In a sky that knew no stars, time did not move. Beyond the limits of what science could explain, something ancient stirred.
Something that remembered the name Ishmael—a name the world was supposed to have forgotten.
---
The beeping of a heart monitor echoed softly. The air smelled of disinfectant and artificial sterility. In the corner of the hospital room, a young man sat frozen. His face pale, his eyes hollow, and in his trembling hands was a CT scan report.
Not from the cold air conditioning.
But from a body that no longer believed in itself.
His name was Ishmael. Twenty-one years old. And that day, time seemed to stop for him.
"We found a mass in the lower lung," the doctor said flatly. "And shadows in the lymph nodes. It's stage three."
No screaming. No tears. Ishmael only stared blankly, then asked softly:
"How much time do I have?"
The doctor sighed. There was no answer that could truly comfort.
> "Maybe a year. Maybe more. Maybe... less."
---
A light drizzle fell like dust as Ishmael walked home. The world felt distant, as though reality itself had withdrawn. He didn't call anyone. There was no one to call. His mother had died five years ago. His father? Never known. Friends? Not close. Lover? Never had one.
Back in his small apartment, Ishmael sat on his bed—still wearing his shoes—staring at the blank ceiling. He wished the walls would crack.
Or that he would.
But what shattered… came from elsewhere.
The mirror in the bathroom.
When he turned on the light, the old mirror trembled. Not like glass in an earthquake—but like the surface of a pond struck by a stone.
A mist rose from within. Not steam—something alive.
And from within the mist… a pair of golden eyes emerged.
Eyes that stared directly at him—not a reflection, not a shadow. But something alive. Something that had been waiting.
"You finally hear me," a cold, deep voice whispered. "Your blood has awakened."
Ishmael stumbled backward, hitting the sink. "What is this…?"
"The seal hidden within you has cracked. The cancer growing inside… it's not a disease. It's your body rejecting the power that was locked away too long."
His left chest suddenly burned. Not like a fever—like embers igniting under his ribs. He clutched at it, and a strange symbol—like a winged serpent coiled in a circle—glowed faintly beneath his skin. It pulsed. Alive.
"What did you do to me!?"
"Not me," the voice replied. "This is your inheritance, Ishmael Hermes."
He froze.
Hermes. That name… had only been spoken once, years ago. His mother had said:
"We are not ordinary people. Our blood… carries a curse. Never say that name out loud, Ishmael."
"A last name I never even used," he muttered. "Hermes…"
"Your mother tried to hide you from it. But blood cannot be denied. And now, the seal is broken. The world will come hunting."
The mirror cracked. Shards lifted into the air, circling Ishmael. But in each fragment, there was no reflection of his room. Instead—other worlds. Crimson skies. Mountains of fire. Cloaked figures. Ancient spells.
One shard showed himself—but with glowing golden eyes. Smiling coldly. Holding a black dagger stained with blood.
"Is this… my future?" he whispered.
"Or your past. Time is not linear to the blood of Hermes. You have died many times. Murdered. Judged. But you always return."
Suddenly, the world flipped. Gravity collapsed. The mirror was no longer glass—but a door. And that door swung open.
"You can die in this world," the voice whispered. "Or rise in ours."
When the clock struck twelve—twelve times, more than it should—the floor of the apartment vanished. Ishmael fell into the void.
But he didn't fall normally.
He was ripped from reality.
---
When he opened his eyes, he stood on blackened ground, like ash.
The sky above was void, empty of stars.
In the distance rose a massive structure like a temple—made of metal and bone.
The air bit at his skin.
Mist coiled through cracks in the stone.
Footsteps.
A tall figure in a dark cloak stepped from the mist.
Its face was hidden behind a silver mask.
But its voice… was the voice from the mirror.
"Welcome, Ishmael Hermes."
"Who are you?" Ishmael asked.
"I am the Keeper of the First Gate. Your seal is broken. This world will teach you the price of cursed blood."
Ishmael stared. His body felt weak, but inside his chest… fear began to twist into something else.
Anger.
"If I'm going to die anyway… I want to know why. And who did this to me."
The figure nodded.
It raised its hand. From the earth rose a giant sigil, glowing blood red.
"Step into the circle, and let the Hermes bloodline guide the way. But know this—every power has a price. And the blood of Hermes… demands more than just your life."
With a heavy breath, Ishmael stepped into the circle.
Light enveloped him. The symbol on his chest flared.
The mist devoured the sky.
And the world held its breath.
The final heir of cursed blood… had awakened.