The platform hovered twenty feet above the marble plaza, its base outlined in radiant light as holographic banners flickered with the golden crest of Aetherion. Below, rows of silver-helmeted soldiers stood at attention, motionless as statues, reflecting the pale sunlight off their mirrored visors. A silence fell as a man emerged from behind the curtain and stepped to the podium. His frame was small, balding, and wrapped in a dull gray suit that sagged with age—but when he spoke, his voice cut through the silence with surprising strength.
"Power. Speed. Durability," the man's words echoed throughout the plaza. "These are the three traits our Cloudbreak Soldiers have mastered. But despite their mastery, it hasn't been enough." Pausing, the man's eyes scanned the crowd. "Since the witches and Hollowspawn rose from the surface and drove humanity to the skies, we have lived cut off—outmatched and outnumbered." He took a moment as camera flashes burst from the crowd, and the people of Aetherion watched earnestly, holding onto every last word. "But today," he continued, his tone swelling with pride, "we make history. For the first time in five centuries, we are sending a brigade to the surface— to reclaim what was once ours. The time of fearfully venturing to the surface once or twice a year for resources rightfully ours is over. The war for the world begins anew. We will reclaim what was taken from us!"
The crowd erupted with excitement and applause. Reporters begun shouting over one another. "Mr. President! Why now? What makes you think we now have a fighting chance?" The man adjusted the microphone, clearing his throat. "For the first time in nearly five hundred years, we have witnessed more than ten Awakenings in a single cycle. As of today, March 25th, 2705, we count 102 Awakenings—nine of them S-Rank. With the strength of the awakened, the time has come to retake what was once ours." Throughout the streets of Aetherion gasps and awes rippled through the townsfolk. And in the shadows of a broken-down training hall, a nameless boy stared at the holo-screen, fists clenched, whispering to himself: 'This is my chance.' The words burned in his chest like fire, yet doubt still clung to the edges of his mind.
Chances meant nothing in Aetherion. Not without power. The screen flickered off, its glow replaced by the cold blue ambiance of the combat chamber. Beyond the reinforced glass and tattered-up gray padded walls, sergeants barked orders to the newly awakened as they clashed in a choreographed blur of steel and energy. Beyond him, the boy's eyes could barely track their movements. Inside, Kael Veyne lay alone, panting, bruised, and on his back — defeated, once again, his sweat pooling beneath him on the training room floor. It was well known that awakenings take place before the user's seventeenth birthday. Kael remembered this. He shuddered, slamming his fist into the training room floor, enviously eyeing the new recruits just beyond the glass. They stood so close—yet felt worlds away. They symbolized everything he'd ever wanted: power, respect, and most importantly, glory. But no. Instead, he was the result of a system that had left him the son of a drunkard. Nice. But he just had one thought. "If only I could awaken, they would be forced to see me."
At that moment, Sergeant O'Harris burst through the combat chamber door, causing Kael to jump startled. "What are you doing here, boy?!" the sergeant barked. Stunned, the boy stammered trying to string words together. Impatiently the Sergeant interrupted and continued. "Your job is to sharpen the blades of the brave men and women on duty, not play hero, you magicless scrub. Get back to work. Now!" An anxious, timid "Y-yes, sir" was all that escaped Kael's mouth. The Sergeant stormed off. Moments later, Kael gathered his dull-bladed sword and left the combat chamber, spirit crushed and shoulders heavy with defeat.
Aetherion was a place of the haves and the have-nots. Kael was a have-not. And it was this life—this bleak, suffocating existence—that he refused to accept. Coming home day-in and day-out to a 500-square-foot two-bedroom smoke-choked apartment… if you could call it that… was motivation enough. He would never become like his adoptive father. A man rotting in sloth, greed, and endless complaints. What Kael hated even more? The stares. He'd felt them since the day he was adopted seven years ago—those pitiful, judging eyes. And he got them everywhere he went. Being looked down upon by everyone with pity. The pity is what he hated most. And lately, home has become even more hostile. Probably because he'd turn eighteen next year—and with that, the foster checks his father adored would stop coming. His father would finally be rid of him. At least, that's what he was thinking as he left the combat chamber. No point in arguing. His lunch break would end soon regardless.
At 13:00 sharp, the sun hung high—blistering. As always, Kael stood at the combat training grounds. He wasn't a hero—but as a weaponsmith, he was always surrounded by them. He'd eavesdrop on their conversations, copy their training regimens—on his own time, of course—and watch their fights with a ritualistic obsession. Anything in the hopes of becoming stronger. His watching served a dual purpose; he was also there watching over the blades. It was his job to ensure any of the damaged swords were tended to. Without his careful attention, the Cloudbreak army would be unnecessarily replacing swords left and right. Not that they had much choice. They moved like predators—fluid, precise, and vicious. Like the world itself bent to their rhythm. Kael moved like someone still learning where his feet belonged… awkward, off-balance, always a beat behind. Even after hours of practice everyday for the past two years, his effort couldn't compete with their unnatural gifts. Compared to them, he was a fish out of water.
Two A-ranks stepped into the center of Combat Ground Eight. Kael squinted, trying to make out who was taking the stage. Excited, he watched with anticipation. He had never seen an A- or S-rank fight before. To accommodate for the raw power of upper-tier Awakened, their combat arenas were significantly larger than the rest. Where D-rank heroes sparred in 50-by-50-foot zones, A- and S-ranks fought on sprawling 200-by-200-foot fields. If he wanted a real look, he'd have to get closer. He dug into his bag and slipped on his Aegis Watch. Manufactured by Aegis—Aetherion's private defense contractor—it was a versatile tool. They built everything from orbital cruisers to the holo-shielded wrist tech now glowing on Kael's arm. Standing 50 feet outside the combat zone, Kael waited with anticipation. Then, as if on cue, the skies dimmed—not from storm clouds, but from the very air shifting around them. The chatter from nearby recruits faded. Even the lower-rank sparring matches ground to a halt. Everyone turned to watch.
Above the Combat Ground appeared a floating holographic banner announcing the fighters. Darius Thorn and Veyla Ren. The training grounds fell silent. Darius stood like a siege tower—muscles corded, a crimson mantle swaying off one shoulder, greatsword resting across his back like it weighed nothing. Every step he took left a faint scorch in the sand, heat bleeding from him like a dying star. Across from him, Veyla looked his opposite in every way—slender, panther-lean, her black bodysuit clinging to her curves like a second skin. Faint threads of silver pulsed across her frame, and the air shimmered subtly around her, bending light with every motion.
For a moment, they simply stood—gods poised before battle. In an instant, Darius moved. One foot slammed forward, exploding the earth beneath it. He surged in a blur, greatsword igniting mid-swing as he brought it down like a falling sun. Veyla vanished. Dust tore skyward as Darius's blade split the ground—but his opponent was already behind him, twin daggers slashing in a blur of silver arcs. Sparks flew from his mantle as he turned and parried with one arm, the other driving the flat of his blade toward her torso. Kael couldn't breathe. Even from fifty feet out, the shockwave rattled his bones. This wasn't a fight. It was a collision of forces beyond human scale. His fists tightened at his sides.
The clash continued like a thunderstorm trapped in a bottle—shockwaves cracking through the training field as blade met dagger, fire clashed with blur. Darius was brute power, every swing carving trenches into the ground. But Veyla was the storm between the strikes—untouchable, unreadable. Then came the moment. Darius overextended—just barely. A low sweep aimed to catch her mid-dash. She pivoted, dropped low, and vanished in a blink. In the split-second it took him to recover, she was already airborne. With sheer speed and power, her boot slammed into the side of his head releasing a crack sound louder than thunder. He flew back like a ragdoll 20 feet. With a blink of an eye, she was gone. He staggered to find his footing. Then as if taunting the brute, she reappeared behind him, twin daggers a blur—one tracing his throat, the other pressed between his shoulder blades. Frozen. The red glow of Darius's greatsword dimmed. He didn't move. "Point," the field sergeant called over the comms. Veyla exhaled and stepped back, blades twirling once before vanishing into holsters at her thighs. Darius grunted, rubbing his jaw. "Still too fast for me, shadow." She didn't smile—just offered a nod, her silver-lit eyes scanning the field. From the sidelines, the few bystanders clapped—not out of courtesy, but awe. Kael stood silent, barely aware that his heart was racing. He'd seen skirmishes before. But this… this was power that shaped the battlefield. If those guys were A-ranks, S-ranks had to be complete monsters, the boy thought. He didn't even realize he'd taken a step forward. "That's what I want. I want them to look at me like that," the words escaped his mouth unconsciously.
"You?" came a voice, sharp and mocking. Kael turned. A boy with a smirk creeping across his face stepped forward, arms crossed. He wanted you to know he was awakened with his golden chestplate gleaming in the sun and a double bladed sword strapped lazily to his back as if it were some sort of fashion statement. Kael recognized the boy. Jon Kriesh, the B-rank playboy who found himself more concerned with being on magazine covers than fighting off the Hollow. "Didn't know the janitors were taking applications for S-rank." He chuckled to himself. Kael didn't respond. His anger simmered beneath the surface. "What's the plan, huh?" The boy stepped closer, looking for the slightest bit of arousal in Kael's eyes. "Gonna stare at enough fights 'til you unlock a miracle? Or maybe sharpen enough blades until one blesses you out of pity?" Kael's fists clenched at his sides. His jaw tightened. Still, silence. "You know what's funny?" the boy continued, circling Kael now. "Every time I see you standing there—watching, drooling—it's like a stray mutt hoping someone'll toss him scraps. Pathetic. It's what I'd expect from the son of a drunkard!"
Kael took a step forward before he could stop himself. The B-rank's smile widened. "Oh? Gonna do something, forge-boy?" Before Kael could answer, a voice—cool, sharp as steel—cut through the space. "That's enough." Both turned. Veyla stood nearby, daggers holstered, gaze unreadable. The boy straightened. "I was just—" "I said enough." Her tone wasn't raised. It didn't have to be. Silence fell. Kael glanced down. He hated how fast his breath was moving. How small he felt. Veyla gave him one final glance before turning away. She vanished as quickly as she appeared. The B-rank muttered something under his breath but didn't pursue it further.
Later that day, Kael found himself back at the grindstones—sun lower now, heat settling. A new blade had been placed in his queue, the metal chipped and scorched. He sighed when he saw the initials JK etched into the hilt. It was the B-rank's. Of course. He picked up his tools, gripping the sword tight enough for his knuckles to pale. He found himself mechanically going through the motions. Cloth on his hands, as he pushes the blades forward and back until there is no further sign of wear. Once again, restored to its glory — sharp enough to slice through mid-grade Hollowspawn in a singular slash. Done, he moved on and grabbed the next blade. To the outside world he was hard at work sweating away, but his mind was planets away. Daydreaming — manifesting that he has awakened. An S-rank hero above the rest. Acknowledged. Respected. Envied. A small, joyous sly smile crept onto his face. In this ideal, no, perfect reality, Kael would have everything he's ever dreamed of. He would never be disrespected again. Still in the haze of his daydream, Kael glanced toward the center of the camp at the statue he'd always looked up to—an obsidian figure enshrined in steel and reverence. Lucien Drayce. The First Awakened.
Since he was a boy, Kael had clung to the legends. His favorite being the mythical Lucien Drayce. Some claim he was nothing more than a bedtime story— another fairytale told to children to give them hope when there was none. Others swore he was real. The messiah. The man who faced the gates of hell and held the line when the world plunged into darkness. When the Hollowspawn first appeared from the Hollow Earth seven millennium ago, there were no Awakened. No specialized military. No chance of survival. Despite being an advanced species, humanity was helpless in the face of such unnatural predators. They could not match the Hollowspawn's speed, strength, or sorcery. It was genocide.
Bloody bodies littered the ground in every direction. Families torn apart. Men, women, and children slaughtered without a shred of mercy. Within the first year, 42% of the human population was wiped out. The remaining 58% survived by sheer chance and brutal desperation. Eventually, humanity discovered a critical truth: Hollowspawn couldn't survive above 1,500 feet elevation in broad daylight—what survivors would come to call the HollowCeiling. During the day, humans built. During nightfall, they hid in terror. But even then, the Hollowspawn began to evolve—pushing against the limits of evolution. They began creeping higher and higher above the ceiling with each generation. Hope began to fade.
And then came Lucien. The first Awakened. No one knew why it happened—some believed it was divine intervention, others claimed he was a lab experiment or the result of some long-dormant evolutionary switch—but from the ruins of a burning city, Lucien Drayce rose. Wielding a jet-black blade engulfed in twin-hued flames—blue and black, licking like hellfire—he cut through the impossible. They called the weapon Solemn Vow, a name spoken in reverence, as if it were a promise he made to humanity. He became the spark humanity had been praying for. They said his presence distorted time itself. That his speed was so great the air fractured and warped around him. That the swing of his blade sounded like thunder and his energy attacks could pierce through mountains. He once cut down a Hollow battalion—over a hundred beasts—in a single blow. They say the sky darkened in the face of his true power.
Lucien held the line while humanity fled to the skies. His final stand bought enough time for the first sky cities to be constructed. And when the last siege ended… he was gone. No body. No trace. Just silence. Some believe he was taken by the Hollow. Others believe he ascended beyond the flesh. But a quiet few still whisper that he's alive, deep beneath the surface, waiting dormantly to return. Kael had always believed he was real. He needed him to be real, because he wanted to prove that he could become something more too. Lucien Drayce was everything Kael wasn't—powerful, noble, chosen. And Kael? He was nothing. Yet.