Welcome to Tithe, a world some believe the gods have forgotten and others think was seeded by the gods. Either way, the rules are practically the same as in any world in which any person's sorry soul fell. You're born with or without. There are many species of creatures in this world; each has its own coven, tribe, and kingdom, along with countless faiths. Ergo, a terrible war left the world in fear and is believed to have driven many old gods away. As time passed, it seemed like a vain attempt of the old gods to grant one last act of revenge, or blessing, depending on which legend you learn from. People from foreign worlds landed in this one. They brought with them many new technologies, reborn philosophies, and techniques from their world of origin. As a result, significant friction ensued, and many vie for dominance over the shiniest new item to hit the market.
It took an insurmountable amount of time for the fighting to die down, and even the oldest races struggled to keep track of past events. Eventually, the world settled into an uneasy peace among its races. However, those of the old gods, specifically the more malevolent ones, are still believed to desire their Tithe one way or another.
In this world, there is one who is called on during times of dread, awaiting those to be bled and only seeking the slaughter. Pity him not, for he is no martyr; long live the one who is zero.- Missing text of the old world
Everyone knows the usual story: some dumb kid, older woman, or unfortunate soul falls into some bad situation in their previous world, only to land in a totally different world—a world of magic and power, where they are granted magnificent abilities. The story is nothing new; it's happened time and again, shaking the world in some shape or form. It's no different for one Malik, the estranged bastard child of a notorious aristocrat. Surrounded by many people who wish to spill his blood. However, he didn't shiver, much less shake, for he didn't care for them, for this was the day of his freedom. Eyes pierced into him from all sides, especially those seven who hid in the shadows. Awaiting the day that Malik would prove to be a great calamity.
Malik is once again sent to another pointless party, standing dead center in the ballroom, dressed in dark attire fit for a funeral procession. The boy's been to so many he can't even remember what this party was about. They were all consistently showing off and having cleanup parades for his father's various tantrums and disagreements. The man is so numb to the situation that he can't even bother to listen to anyone. All that mattered was that tonight he would finally meet an informant who had found a particular item that had been impossible to see until now.
Malik stared up into the glass chandelier, seeing the intricate shapes of each piece. Holding a glass in his hand, a man bumped into him, knocking his drink out of it. Malik darted his gaze towards the man looking at him as he rose, acting overly apologetic.
"Forgive me, my lord! Forgive meee!" The man pleaded with Malik over and over. Grasping the boy's one free hand, as he stood there emotionless. The man quickly walked away. Malik merely sighed in annoyance, for he found pretending he wasn't paying attention was way too taxing for his current situation. All the same, Malik felt the team he had longed for. Ignoring the clumsy man and the momentary gawkers, the boy looked at the team, feeling the darkness encroaching upon him. Sensing his time was short, he slowly slipped into his mind and focused his thoughts in a half-meditative state.
That was until a man called out to dear Malik. The boy turned his head to address the one who had yelled at him. It was stared down by the 3rd Prince Louis, the eastern breath of the sea, bellowing at Malik. The boy barely gave him much attention.
"You accursed bastard, you and your family have traded with our adversaries." Malik put the item he had into his pocket as he turned to face the Prince.
"You are hereby stripped of all powers. You shall be taken into custody until your father arrives to pick you up," screamed the Prince.
Malik only heard a handful of the Prince's words and responded with an indifferent look. He then raised his left hand into a fist with the back facing the Prince.
"1. You knew about my father's business for years." Raising his thumb
"2. I was a sacrificial lamb; my "father" is already out of the country with the Black Hearts. Chances are likely returning to the Rouge, as we speak." Raising his pinky.
"3. I have no more obligations to you." Malik said, raising his tall finger, in an insult to the Prince. The boy raised the rest of his fingers, allowing him to remove the glove swiftly. In horror, all the guests saw his hand slowly blacken and understood what had happened.
"The game has begun, surrender or run," Malik said as the Prince's face twisted in horror, recalling where he recognized that mark on his hand. Then a noise shook the entire room; the floors shook. Feeling the room turn silent, a cold sensation had come over the other guests. Feeling a pressure that everyone could not fully comprehend, until there was a big knock on the door. Malik reached into his pocket and pulled out the item and held it in the palmn of his hand. Looking down at it, taking a deep breath. He then thinks to himself, 'Never enough.'