The gateway opened with a sound like tearing cloth and breaking bone.
Matt stepped forward, the air warping around him as violet void energy bled from his blade and boots. The tomb behind him faded into darkness, swallowed by the Rift. Before him stretched an ancient corridor of pure light and black stone—a realm passage, woven from threads older than time.
He didn't hesitate.
The moment his foot crossed the threshold, reality bent.
The light vanished.
And in its place: desolation.
Matt stood upon cracked obsidian earth, beneath a sky colored with ash and aurora flame. Torn banners whipped in the wind—remnants of a battle long ended. Half-sunken statues of winged warriors stared down at him with broken faces.
This was Nyuga.
His home.
Or what remained of it.
The Realm Gate behind him fizzled and sealed shut. No turning back.
Matt clenched his jaw. A gust of scorched wind passed, carrying with it the scent of charred metal, blood, and something ancient—memory.
The Shadowsidian Blade pulsed faintly.
"You feel it," the Void whispered. "This is where you were forged."
Ruined towers stood crooked against the skyline. Blasted craters marred the landscape, some still glowing with unstable energy. The bones of titans littered the ground, half-buried in slag and soot.
He moved forward.
Each step on this land stirred whispers in his soul. Visions. He saw his father—a Nitine warrior—shielding his infant self from the advance of lava beasts. His mother chanting a spell to seal him beneath the earth.
Then fire.
Then silence.
Matt reached the edge of a ravine. Below, nestled in the gorge's heart, lay a sunken sanctuary—a vault shaped like a blooming lotus, cracked but glowing faintly.
Inscribed above its gate: "House of the Flame-Born."
As he descended, the glyphs on the Shadowsidian Blade lit up. They were responding to something. A Blood Sigil, maybe. Something older than war.
The vault doors creaked open at his touch.
Inside, statues of Nitine warriors lined the halls, each carrying a weapon unlike the last—flame glaives, lightning chakrams, shadow pistols. Their eyes glowed red.
One statue spoke.
"Identify yourself."
Matt paused. "Matt Salurga."
"Lineage?"
He hesitated. "...Nitine."
A sharp tone rang out.
The floor beneath him ignited in blue fire. The door sealed behind him.
"Lineage unverified. Void detected. Trial initiated."
Stone groaned. Metal screamed.
And from the center of the sanctuary rose a towering automaton—twenty feet tall, forged from gold-veined obsidian, with wings of burning light. It bore the sigil of Pailance, Goddess of Balance.
Relic Guardian: Paragon of Flame.
It raised a double-bladed staff and charged.
Matt moved.
The ground exploded as he blinked aside, sword drawn. The automaton's weapon sliced a crater where he'd stood. It was fast. Too fast for its size.
Matt's heart thundered.
Void Technique: Blink Slash.
He appeared behind the construct, landing two strikes—but they barely scratched the armor.
The automaton turned and unleashed a Flame Wave, forcing Matt back. His coat ignited. He rolled and extinguished the flames, coughing.
The Void stirred in him.
"Use me. Tear it down."
Matt gritted his teeth. "Not yet."
He dodged another blow. Then another. He needed more power.
A glow caught his eye—an altar near the wall. On it lay a crimson crystal, thrumming with familiar energy.
Blood Sigil of Resistance.
He sprinted for it. The automaton roared, fire trailing its path.
Matt dove, rolled, and grabbed the Sigil.
Pain exploded in his veins.
But then—clarity.
His wounds sealed. His fire resistance surged. And something deep inside him woke.
The glyphs across his back blazed like a furnace.
Skill Unlocked: Ashdrinker Vein.
He stood, sword pulsing with fire-void energy.
The automaton struck again. This time, Matt didn't dodge.
He met it head-on.
Blow for blow.
Sword for staff.
Flame for rage.
He ducked under a sweep, slid between the construct's legs, and slammed his blade into the heart-core beneath its chest.
Void-Fire Surge: Execute.
The blade ignited. The automaton shrieked.
Then it exploded in a storm of molten gears and divine light.
Matt stood in the ashes, panting.
"Lineage confirmed," the sanctuary whispered.
"Welcome home, Matt of the Flame-Born."
As the dust settled, the back wall of the sanctuary crumbled, revealing a hidden passage.
Down it, blue flames flickered. A mural stretched across the wall—depicting the three Nayron Kings kneeling before a glowing figure cloaked in Void and Fire.
Matt.
Or… who he once was.
A plaque read:
"He who balances wrath and will, shall awaken the Exile Crown."
Matt gripped his sword tighter.
"I'm not a savior," he muttered.
But the mural didn't change.
It only waited.