The air of Drastton had turned thick with dust and blood. Smoke curled up from burning houses, the once-bustling streets now choked with chaos. Jaynor lay pinned beneath the ogre's massive hand, vision fading, throat crushed under its strength. His limbs refused to move. His heart hammered in frantic bursts, every beat slower than the last.
He could taste iron—his own blood. The ogre's growl reverberated through his skull as it lifted him higher, ready to smash him against the ground like a toy. The world dimmed to nothing but that monstrous face and the void swallowing his vision.
Then—something snapped.
It wasn't a sound, not physical. It was deeper, like glass shattering inside his soul. His body went rigid, and for a moment, everything around him fell utterly silent. Even the screams in the distance seemed to halt mid-breath. His eyes widened, and the faint blue hue of his mana bled away, swallowed by a suffocating black.
A miasma surged from within him—thick, liquid shadow that poured from his skin like ink in water. It pulsed with hunger, alive, and wrong. The ogre hesitated, snarling in confusion, but it was too late. Jaynor's hand shot up, fingers sinking into the creature's wrist with a strength that wasn't his own.
The ogre roared. Then it screamed.
Jaynor's grip tightened, and the miasma swirled violently around him, seeping into the ogre's flesh, corroding it, devouring it. The creature's skin blistered and cracked as black veins spread from the point of contact. With a sickening crack, Jaynor tore the ogre's arm free, spraying blood and ichor across the cobblestones. The miasma surged higher, cloaking his form entirely, and when his head tilted up, his eyes were no longer human—they were abyssal pits, bottomless and cold.
The other ogres roared and charged, but they were charging a demon now.
Jaynor moved like a shadow unbound. His body blurred, the miasma trailing behind him like a storm. He tore through the first ogre's chest, his hand ripping out the creature's heart before it could even swing its weapon. The next fell with its throat crushed between his palms. Another he split in half with a blast of that black energy, the shockwave leveling an entire row of abandoned market stalls.
Screams echoed through the city—some from the beasts, some from the surviving guards who could only watch in disbelief as the boy they'd seen fighting moments before became a nightmare made flesh.
He was silent through it all. Only the sound of tearing flesh, the crack of bones, and the thundering of his own pulse filled the air. Every motion was precise, instinctive, without hesitation. The miasma responded to his fury, swirling around him in violent currents that ate through stone and metal alike.
When the last ogre fell—its skull crushed beneath his heel—Jaynor stood in the center of the square, surrounded by ruin. Bodies of ogres, charred and shredded, littered the ground. The air shimmered with heat and black residue. The miasma coiled around him, restless, like a living storm waiting for another enemy.
Then, he roared.
The sound wasn't human—it was deep, monstrous, enough to shake the windows of the nearby buildings. The miasma burst outward in response, scattering debris and sending what remained of the city guard staggering back. It wasn't just rage; it was something ancient, something that didn't belong in the world of men. His body trembled under the weight of it, but he didn't stop.
That was when the inspectors arrived.
Figures in dark blue uniforms and enchanted armor rushed into the ruined square, their badges glinting with the emblem of the Magic Ministry. They spread out, their staffs glowing, containment spells already forming in the air.
"Contain that energy!" one shouted.
"By the gods, is that—?"
And then another voice, familiar, cutting through the noise—deeper, steadier, but strained. "Jaynor!"
Through the haze, Jaynor's brother appeared—Ridan, the inspector. His expression was a mix of horror and disbelief as he took in the sight of his younger brother standing amid corpses, cloaked in a darkness that pulsed like a living wound. "No… no, this can't be you."
Jaynor turned his head slowly, those abyssal eyes locking onto him. Recognition flickered somewhere deep inside, buried under layers of madness and power. His lips parted, but no words came out—only a low, guttural growl.
"Everyone stand down!" Ridan barked, stepping forward. "Let me handle this—he's not in control!"
But the others didn't listen. Spells flew through the air—binding chains of light, containment sigils, waves of suppression magic. They struck the miasma, only to dissolve instantly, absorbed and devoured. The energy around Jaynor twisted violently, lashing back. Inspectors were thrown through the air like rag dolls, crashing into walls and broken carts.
"Damn it!" Ridan shouted, raising his arm to shield his face as the backlash tore through their formation. "He's feeding off the mana around him! He'll destroy the whole block if this keeps up!"
Jaynor took a step forward. The ground cracked beneath his feet. His aura pulsed like a heartbeat, each beat sending a shockwave through the air. He opened his mouth, and the miasma writhed outward, forming tendrils that lashed at the inspectors. Their defensive barriers shattered one after another.
Ridan tried again. "Jaynor! It's me! Listen to me!"
For a moment, something flickered in those black eyes—a flicker of familiarity, confusion—but it vanished as quickly as it came. The abyss swallowed it whole.
Then, cutting through the chaos, a different light flared.
A beam of pure white descended from above, striking the ground between Jaynor and the inspectors. The miasma recoiled instantly, hissing as if burned. The air vibrated with holy resonance, clearing the smoke and shadow.
From the light stepped a woman clad in white and silver armor, her cloak trailing behind her like the wings of an angel. Her presence alone changed the atmosphere—calm but commanding, radiant enough to make even the darkness hesitate.
"Stand down," she said, her voice carrying across the square like the toll of a bell.
Jaynor turned toward her, eyes narrowing. The miasma surged again, reacting to her purity like fire meeting oil. He lunged forward with inhuman speed—but before he could reach her, she raised her hand. A blinding circle of runes flared around her palm.
"Lux Dominion."
The spell struck like a hammer of light. It met the miasma head-on, piercing through it, forcing the darkness back. Jaynor let out a guttural cry, stumbling as the holy magic tore through him—not as pain, but as something deeper, purging, silencing the chaos within.
For a heartbeat, his vision filled with light. The black haze thinned, his body weakening. The golden sigil of her magic glowed brighter, enveloping him completely.
Then everything went silent again.
The miasma evaporated. Jaynor collapsed to his knees, eyes rolling back. The last thing he saw before consciousness fled was the woman in white lowering her hand, her expression unreadable, and his brother rushing toward him through the dissipating smoke.
And then darkness claimed him once more.
"Lux Dominion."
The spell struck like a hammer of light. It met the miasma head-on, piercing through it, forcing the darkness back. Jaynor let out a guttural cry, stumbling as the holy magic tore through him—not as pain, but as something deeper, purging, silencing the chaos within.
For a heartbeat, his vision filled with light. The black haze thinned, his body weakening. The golden sigil of her magic glowed brighter, enveloping him completely.
Then everything went silent again.
The miasma evaporated. Jaynor collapsed to his knees, eyes rolling back. The last thing he saw before consciousness fled was the woman in white lowering her hand, her expression unreadable, and his brother rushing toward him through the dissipating smoke.
And then darkness claimed him once more.
The square lay silent in the aftermath, only the crackle of dying fires breaking the stillness. The inspectors tended to the wounded, while others formed protective barriers around what remained of the destruction. The woman in white stood at the center, her silver armor gleaming faintly against the fading miasma. Her eyes—pale as winter light—were fixed on the unconscious boy before her.
She had seen this power before.
Long ago, in another battlefield drenched in shadow, she had fought a being wrapped in that same abyssal energy. The memory came back sharp and cold: the darkness that devoured magic itself, the screams of soldiers, the blood that ran like rivers. She had thought that bloodline extinguished centuries ago—wiped from the annals of history, buried under divine decree.
But this boy… this Jaynor… the aura was unmistakable.
Her gauntleted hand tightened around the hilt of her sword. "Impossible," she murmured under her breath. "That line was purged."
Ridan, kneeling beside his brother, looked up at her, still shaken. "You—do you know what he is?"
The paladin's expression hardened, though her voice was calm. "Not what… who. He bears the mark of an ancient lineage—the blood of the Abyssborn. If this power has awakened in him, then the world may soon remember why that name was forbidden."
Ridan's throat went dry. "He's my brother. He's just—he's just a student."
"Then pray," she said quietly, "that he remains one."
She turned toward the horizon, where the city's temple bells began to ring. The echo carried through the smoke, solemn and foreboding, as though the world itself had sensed what had just awoken within Jaynor.