"They say the artifact was dormant for all time."
"A lie whispered by the weak," replied the priest. "It was never dormant. It awaited alignment."
The hall was silent but for the hum of air thick with incense and the copper tang of blood. The father of the clan, armor etched with ash and scars from ages past, laid the artifact—a jagged device from the Age of Strife—on the stone altar. Runes of old strife, dark and forbidden, glimmered faintly.
"This is no engine of gears or light," the father said. "It is not a machine. It is a vessel of purpose. Science is heresy. The Dark Messiah called these things witchcraft. And so they are: darkness incarnate, yet pliable to ritual."
The priest dipped his fingers into the sacred oil, marking the boy who knelt before the altar. "It is not power we give. It is refinement. It strips mercy, hesitation, chaos—aligns flesh, mind, and soul into one blade."
The father whispered the binding chants, words older than kingdoms. The artifact pulsed, responding not to magic, but to will—the boy's will, unbroken, pure in rebellion and survival. Smoke rose in coils around them, visions of the Dark Lords and their abominations reflected faintly in the runes.
"The boy endures," the priest murmured. "The artifact does not grant. It reveals. It takes all that is soft, all that is human, and leaves only the essence needed to defy. Rage without madness. Violence without chaos. Purpose without command. A body tempered for war, a soul for no master."
"And the Dark Lords," the father said, voice low. "They will hunt him."
"Yes," the priest answered. "For he is proof. That even in a world ruled by abominations and dark artifacts, will alone can carve its own path. That even when men and gods fail, one may rise."
The artifact stilled. The boy rose. The hall was empty of ritual fire, save for the smoke curling above the altar. Outside, the wind carried whispers of rebellion, and somewhere, the broken world waited.