It has been seven thousand years.
I sit upon my throne in the highest chamber of my tower, watching as my apprentices carefully inscribe the final runes of the ritual circle before me. The air hums with raw mana; the scent of old parchment and crystal dust fills the room.
Seven millennia ago, I was born a commoner—an ordinary man in a world that believed only nobles could wield magic. They called me trash. They mocked me. Yet I proved them all wrong.
Through talent, will, and endless research, I uncovered the secrets of ancient rituals long forgotten. I reinvented the old arts and created entirely new ones, carving my own place in history. I even modified my own blood, granting myself the power and heritage that the nobles so arrogantly flaunted.
By the time I reached my twenties, I was already the most powerful sorcerer alive. I had mastered countless branches of the arcane—elemental, ritualistic, blood, and divine—and earned the title of Archmage.
Centuries passed. My research deepened. I discovered ways to strengthen both body and soul, evolving beyond mortality itself. The world changed again and again, empires rising and crumbling to dust, but I endured. I became the Emperor's Grand Archmage, and later, the Celestial Mage—a title created solely because no greater one existed.
Eighty percent of all magic used today originated from my hand. My name became legend. My existence, eternal.
But now, at last, I stand on the edge of godhood.
Before me lies the culmination of all my work: a ritual to ascend my soul to a divine state, shedding my mortal body entirely. The theory is simple—raise my soul's power to a level equal to a god, and I will transcend this plane. Simple, but untested.
The final runes are complete. I glance at the cluster of glowing orbs floating above my palm—the preserved souls of my family and closest friends. I once intended to resurrect them using blood magic, but why bother now? When I ascend, I'll bring them back as angels, divine beings under my protection.
With a thought, I send their souls into my pocket dimension for safekeeping and step into the circle.
But just as the first glyphs ignite—
The doors burst open.
A wave of darkness spills into the chamber, cold and suffocating. From the shadows steps my twin brother, Void—the Dark Lord of this world. My mirror and my nemesis.
He was always obsessed with immortality, with stealing what I achieved through wisdom. I can feel the hunger in his aura as he raises his staff.
"Brother," he sneers, "you will not ascend alone."
The battle is instant. Lightning crashes against voidfire, stone shatters beneath our spells. The ritual circle warps under the unleashed magic, symbols twisting out of place as I struggle to maintain control.
Then the ritual flares.
The energy surges beyond containment. Space collapses. Our bodies disintegrate as our souls are ripped from the mortal realm, hurled into the void beyond existence.
Even as pure spirits, we fight—two blinding comets colliding across the veil. The worlds below tremble at our passage. But my soul begins to fade, unraveling without a vessel to anchor it.
Desperation seizes me. I reach through the endless void, searching for a body—any body—to inhabit before oblivion claims me.
And then… I sense it.
A newborn. Fragile, yet marked by destiny. A prophecy unfulfilled.
Without hesitation, I thrust my soul toward it—
—and everything goes dark.