woman was being dragged through the dirt—her hair tangled, her clothes torn, blood streaking her cheek.
She struggled, kicking, teeth bared, curses spilling from her lips. Her aura sparked faintly—Tier 1 Low, raw and barely kindled.
But beneath it... something else.
A subtle pulse, like a whisper in his veins, resonating with the ember of his own bloodline.
Not just a spark. Not just a flicker.
Potential.
A resonance—unrefined, but there. A seed waiting to be nurtured, to grow strong beneath the banner of Xelvor.
Kael felt it, a deep instinct woven into the marrow of his bones—this wasn't chance. This wasn't mercy.
It was necessity.
She could become one of his.
A piece of the legacy he was bound to rebuild.
The guards laughed, shoving her down, one raising a hand to strike.
Kael moved.
The world snapped into focus.
The guards were slow, dulled by years of weakness, their bodies heavy, their auras brittle.
Kael's body burned with exhaustion, but the ember of his bloodline flared, a pulse of heat driving him forward.
He reached the first guard before the man could react.
Kael's hand closed around his throat—tight, cold, unyielding. The man's eyes bulged, a wet gurgle escaping before Kael's fingers crushed his windpipe.
The second turned, half-drawing his blade, but Kael's fist drove into his chest, bone cracking beneath the force, breath leaving the guard in a wet gasp as he collapsed.
The silence that followed was heavy, thick with tension.
Kael stood over them, his chest heaving, the burden pressing harder into his ribs. His hands trembled—not from fear, but from the crushing weight of expectation.
He wasn't strong. Not yet.
Tier 1 Low, barely more than a flicker.
But the burden—the burden—was his to carry.
He would bear it.
Even if it broke him.
The woman stared up at him, eyes wide, breathing ragged. Blood smeared her cheek, but her gaze burned, defiant despite the fear.
"You…" she whispered.
Kael's voice was rough, low, cracked with exhaustion.
"My name is Kael Xelvor," he said. "You belong to me now."
Eyes watched from the shadows—merchants, beggars, petty cultivators.
Their gazes pressed into him, adding to the weight on his shoulders.
The burden twisted tighter, heavier, sharper.
They were waiting to see if he would fail.
They were waiting for him to collapse beneath the weight.
Kael's fists clenched.
He would not break.
Deeper in the city, a ripple spread—a subtle shift in the air, a prickle along Kael's skin like the brush of a blade's edge.
A presence.
Heavy. Coiled. Dangerous.
Tier 2 Low, maybe Mid. Strong enough to kill him in an instant.
Kael's heart thudded once, slow and deliberate.
Fear crawled up his spine.
But he did not back down.
Let them come.
Let them all come.
Gravewood would fall.
The Xelvor name would rise.
And the multiverse would remember.