In Divine Empire, City known as Graven Reach.
In the shadow of its tragic origin, Graven Reach has risen as a beacon of unmatched prosperity and power. The city pulses with life — streets bustling with traders promoting their goods, and people in armor roaming through the city. At its center stands an ancient academy: Crimson Academy, said to have been built by the Empire's greatest powerhouses after the fall of the God of Death.
"Today, the Year 5242 of the Divine Calendar marks a thousand years since the Fall of the God."
"In the academy, all newly admitted students were gathered for the opening ceremony. The academy was bustling with the continuous chatter of students."
Even in a crowd, there are those who stand tall.
They wear their pride like armor — the tilt of the chin, the silent confidence in every step. Sons and daughters of noble bloodlines, heirs to houses older than memory, nurtured from birth with rare herbs, ancient rites, and treasures only the elite could afford. Some carried blades — swords forged from rare materials; others wore armor or garments woven with the same precious resources.
But wealth alone does not forge strength. And blood, no matter how pure, cannot win a war.
Only in struggle do the worthy rise.
True power is shaped in the wild — carved by hunger, tested in pain, and baptized on battlefields where blood speaks louder than banners.
Only in struggle do the worthy rise.
Items and lineage alone cannot shape a warrior — not truly. Strength is carved in the wild, hammered on the anvil of pain, tested beneath skies filled with ash and blood. Experience, not entitlement, forges the strong. And soon, the wilderness would call them all — not with a whisper, but with a scream.
Somewhere in the wilderness
A person—or something that only seemed to be a person—watched them from the shadow of a half-destroyed tower.
Unseen. Unnoticed. Unwelcome.
His eyes moved like a blade—not wide with awe like the others, but sharp, calculating, cold. While the nobles laughed and flexed in gilded armor, he measured their prowess, their talent, and the limits of their growth.
He had no name worth speaking. No title, no crest, no home.
What he did have was a vow.
Once, long before these marble streets had names and before banners bore lions and suns, there had been a god. His god. And the world had trembled at His voice.
The god of many names—God of Ending, God of Rot, Ruin, and Silence—Marlic Sable, the God of Death.
Where He walked, life withered. Cities turned to dust. Empires screamed and vanished beneath His shadow.
The gods of this world—petty, fearful, weak—had chained Him in the heart of the world and declared the world safe.
They lied.
The world was not safe. It was asleep.
But the sleeper stirs.
His chains weaken with every passing day, with every prayer of His worshippers. The stars know. The wind knows. Even the bones beneath the ground whisper His name in fear.
And here, in the heart of all this luxury—this glittering filth—the servant waited.
He bore no sword, but his blood carried power—a gift once bestowed into his soul by his god, Marlic Sable Himself, in the moment between death and rebirth.
He had seen the world burn in a dream. And in the ash, he had seen the God's throne rise again.
"Let them mock. Let them feast. Let them forget," the servant murmured under his breath.
"They will kneel. In fire or in fear, they will kneel."
As he finished speaking, his figure disappeared into the wilderness.
Elsewhere, within the academy: Tower of Glass
Sunlight fell through crystal-clear glass, painting the walls in hues of gold. At the peak of the tower, overlooking all of Graven Reach, two figures stood—cloaked not in shadow, but in authority.
One of them was Headmaster Eldric Vaelor. [ One of the top powerhouses of the Empire. ]
He was tall, black-haired, with streaks of white mixed in—clearly showing the experience he carried. He looked more statue than man — carved from duty and long–forgotten war.
As he watched the city below in silence, arms clasped behind his back.
Behind him stood a young man.
[Name : Kael Ruvan ]
[ Occupation : Academy Professor ]
[ Profession : Fire Mage ]
As he adjusted the cuffs of his ceremonial robes with idle impatience. His sharp eyes and scorched fingertips marked him unmistakably as a fire mage.
"You've seen the numbers, haven't you?" Kael asked. "This year intake is.... unusual."
Eldric did not turn."You mean the surge in bloodline awakenings."
Even though the gods bestowed us with blessings in the guise of awakenings, not everyone can awaken their bloodline powers.
Kael said actively. "Something is off. The veil is thinner than it's been in decade. Even the familiars are restless "
"The Empire thinks war is coming,"Eldric said calmly. "But this... this feels older than war.
Kael stepped forward, brows furrowed. The light from the glass made the gold thread in his robe shimmer — a symbol of rank, not reassurance.
"Older than war?"he echoed. What do you mean?
Eldric finally turned, his gaze heavy — not just with age, but with knowledge most men would not survive carrying.
"The signs don't speak of war, Kael. They speak of return."