Snow crunched beneath his boots, though he had long stopped caring whether his feet were wet or frozen. The wind cut like knives, carrying the distant cries of scavengers, wolves, and worse. Willowscar was a land ruled by chaos, stitched together with broken alliances and feuds. And for someone like Zyair, it was survival or nothing.
He stumbled along the road, leaning on his tails for balance. The tips of the appendages glimmered faintly with absorbed Chaos Oros, licking stray flakes of snow and frozen air. Hunger gnawed at him, but not the kind that could be satisfied with bread or meat. A different hunger—blood, power, energy—coiled deep within him. He ignored it for now. He had a goal: the Academy.
The road split. To the left, the path led deeper into the dead woods, a place rumored to host scavenger packs who tore travelers apart for sport. To the right, the route followed the frozen river, exposed to the elements but easier to navigate. Zyair paused, instinct whispering warnings, but memory offered no guidance.
He chose the river.
Shadows shifted along the banks. Two figures emerged—cloaked scavengers, hunched and grinning beneath cracked masks. One carried a crude spear; the other, a jagged dagger.
"Fresh meat," the first hissed. "Looks like the Void's children don't all stay behind walls."
Zyair didn't answer. He flexed his hands, his tails twitching like hungry serpents.
The first attacker lunged. Zyair's reflexes were almost inhuman. One tail whipped around, intercepting the spear mid-thrust. Metal bent. Sparks erupted. The second scavenger screamed as his dagger met the second tail, slicing—but not enough. Zyair moved before the pain could register, closing the distance in a heartbeat.
A flash of Chaos Oros ignited along his arms. The first scavenger vanished in a hiss of smoke. The second staggered back, wide-eyed, only to find himself flattened against the riverbank by the weight of Zyair's third tail.
Zyair shook, chest heaving. The taste of victory was foreign, exhilarating—and yet, terrifying.
Who am I? he thought, staring at the frozen snow streaked with blood. The question had no answer. Not here. Not yet.
He pressed on, following the winding river. The road became a tangle of half-collapsed buildings, burned-out carts, and makeshift shelters. Signs of the fractured city were everywhere: abandoned streets, scavenger marks, and the occasional corpse left as a warning.
Hours passed. Hunger bit deeper, and he finally sank to the ground near a crumbling wall. His tails coiled around him like guardians, absorbing residual Oros energy from the icy ground. The sensation was strange, soothing—but not enough.
And then, he heard it. Footsteps. Deliberate. Heavy. Not scavenger steps.
Zyair froze. He pressed against the wall, tails flicking instinctively. A figure emerged from the snow, cloaked and armored, moving with the precision of a predator. His presence radiated authority, and even the wind seemed to bend around him.
Zyair didn't move.
The figure stopped a few paces away, tilting his head as if listening to a song only he could hear. A cold, calculating voice spoke, low and almost amused:
"So… the Leviathan stirs."
Zyair's heart skipped. Leviathan…? The word struck like a knife. He didn't know it. He didn't understand it. But the weight of it pressed down, heavy and threatening.
The figure laughed softly and vanished into the snow, leaving Zyair alone with his unease.
Somewhere out there, someone—or something—knew who he was. Knew the danger he carried. And one day, they would come.
For now, the river stretched ahead, frozen and merciless, leading him onward toward the Academy—and toward a destiny he could barely begin to imagine.