The secret chamber was darker than night itself, but Aaren felt something deeper than fear—he felt destiny vibrating in the air. Dust floated like frozen whispers, and the sword at his back, Levitin, glowed faintly as if reacting to something unseen.
Levitin's voice echoed in his mind, calm but commanding. "There's more here, kid. To the left… that drawer."
Aaren turned. Hidden under a collapsed wooden beam, half-buried in ash, was a metal drawer. He pulled it open with effort. Inside was a black velvet-lined box. On its surface, engraved in golden letters: Portal Knife.
"This knife," Levitin said, "is one of the most ancient tools ever crafted. It allows you to open portals between the three chambers of our world."
Aaren held the blade carefully. It shimmered like liquid mercury, its edge curved like a crescent moon.
Levitin continued. "Our world is built like a vertical trinity. The top—Elysiar, the Upper Chamber—is where the elite rule. Rich, powerful, magically gifted… and corrupt. They shape the skies, command energy, even orchestrate destruction, like the nuclear storm that stole your world."
Aaren's hands trembled.
"The middle—Virelia, where we stand—is where common folk live, enslaved by the whims of Elysiar's elite. It's where hope dies."
"And the last?" Aaren whispered.
"Nerthul, the Downer Chamber," Levitin said, his tone heavier now. "Where monsters were banished. Beasts, both terrible and divine. Among them, the Omni-beings, also known as The A. They are the original wielders of magic—the Magic-Givers. Sealed away because they once gave magic to mankind freely."
Aaren's blood boiled. The injustice. The loss. The fury. He was done grieving. It was time to act.
"So how do I reach them?"
"Draw a circle with the Portal Knife, say the name of the chamber, and jump."
Aaren did exactly that. The knife burned white-hot as he drew a perfect circle on the stone floor. "Nerthul."
The circle blazed. A portal opened like a yawning mouth of fire and void.
He stepped through.
---
The air in Nerthul was thick, like oil and smoke. The sky was an endless abyss, dotted by red moons and jagged stars. Towering ruins rose like skeletal remains of forgotten kingdoms. And at the center of it all, an obsidian shrine pulsed with restrained power.
Levitin whispered, "The one within… is your only chance."
Aaren entered.
The shrine's doors burst open to a cathedral-like hall. At the center: a glass prison containing a monstrous being of fire, bone, and shadow. Its wings curled around it like a sleeping dragon. Horns spiraled from its head like thorns. Chains glowed with runes of time and fate.
"Aaren," Levitin murmured, "meet Zaerion, the Witherflame. One of the last true Omni-beings. Magic incarnate."
Zaerion's eye flicked open—molten gold. A voice thundered inside Aaren's soul:
> "You are not worthy."
Aaren stepped back.
> "You are weak. A child broken by grief. Why should I bind my power to yours?"
Aaren's chest clenched. "Because I have nothing left. No one. And I will burn those who made me this way."
Zaerion growled. "Power is not born of pain. It is born of will. Prove you are more than your scars."
In a sudden flash, Aaren was thrown into a hallucination—or a trial.
He stood in a crater. The ashes of his city swirled around him. Out of them rose shadows of the Elysiar nobles—faceless, cruel, casting judgment.
Aaren fought. Bare-handed leviti was not allowed to interfere. With fury, with tears, with the scream of everyone he'd lost.
He fell, rose again. Again. Bloodied, bruised, broken—but burning.
When it ended, he stood tall, teeth clenched, fire in his eyes.
Back in the shrine, Zaerion stared.
> "Very well."
Chains shattered. The room quaked.
> "We are bound now, Aaren. You carry the flame of my wrath."
Zaerion transformed into an ethereal mark on Aaren's chest—a glowing sigil of flame and shadow.
Levitin chuckled. "Welcome to the real war, kid."
And in that moment, Aaren was no longer just a boy seeking revenge.
He was a vessel of ancient magic.
A weapon the gods had tried to bury.
And he had just begun to rise.