Chapter2: Fallen Child
In the vast and ancient continent of Breciline, four great nations stood like titans across a fractured land each burdened by its own glory and curse.
To the West rose Lymhrst, the fabled city of purity. Here, mana flowed not through rivers but through the very breath of the land. Towering white trees formed living walls around the city, and stone monoliths stood sentinel, etched with the runes of forgotten gods. Divine totems shimmered beneath eternal starlight, guarded by Ascendants warriors touched by the divine, their eyes aglow with unending radiance. It was said that no impure soul could enter without being unmade.
To the east stood Martlock, bastion of the Righteous Alliance. Iron banners whipped in the wind above fortress walls, each engraved with the names of fallen martyrs. This was a city not built in peace but forged in fire, its only purpose: the annihilation of cults and dark sects. Beyond Martlock lay a wilderness crawling with spirit beasts and demonspawn. The land itself was a trial—one that forged the devout into weapons of faith. Martlock was not safe. But it was sacred.
Far to the north, buried beneath black snow and endless night, brooded Fortsterling—the Demon Country. Jagged mountains encased a citadel wrapped in ice and silence. Shadows here whispered secrets older than time. Cruelty wasn't just survival—it was law. The people were not men but creatures honed by generations of bloodshed. To challenge them was to test the edge of hell itself.
And in the heart of the continent Thetford.
Once a land of warrior kings. Now, they called it the Dying Light a place buried in ash, ruled by slavers, and silenced by fear. Cities stood like hollow bones, stripped of color, of pride. The people lived in chains or not at all. But its legacy endured, whispering from the ruins like a ghost refusing to fade.
My country, I thought, a twist of sorrow in my gut. Thetford.
In Breciline, every man faced one of two paths.
One led to the mastery of magic—a discipline of intellect, sacrifice, and communion with realms beyond mortal comprehension.
The other, to the brutality of the blade—where strength carved fate and weakness meant death.
But not all were born to choose.
Some were chosen.
Most... were not.
They called themselves Iregulars,Those touched by divine spark or inherited bloodline.
For us, magic and might were fairy tales—stories whispered around firelight. Never lived. Never meant for us.
And yet here I was.
An Iregular.
A nothing.
Reborn.
Not by prophecy.
Not by fate.
But by a sword—one that devoured the soul, twisted the mind, and reshaped the body.
I sat, submerged in blackness—no ground, no air, no self.
The abyss pulsed around me.
Then… two pairs of serpent eyes emerged from the dark. Unblinking. Ancient. Red as twin blood moons.
They stared.
And the silence between us deepened—until breathing felt impossible.
Then the voice came.
Low. Layered. Echoing from a depth no mortal throat could reach.
"Liam. You are now master of the Abyssal Sword."
The words slithered through the marrow of my bones.
"But understand this acquiring me is no shortcut to vengeance. I am a door. Nothing more."
The eyes narrowed—judging me with something between disdain and amusement.
"All who wielded me before have fallen. Some chased power. Others drowned in pride. So tell me, Liam… are you any different?"
Pain lashed through me.
A raw, piercing agony—like something inside me was being unmade.
I didn't answer.
I couldn't.
There was only despair, thick in my chest, swallowing my voice.
The sword hissed, sharper now, filled with contempt.
"Pitiful. You disgrace the dead. Every soul who held you placed their final hope in you and you sit there… mourning. Useless. Broken."
The air blistered.
"There is no pity in this world. There never was. Strength is your only plea. Transform your despair… or be consumed by it."
The words shattered something inside me.
And then came the memories.
My Mother .
Her faces twisted in terror.
Her blood spilled on the street.
Her live ripped away before I could scream.
Rage surged through me—hot and merciless.
I rose.
Not with words.
Not with reason.
Only silence.
And a vow hammered into my soul.
I will kill you all.
The vow beat like war drums in my skull as I moved—deeper into the void, drawn by something calling from the marrow of my being.
Then I saw it.
The sword.
Black as the void between stars.
Buried in nothingness.
Humming with violence.
"Abyssal Sword... is that your true form?"
I pointed with dull, lifeless eyes.
"Yes, Master," it replied.
"That is my true form."
I stared, still empty.
"Then why take the shape of a snake?"
"Because I took the shape of your soul," it said.
Its gaze lingered, strange and curious.
I felt its attention press against me like a weight. But I didn't care.
There was no light left in my eyes.
"Now... open them," the sword spirit whispered.
Something tugged at my soul hard.
I woke to the stench of burnt flesh.
Smoke curled through the air, heavy and bitter. The sky above was gray and lifeless, as if it mourned with me.
I pushed myself to my feet.
Bodies were everywhere.
Still. Silent. Gone.
"Everyone is dead…"
The words came out as a whisper.
Tears blurred my vision, but I kept walking.
I had to.
I passed broken homes, scorched trees, blood soaked soil each step carving the scene deeper into my mind.
And then I reached it.
What remained of my house.
I dropped to my knees, staring.
Ash.
Charred wood.
Nothing left.
I was only seven.
Seven and I had watched everything be taken from me.
I bit into my lip until blood ran down my chin.
Then, the wind shifted.
A scrap of cloth blew toward me, catching on my hand.
I grabbed it.
A sigil.
Two swords. A dragon between them.
I had seen it before—on the silver-armored man.
The one who led the slaughter.
The one who stood while my family died.
I clenched the fabric in my fist.
My vision blurred again—this time not from grief.
From rage.
"I promise… you'll all pay for this."