The streets of Grey Town were too quiet.
For nights now, the usual racket of drunkards, gamblers, and brawling gangs had vanished. The stench of blood still lingered in the alleys, and charred corpses told stories better left unspoken. Yet no one dared speak too loudly. The city felt as though it were holding its breath.
Draven sat in the corner of a ruined tavern, his hood drawn low. A candle flickered before him, its flame bending unnaturally toward his presence. He sipped from a chipped mug but did not taste the ale. His crimson eyes glowed faintly beneath the hood, reflections of fire and shadow.
He had broken the gangs that once ruled the alleys. The Black Knives, the Iron Fangs, even the Dagger Rats—names that once terrorized the people were nothing more than ashes beneath his hand.
Yet, something gnawed at him.
"They scatter too quickly," he muttered to himself. "As if someone told them to flee."
Across the table, a bent old man with milky eyes leaned closer. The man stank of rot and stale wine, but Draven had sensed more than age in him. He was an informant, a rat who had survived by selling secrets.
"You think you've won, stranger," the old man croaked, his voice trembling. "But you've only cut the tails. The head still sits on its throne."
Draven raised a brow. "Speak plainly."
The man flinched, glancing around the tavern as though shadows had ears. His voice dropped to a whisper.
"A noble rules Grey Town. Baron Roderick Veynar. The gangs are his dogs. They pay him tribute, and he lets them run wild. Guards, magistrates, even priests—they all bow to his coin. You've killed his pets, but the master still watches from his manor."
The air seemed to grow colder. Draven's fingers tapped against the table, a spark of flame dancing briefly across his knuckles.
"A Baron," he repeated softly. His tone carried neither shock nor fear, only quiet contempt.
The crippled thief nodded quickly, his hands trembling. "You don't understand. Baron Veynar isn't just a fat noble feeding on coin. He's… a practitioner. He's touched the Core."
At that word, Draven's eyes narrowed.
Core Formation? So even among the Barons, power runs deeper than wealth.
He leaned back, his gaze sharp as blades. "Tell me everything you know."
---
The Path of Power
The old man hesitated, but the faint hiss of flame curling from Draven's hand loosened his tongue.
"This world… belongs to those who master mana," he whispered. "And there are three paths."
Martial Artists.
"They temper their bodies with mana, making flesh harder than steel. The lowest are mere Body Temperers, but from there, they channel mana into their blood, their bones, until finally they forge a Core inside their dantian. That is when they become true warriors. Core Formation grants strength ten times a man's own, speed beyond arrows, and endurance that borders on monstrous."
Mages.
"They wield mana outward, shaping it into spells. At first, they are nothing but Initiates, barely able to sense mana. Then come the Spell Weavers, those who carve runes and control elements. Beyond them are Magi, who channel entire rivers of mana through their crafted pathways. A single Magus can burn a village to the ground."
Hybrids.
The old man's voice cracked as he said the word, his tone carrying both awe and fear. "The rarest path. Most who attempt it die, their bodies torn apart. But the legends say some bloodlines… could hold both. Flesh and spell. Blade and flame. Such people are monsters among men."
Draven listened, silent, his eyes half-lidded. Shadows curled at his feet, and small embers flared in his palm, both forces twisting together as though mocking the old man's warning.
So that is the foundation of this world. Martial, Mage, Hybrid… And the Ignivar bloodline stands above them all.
The old man coughed violently, spitting blood into a rag. His face went pale, but he forced himself to whisper one last warning.
"Baron Veynar is no mere dandy with silk robes. He is a Martial Core… and he has killed more men than plague and famine combined. You—" He swallowed, fear strangling his voice. "You cannot face him yet."
Draven rose slowly from his chair. His cloak flowed behind him like liquid shadow. "Then let him hear this." His voice was low, a flame hidden beneath ash. "Grey Town belongs to no Baron. It belongs to me."
---
The Baron's Gaze
In a manor high above Grey Town, Baron Roderick Veynar reclined in his chair. Golden chandeliers lit his hall, and servants scurried like insects, too afraid to meet his eyes.
He was a plump man draped in silks, but his presence carried weight. His aura pressed on the room, bending the air with invisible pressure. This was the might of a Core Formation martialist.
Before him knelt a mercenary captain, his armor cracked and his face pale.
"My lord," the man stammered, "the gangs are destroyed. A figure in black, wielding fire and shadow… they call him the Shadowflame. He hunts them like beasts."
The Baron swirled his wine, watching the crimson liquid dance. A cruel smile tugged his lips.
"Shadowflame…" He chuckled. "How dramatic. A rat from the gutter who thinks himself a wolf."
The mercenary bowed lower. "Shall we raise the guard, my lord? Hire more men?"
Roderick waved a jeweled hand dismissively. "No. The gangs were weak. Replacing them is trivial. If this Shadowflame wishes to play king in the mud, let him. But if he dares climb higher—" His eyes gleamed, sharp as daggers. "—then I will crush him beneath my Core."
The words rippled with power, making even the hardened mercenary shiver.
---
A New Enemy
Back in the slums, Draven stood atop the highest roof, the city sprawling below him. The distant manor shone like a beacon of arrogance, untouched by the rot it ruled.
He clenched his fist, sparks of flame bleeding through the cracks of his glove. Shadows coiled at his feet, whispering promises of death.
"A Baron…" His voice was cold, his crimson eyes glowing against the night. "So the nobility feeds on the blood of the weak. So be it."
The wind whipped around him, carrying the scent of ash.
"Ignivar will rise again," he swore. "And I will climb over Barons, over Counts, over Dukes… until every last noble kneels in ashes."
Far away, the Baron drank his wine and smiled, unaware that the spark had already caught flame.
The war for Grey Town had only just begun.