Grey Town was alive with the growl of carts, the clatter of broken tools, and the ceaseless chorus of curses. But beneath the noise lay a rhythm—a pulse of desperation that throbbed with every step through its narrow alleys. To most, this was simply life in Grey Town. To Draven, it was the battlefield where he would begin his war.
---
The Rust Blades ruled the southern quarter of Grey Town. Their mark—two jagged knives etched into wooden posts—was painted across shop stalls, taverns, and even the walls of crumbling homes. Merchants paid them for "protection," workers surrendered coin for passage, and anyone who refused met a swift end in the shadows.
That evening, Draven stood at the edge of the quarter, hidden beneath the ragged hood of the body he had inherited. His body still bore weakness, but the fire and shadow within him burned hotter each day. His fingers tingled with the hum of mana, a resonance he barely controlled.
Tonight, I start.
His eyes narrowed at the tavern ahead—a dilapidated hall known as The Crooked Fang. Inside, a dozen Rust Blades feasted on stolen wine and coin. Their leader, a brute named Garruk, was said to be more than a mere thug. He had awakened a martial core years ago, giving him strength and speed beyond common men.
Draven adjusted his hood and stepped forward. The smell of stale blood and sour ale hit him as he pushed open the crooked doors.
---
The laughter inside died the moment he entered. One man, scarred across the jaw, slammed his mug against the table. "Oi, brat. Wrong place to drink."
Draven said nothing. His shadow stretched unnaturally long across the wooden floor, slithering toward the men like a living thing.
Another gang member spat. "Can't you see the mark? This is Rust Blade territory. Crawl back to your hole before we—"
His words caught in his throat as the shadow coiled around his boots, tightening like shackles.
"—kill you," Draven finished for him, his voice low, steady, carrying a weight that silenced the room.
The thug staggered, trying to break free, but the darkness only constricted harder. Draven raised his hand, and a wisp of flame flickered to life above his palm. The fire was no ordinary light—it pulsed with a deep crimson glow, as if shadows licked its edges.
Gasps echoed. Men who had spent their lives terrorizing Grey Town suddenly froze. Fire and shadow together were not natural. They whispered of bloodlines, of power.
"Wh-what the hell is he?"
"Doesn't matter," Garruk growled from the far end of the hall. His frame was thick as an ox, his arms scarred from countless battles. He rose, cracking his knuckles, mana flickering faintly around his fists. "He bleeds like any other. Rust Blades, gut him!"
---
The room erupted into chaos. Three men lunged first, blades flashing. Draven stepped into their charge, his body moving faster than it had any right to. The shadow beneath him surged, tripping one thug, while his flame arced in a swift whip, searing the steel blade of another until it bent red-hot. The third tried to swing wide, but Draven twisted, driving his knee into the man's gut.
The crowd roared. Tables overturned, mugs shattered, steel rang against steel. But Draven was not fighting blindly. Every strike was deliberate, every movement weaving together the fire that burned within him and the shadow that obeyed his will.
The thug ensnared by shadows screamed as they climbed his legs and dragged him to the ground. Draven's flame danced along the tendrils, igniting them into a scorching brand that left the man writhing in agony.
Garruk charged then, his fist cloaked in faint, visible mana—a sign of a martial artist who had awakened his core. His punch splintered the table in half as Draven narrowly twisted away.
"Not bad," Draven muttered. "But still crude."
He extended his palm. Fire burst forth, not as a simple flame, but a roaring surge entwined with shadow. The hall lit up crimson as Garruk staggered back, his forearm scorched black despite the mana reinforcement.
"Impossible… what kind of power is this?" Garruk snarled.
Draven's voice was calm, but it carried an edge of steel. "Power you'll never touch. Crawl in the dirt as you were meant to."
Garruk roared and charged again, his fists like hammers. But Draven was faster. With a sweep of his arm, shadows lashed out, binding Garruk's legs. His flame followed, erupting into a spiraling blaze that engulfed the gang leader in fire. His screams echoed, cut short as he collapsed in a heap of charred flesh.
The tavern fell silent.
Dozens of eyes turned to Draven, wide with terror. These were men who had killed without remorse, who had laughed while bleeding others dry. Yet now, they knelt before the single figure whose shadow still writhed unnaturally across the floor.
"Rust Blades belong to me now," Draven declared, his gaze sweeping the room. "Spread the word. Grey Town has a new master."
---
Outside, the night air was thick with smoke from burning torches. Rumors spread like wildfire. By dawn, every corner of Grey Town whispered the same words: The Rust Blades are no more. A shadow-flame demon took them.
Draven returned to the abandoned shack he called home. He sat cross-legged, letting his breath steady. The fire in his veins pulsed, the shadows coiling at his will. But beneath the surface, questions churned.
The system of power in this world was more intricate than he had first believed. Tonight had shown him only fragments.
He recalled Garruk's punch, reinforced by mana drawn into his core. That was martial cultivation—focusing mana within the body to enhance strength, speed, endurance. But there were other paths. He had heard whispers from the gang's mouths before they died.
Three paths of power ruled this world:
1. Martial Artists. They turned mana inward, forging their bodies into weapons. Their fists broke stone, their blades split steel. Every level of mastery strengthened both body and weapon until they became forces of nature.
2. Magicians. They drew mana outward, shaping it into fire, ice, lightning, and spells that could alter the battlefield. Their strength lay in versatility, though their bodies were often frail.
3. Hybrids. Rare, feared, and dangerous. Those who balanced both paths—wielding magic while strengthening their flesh. Few succeeded, but those who did were said to rival armies.
Draven clenched his fist. And I… I am more than even that. Fire and shadow, body and spell. The Ignivar flame wasn't meant to be ordinary.
The memory of his bloodline whispered in his mind. The Ignivar had once ruled not by brute strength, nor by mere sorcery, but by a fusion—the dance of fire and shadow, martial and magical, bound by will. They had been kings, feared and envied, until they were betrayed and erased.
"Forgotten by the world," Draven murmured. His gaze hardened. "But not by me."
He remembered the fear in the eyes of the Rust Blades. The awe. It was only the first step, but power demanded recognition.
I will rise. And with each victory, the Ignivar name will blaze once more.
---
Grey Town would not yield easily. Beyond the Rust Blades, other gangs reigned—the Iron Fangs, the Serpent Scars, the Black Claws. Each had their own leaders, some with martial cores, others rumored to wield spells of destruction. They were predators in a pit of wolves.
But Draven had no intention of merely surviving. He would conquer them one by one, until the entire Grey Town bent the knee.
He stood, his shadow stretching unnaturally across the walls of the shack. The fire in his eyes burned with purpose. Tomorrow, the Serpent Scars would learn fear.
---
At that same hour, far across the city, a man cloaked in silver robes listened to a messenger whisper of the night's events. His name was Korr Veynar, enforcer of the Empire's will within Grey Town.
"A boy with fire and shadow?" Korr's lips curled into a cold smile. "Interesting. If true, he carries a forbidden bloodline. One we thought extinguished."
He leaned back, eyes glinting like steel. "Let him play his little game in Grey Town. The Empire has not forgotten the Ignivar. And if one ember still burns…"
He crushed the goblet in his hand, wine spilling like blood across the floor.
"…we will snuff it out."