Ashvale wasn't built for silence.
It was a city of ringing sirens, shattering glass, and the deep, bone-vibrating hum of mana reactors under every tower. Neon billboards flickered above roads cracked by the tremors of passing monsters; gunmetal skyscrapers leaned against ash-grey clouds, their shadows hiding thousands of secrets.
Yet tonight, for the first time in years, silence swallowed the city.
Even the hunters — those living gods in designer jackets, with guild logos blazing on their chests — held their breath outside the ragged, smoking Gate that had ripped itself open above the Central Line.
A Gate that shouldn't exist.A Gate that glowed not blue or red — but molten gold, like a sun caught in agony.
Down there, standing on scorched asphalt littered with twisted rebar and shards of old dreams, was a man the city had forgotten.
He wore no armor, no guild crest. Just a white banyan, sweat-soaked and stained with old oil, and loose baggy black pants torn at the hem. His boots were cracked; dust from half-built districts still clung to them.
His back was turned to the world.
Only the wild, uncut black hair — falling messily in a wolf cut, ends flickering in the wind like blades — and the heavy, burned scar curling up the nape of his neck spoke of who, or what, he might be.
The hunters watched him in silence. Some recognized the silhouette from grainy CCTV; most did not.None stepped forward.
Because even from behind, they felt it:
A heat, old and hateful.Like the breath of a dying sun.
"Move away from the Gate!" someone shouted, voice cracking under terror and awe.
The man didn't move.Didn't flinch.He just lifted his head, slowly, as if listening to something only he could hear.
Some ancient echo.A name that had died with a blood-soaked chariot on a battlefield lost to myth.
Karna...
But in this life, in this broken city lit by mana lamps and fear, he had another name.
Karn Kael.The forgotten second son of the Kael family.The weakest child.The one who left.
Above him, the golden Gate pulsed once — and monsters began to fall through.
Not beasts of flesh and claw, but shapes like molten brass and cracked stone. Eyes burning with the same cursed fire that slept under Karn's skin.
"This city doesn't know you," a memory whispered in the back of his mind."But it will remember your curse."
Karn drew a slow breath, tasting blood and iron dust. His hands curled into fists.The scar on his neck burned — no, flared, alive, hungry.
And Ashvale, ancient and modern, neon-lit and ash-choked, watched in breathless terror as the man they'd forgotten took his first step toward the Gate.
No brother at his side.No crest on his chest.Just a scar of the sun — and a curse older than gods.
"Let them come," he murmured. His voice was hoarse, but steady."Let them remember who I was."
Tonight, the weakest son of the Kael family walked alone into the heart of an impossible Gate.And in the silence that followed, even the hunters felt it:
The city was about to remember a name it had never known.
Karn.The Scar of the Sun.