The ruins of the Invictum estate lay silent beneath the fading light of a crimson sky, its rays catching on shattered marble like molten fire. Broken pillars jutted from the earth like jagged teeth, and the remnants of once-grand walls whispered tales of glory long forgotten. The air itself seemed heavy with memories of battles, celebrations, and tragedies, though no living soul remained to witness them.
Amidst the decay, a faint glow appeared—a small, childlike figure, barely five years old, his eyes wide with wonder. Aion stirred, blinking against the dying light. His memories were fractured, scattered like the rubble around him, yet something deep inside him thrummed with recognition. A thread of instinct, ancient and unbroken, tugged at his consciousness.
On the ground before him lay a ring, half-buried in dust and debris. Its surface shimmered with colors he could not name—purple, silver, crimson, and gold—and it seemed to breathe, pulsing in rhythm with a heartbeat that was not his own. The ring felt alive. It hummed with a strange energy, faintly warm against his small fingers.
Tentatively, Aion reached for it. The moment his fingers brushed its surface, a rush of sensations cascaded through him. Not words, but feelings—power, knowledge, a thousand lifetimes of skill and history compressed into a heartbeat. The house had crumbled, the Invictum name erased from memory, yet the legacy whispered that it had not ended.
His aura flared, bright and chaotic. It flickered like lightning, shifting through multiple colors that danced across the ruins. Purple, silver, crimson, gold—each hue seemed to carry a different sensation, a different power, yet none obeyed his will. The energy was wild, untamed, yet undeniably his.
Aion crouched, trying to steady his breathing, but his mind could not contain the visions flooding it. Shadows flickered at the edges of his vision. For a heartbeat, he saw eight faces, fleeting, distant, some kind, some fierce. They looked at him as if expecting him to take a step he did not yet understand. A thread of destiny seemed to bind him to them, pulling him toward a future he could barely imagine.
The wind howled through the ruins, carrying faint echoes of laughter, clashing steel, and sorrowful cries. Even in this desolation, the past seemed alive, whispering its secrets to anyone who could hear. Aion's lips curled into a determined smile. He did not know what had destroyed his family, why he had survived, or whether the world outside was even aware that he existed—but one truth shone brighter than any doubt: he would awaken the power that had lain dormant for generations.
Hours—or perhaps only moments—passed, though Aion could not tell. The Ring pulsed faster now, almost impatient. Its energy swirled around him, coiling in patterns too intricate to comprehend. He tried to speak, to ask it questions, but only a hum answered. The Ring would not reveal everything at once.
He remembered fragments—hints of his training, the countless arts the Invictum had mastered. Martial combat, swordsmanship, arcane magic, assassination techniques, strategic knowledge, and even skills in commerce and diplomacy. The Invictum were unparalleled, not because of strength alone, but because each member sought to master every art imaginable. And somehow, through some unknown design, that legacy rested now on the small shoulders of this five-year-old boy.
Aion's thoughts wandered to the outside world, a place he had never known. Mountains and forests, cities brimming with strange races—humans, elves, vampires, dragons, half-breeds of every kind. Each carried its own powers, each fought to ascend the ranks of the world: from F-class novices to SSS-class legends, and beyond, into hidden tiers whispered about but rarely seen. He did not know where he would fit in that world, but instinct told him he was meant for greatness beyond measure.
The boy's gaze returned to the Ring. It seemed to pulse in response, almost as if it could sense his thoughts, his determination. And then, faintly, he heard it: a whisper, soft as silk and sharp as steel.
"Master yourself… or be consumed."
Aion did not understand the voice, but it was not frightening. It was a challenge, a promise, a path. Somewhere deep within, a seed of understanding began to grow. The Ring was not just a tool. It was a gateway, a bridge between what he was and what he could become.
He rose slowly, testing his legs, and felt the first real tug of energy from within. His hands tingled, his heartbeat quickened, and the air around him shimmered. Purple light crackled along his fingertips, silver streaked across his hair, crimson danced across his cheeks, and golden sparks hummed around his chest. Every color sang a different note, and every note resonated with something ancient in his soul.
Aion knew, without understanding how, that this was only the beginning. In the shadows of the ruins, whispers lingered—ghosts of a family he had never known, enemies who had long since vanished, and perhaps even allies waiting to appear.
He stepped forward, toward the Ring. He did not know what awaited him. He did not know how strong he would become. But he knew he could not remain here, and he would not be ordinary.
For a fleeting moment, he closed his eyes and saw them again: eight faces, each a puzzle, each a promise. Four would be his closest companions, the others… something else entirely. And in the distance, far beyond the boundaries of the ruined estate, the world waited. A world that had forgotten the name Invictum. A world that was about to remember.
Aion opened his eyes, teeth gritted in determination. The Ring's glow enveloped him entirely now, warmth and power coiling around his small form like a storm waiting to break. The child, alone in the ruins, was no longer just a boy. He was a spark, the first ember of a flame that would one day blaze across Elyndra, reshaping its destiny.
The wind screamed through the ruins once more, and for the first time, Aion smiled with certainty.
"I will rise," he whispered. "I will awaken the Invictum. And no one… no one will stand in my way."