The sky tore open in silence before it screamed.
For a breathless moment, the world above the clouds blazed crimson, as though the heavens themselves were bleeding out. The winds froze, then reversed, spiraling toward a single point over the mountain of Korr. Every bird dropped from flight. Every fire guttered. Even the sea hushed its endless tongue.
And from that wound in the firmament, **six burning streaks fell.
They were not meteors. They did not belong to this world. Each trail burned with a different color — flame, frost, smoke, gold, pale white, and black. The stars dimmed as they passed. The very air howled around their descent until they struck the stone roof of the **Temple of Hainn**, ancient and forgotten, where only dust and prayers had lingered for centuries.
The ground buckled. Monks fled from their quarters, robes whipping in the gale, their voices drowned by thunder.
Inside the temple's heart, an old man sat cross-legged before the altar — the **High Seer of Hainn**, the last priest still loyal to the god of war and destruction. His eyes were white as chalk, long blind, yet his head tilted toward the sound as though he could see the sky splitting.
He did not rise. He only smiled through the trembling.
"The time has come," he whispered, his voice like wind through ashes.
"Hainn… is calling."
The six lights struck the temple floor around him in a circle. Stone cracked and screamed. Dust rose like smoke. When it cleared, six blades hovered above their ancient pedestals, untouched by age or ruin.
They gleamed with impossible life.
The first burned with an inner inferno, its surface dark but veined with molten red — Ember Ash.
The second was clear and cold as glacial glass, breathing mist with every hum — Winter Zero.
The third, the Air Slith, shimmered like invisible silk, the air around it rippling in soft distortions.
Beside it, the Ulris Blade pulsed, shrinking and expanding in size as if breathing.
The fifth, the twin Parde Daggers, glistened with a faint purple sheen — a venomous promise.
And before them all, half-buried in the cracked altar, stood a sword so radiant that the light of it carved its own shadow — Infinity Blade.
The old priest pressed his trembling hand to the ground. He could feel it — the pulse of war beneath his palm, the same rhythm that had once shaken the world when gods still walked among men.
He began to chant in the old tongue. The air thickened. The symbols carved into the temple walls — long dead — began to burn anew.
> Vovus fyruss… hajji maat… olma fonte… vovu killus… vovus minurs… ensita…
The incantations of the six.
The chamber blazed as if set aflame from within. The Seer's sightless eyes reflected six pillars of light shooting upward through the shattered ceiling, piercing the crimson clouds. Each column reached a different corner of the world, seeking the ones whose souls would answer the blades' ancient hunger.
The Seer felt his body weaken; his heart rattled like a drum too tightly wound. Still, he smiled.
"They will awaken again," he murmured. "The Edgers… and through them, the world shall remember fear."
Then the old priest's head bowed. The chanting stopped. When the monks returned, they found nothing left of him but robes turned to ash — and six empty pedestals, the blades vanished from sight.
Outside, the crimson wound in the sky sealed itself, leaving behind only streaks of fire on the horizon.
The wind exhaled.
And somewhere far beyond the temple, a farmer's son lifted his head from his work as the sky's red glow washed over his field. He did not know why his heart was racing. He did not know what had changed. But when he looked up, he thought — for just a moment — that he saw a sword burning inside the sun.