December 18, 2025 — New York City, 3:47 PM
The cold bit through Ryton Dragonheart's threadbare jacket like a personal insult. He weaved his delivery bike through the gridlocked afternoon traffic, his breath forming pale ghosts in the air. From the elevated bike lane on the Queensboro Bridge, the skyline of Manhattan glittered under a bruised, gray winter sky.
"Three more deliveries," he muttered to himself, his voice barely carrying over the honking chorus below. "Then maybe I can afford something that doesn't taste like cardboard."
At nineteen, Ryton was an expert in the art of surviving invisible. An orphan since seven, he'd navigated foster homes, street corners, and now, the gig economy, with a quiet, stubborn grace. He kept his dark hair just long enough to hide the scar above his left brow—a souvenir from a less forgiving time. His eyes, a strange shade of storm-gray that sometimes looked silver in certain lights, scanned the city with a wary acceptance. This was his kingdom of concrete, and he was its unseen prince.
His phone buzzed on the handlebar mount. Order 227: 'Dragon's Breath' Curry — EXTRA SPICY — to Ms. Liora, 5th Ave & 60th, Central Park South.
Ryton smirked. "Dragon's Breath. Fitting." The name 'Dragonheart' was the one thing his parents had left him, scribbled on a faded note at the orphanage. He liked to pretend it meant something.
As he curved off the bridge into the chaos of Midtown, the first strange thing happened.
A static charge crawled over his skin, making the fine hairs on his arms stand up. The air grew thick, sweet almost, like ozone after a lightning strike. People on the sidewalks paused, looking around, rubbing their arms.
Then, the sky rippled.
It wasn't a cloud. It was as if the firmament itself was a pond, and someone had dropped a stone in the center, right above the skeletal winter trees of Central Park. A concentric wave of iridescent color—violet, gold, emerald—spread out silently from the epicenter.
Traffic screeched to a halt. A deafening silence fell, broken only by the distant wail of a car alarm.
Ryton stopped his bike, one foot on the pavement, staring. His heart hammered against his ribs, not with fear, but with a sudden, inexplicable longing. The scar on his brow began to throb with a warm, rhythmic pulse.
[Initializing Primordial System…]
[Mana Tide detected. Reality destabilization threshold reached.]
[Hello, meat-sack. Try not to die in the first five minutes. It would be statistically embarrassing.]
The voice in his mind was ancient, feminine, and dripped with sarcasm. It carried the weight of dead stars and forgotten wars.
Before Ryton could even form a coherent thought, a thunderous CRACK split the air above Central Park. The sky tore open like wet paper.
And through it, they came.
Nine feet tall. Skin of frozen slate. Eyes like blue funeral pyres. Frost spread from their footsteps, crystallizing everything it touched. The largest one roared, a sound that shattered storefront windows for blocks.
Screams erupted. Pure, animal terror. The giants moved with surprising grace for their size, shattering asphalt with casual swings of their ice clubs.
Ryton's bike clattered to the ground. His curry spilled, the spicy scent cutting through the ozone.
Something shifted inside him.
The fear, the confusion, the thousand questions about the system and the ripping sky—all of it vanished. Like a switch had been flipped. His breathing slowed. His heartbeat steadied. The world didn't just sharpen; it became a battlefield, and every detail was a piece on the chessboard.
Calm. Rationality. Combat.
His body entered the state without conscious command. It was fundamental. When survival was on the line, Ryton Dragonheart didn't panic. He calculated.
The lead giant turned. Its glacial eyes locked onto him. It felt him. The Primordial energy in his veins was a lighthouse in the mortal dark.
It charged.
Ryton didn't move. He watched. The giant favored its left leg. Slight compensation in its stride. Old injury, maybe. Weakness.
The ice club rose. The trajectory was obvious—a simple overhead smash meant to crush, not finesse.
Timing: 0.8 seconds.
Ryton moved.
Not with explosive speed, but with perfect economy. A diagonal step right, forty-five degrees exactly, placing him just outside the weapon's arc. The club cratered pavement where he'd stood half a heartbeat before.
He was already inside its guard.
The U-lock was in his hand. Cold steel. He didn't think about mana or skills. He simply willed energy into it. Something deep in his blood responded—a dark, hungry power that made the air around the lock warp and swallow light.
He struck the giant's favored knee.
CRUNCH.
The sound was sickening. Ice and bone gave way. The giant roared, stumbling backward. Frost splintered from the impact point, blackening as if corrupted.
Not enough. The giant was still standing.
It backhanded him. Ryton twisted, but not enough. The blow caught his shoulder, sending him skidding across frozen asphalt. Pain bloomed, bright and analytical. Ribs: bruised, not broken. Shoulder: dislocated maybe. Mobility: reduced by twenty percent.
Three more giants were closing in. Forming a triangle. No escape routes.
Terrain.
He was near a delivery truck, its back open. Frozen goods spilled across the street. The giant to his left had the slightest hesitation in its step—uncertain footing on the ice.
Ryton pushed himself up. Blood trickled from his lip. He smiled. A goofy, inappropriate grin that made the advancing giants pause.
"You know," he said, his voice carrying with that unnatural Charisma, "I was having a really bad day until you showed up."
He raised the U-lock again. But this time, he didn't charge.
He tapped the ground with his boot.
Tap.
A sound barely louder than a heartbeat. Perfectly measured. The vibration traveled through the frozen asphalt, following the cracks the giants had made, resonating at a frequency that made the ice beneath the left giant's foot shatter.
The giant flinched. Lost balance for a fraction of a second.
Ryton moved.
Not with raw speed. With compressed motion. He didn't run—he let the space between himself and the giant's blind side fold. To the terrified civilians still watching, it looked like he teleported.
He reappeared behind the wounded giant, his strike already descending in a perfect diagonal arc aimed at the back of its knee—the most difficult angle to defend, where armor was thinnest and tendons were exposed.
"Tectonic Shift," he whispered.
The U-lock, sheathed in devouring darkness, came down.
BOOM.
The impact wasn't just physical. It was conceptual. The ground beneath the giant fractured in a perfect geometric pattern, as if reality itself had cracked along fault lines only Ryton could see.
The giant's leg gave way completely. It collapsed, roaring in agony.
But two more were already upon him. Clubs descending from both sides. No time to dodge both.
Choose.
He analyzed in microseconds. Right club: solid, clean strike. Left club: hairline fracture visible at midpoint, stress point.
He twisted, presenting his less damaged side to the right giant, letting its weapon graze his ribs.
Pain exploded. But he was already moving, his U-lock striking the exact midpoint of the left giant's weapon with surgical precision.
CRACK.
The ice club shattered. The giant stared at its broken weapon in disbelief.
Ryton didn't give it time to recover. He drove the lock into its chest, feeling ribs give way beneath the Primordial-infused steel.
But the third giant was swinging. Ryton was overextended. No way to block.
Then—a voice from above. Clear, melodic, and utterly alien.
"Enough."
A spear of living wood intercepted the ice club, shattering it to mist.
A woman landed between Ryton and the giants. Tall. Pointed ears. Hair like moonlight. Her presence made the air itself feel heavier, denser.
The remaining giants froze. Recognition and fear in their glacial eyes.
She didn't even look at them. She glanced back at Ryton, her emerald eyes widening as they took him in.
"A Dual Primordial... on a Mortal plane..." She shook her head, then her lips quirked. "You're that delivery boy with my curry, aren't you?"
Ryton grinned through the pain, blood on his teeth. "Extra spicy. Just like you ordered."
He collapsed to one knee. His vision swam. The calm, rational combat state was receding, and the damage was making itself known.
The elf woman—Liora, his mind supplied from the delivery order—made a gesture. The remaining giants turned and lumbered back toward the still-bleeding portal, carrying their wounded.
Only when the immediate threat was gone did Ryton allow himself to think about the system. He focused inward, the world narrowing to that internal space where the ancient voice resided.
[Not bad for a glorified courier. You fight like you've done this before. Interesting.]
A transparent blue interface unfolded in his mind's eye.
---
[PRIMORDIAL SYSTEM INTERFACE]
User:Ryton Dragonheart
Level:3 (50/300 XP)
Tier:1 — Mortal
[Titles]
•Orphan of Ashes
•Giant-Slayer (New!) — +5% damage against giantkin
[Attributes]
Strength:14 | Agility: 12 | Vitality: 17
Intelligence:9 | Wisdom: 7 | Charisma: 20
[Combat Status]
HP:78/210 | MP: 28/70 | Stamina: 45/120
[PRIMORDIAL BLOODLINE]
Name:Destruction
Grade:Primordial
Status:Sealed (99.9%)
Innate Effect:All attacks carry 5% Destruction Energy (ignores defense)
Bloodline Skill:Destruction Dao Body (Mythical) — [LOCKED until Level 5]
[Seals:0/9 Unlocked]
[PRIMORDIAL PHYSIQUE]
Name:War
Grade:Primordial
Status:Sealed (99.9%)
Innate Effect:+20% HP, +10% Stamina Recovery
Physique Skill:Wargrave Eyes (Mythical) — [LOCKED until Level 5]
[System Note:Congratulations on being special. Or doomed. The multiverse hasn't decided yet.]
[Recent Notifications]
•First Blood: +50 XP
•Giant-Slayer: +100 XP, Title Unlocked
•Survived First Wave: System Shop unlocks at Level 5
•Mana Core Formed: Primordial-grade
---
He blinked, processing the information. The system was detailed, but it didn't hold his hand. No step-by-step instructions. No warnings during combat. Just raw data and sarcasm.
He looked up at Liora. "So. About that delivery fee... I think hazard pay applies."
She stared at him for a long moment, then laughed. The sound was like wind chimes in a silent forest.
"You're wounded," she said, her smile fading to something more serious. "And you glow like a beacon to every higher-plane entity within a hundred dimensions. You need help."
Ryton pushed himself to his feet, wincing. "What I need is to reach Level 5."
Her eyebrows rose. "You already speak the language of systems. Interesting."
[She's not wrong. You're putting out enough Primordial energy to light up a celestial map. Every predator in the higher planes just felt you wake up.]
Ryton ignored the system's commentary. He focused on Liora. "You're from one of those higher planes, aren't you?"
"Alfheim," she said simply. "Third-tier plane. We felt the Mana Tide. I was sent to observe. I didn't expect..." She gestured at him. "This."
Above them, the weeping sky continued to shimmer. More portals would open. More invaders would come. But for now, there was just a bleeding boy, an amused elf, and a sentient system that sounded vaguely disappointed he hadn't died yet.
[Two more levels until your first real skills unlock. Try not to get dissected for study before then. It would ruin my perfect record.]
Ryton grinned, that same goofy, charming smile that seemed so out of place amidst the destruction. "Well, Liora of Alfheim. You got your curry. What happens now?"
She studied him, her emerald eyes calculating. "Now," she said softly, "we see if a Dual Primordial can survive long enough to matter."
The true ascension had begun.