Veron moved silently through Sevala city's , the wind carrying the scent of the sea, as he recalled a ancient legend and a old memory.
The sky split open with colors no eye had ever seen, a blazing twilight stretching across the seven worlds, spilling its fiery light on everything below. Then came a deep, unnatural silence, as if the universe itself were holding its breath. And the impossible news arrived—six Ascendants had emerged from the Sixth World and reached the Seventh, the legendary Paradise. At their forefront was a name whispered in awe and fear: Wallstride. The Fourth Era had begun—the Era of the Ascendants—and everyone's ambition now turned to achieving what Wallstride and his legion had.
Ascendants, the elite warriors who surpassed the limits of mortal men, were now the measure of power across worlds. Crossing walls—the journey from one world to the next—was said to grant unimaginable strength. And Wallstride was the first to cross all the worlds, completing his journey and shaping a new age.
In Luna, a city along the western wall of the First World — The Realm of Oblivion, Eredosis —
Veron, fourteen years old, stood barefoot on a cracked stone, amidst the ruins of markets and streets. His eyes mirrored the colors of the evening sky. His small fists were clenched at his sides, his chest rising with a confidence far beyond his age.
He said firmly, almost defiantly:
—"I will be the man who will crosses all the walls."
He looked at the woman beside him—his mother. Worry glimmered in her eyes, yet she could not hide the faint pride beneath her fears.
The wind carried the scent of burning lanterns, dust, and something metallic, like a warning pricking his skin. But Veron didn't care. He was determined. Dreams were dangerous—but he was ready to chase them.
Twenty-four years had already passed since the beginning of the Era of the Ascendants.
Suddenly, the city gates trembled, announcing a presence that drained the warmth from the evening. Near the western wall appeared Raka—his armor scorched, cloak torn, scars marking his weathered face, a man who could have been in his fifties but maintained peak fitness, muscles taut, a sword wrapped entirely in black bandages strapped to his waist. The entire city froze, holding its breath. The commander of the Ascendants' legion, the Hand of Death, was here—alive.
Veron's heart surged. He ran toward his father, eyes blazing.
—"Father! You're here! Take me with you. I want to climb the walls, to follow Wallstride's path!"
Raka placed a hand on his son's head teasingly, with a hint of sarcasm.
—"No, boy. You wouldn't last an hour."
Veron stumbled back, heart heavy with the disappointment of countless rejections, while Raka's companions laughed.
Meydres, Raka's first lieutenant, his right-hand man and the most handsome and fit among those present, wearing no armor, only a sword strapped backward on his waist, said:
—"Don't be harsh. He will grow stronger."
He leaned toward Veron, playing with his hair:
—"Isn't that right, little Veron?"
—"I'm not little, Meydres. And yes, I am strong," Veron said proudly, flexing his lean arm.
But before the tension could settle, the horizon thundered with approaching footsteps. Countless soldiers poured through the gates, their intent clear—arrest Raka for the murder of a military commander. The air thickened, metallic and suffocating.
Raka stepped forward with his squad, surrendering with bone-freezing calm, muttering, "Damn, more problems… we haven't been here two days yet." Everyone in the city watched, anticipating what would unfold.
The chief officer sneered:
—"How could a lowborn like you dare to kill a commander?"
Veron leapt forward, fists raised, chest burning with fire.
—"You will not take him!"
His mother grabbed his arm, pulling him back:
—"Veron, stop!"
Orders came from the deputy to detain both Veron and his mother. The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances; even they sensed the silent storm about to erupt. Whispers ran among them: who were these men that the city trembled before them?
Then the impossible happened. Raka's lieutenant, a shadow faster than thought itself, severed the deputy's head in a single strike. He hissed:
—"Commander… don't they know who we are?"
Raka moved next, appearing before the chief officer as if freed from invisible chains. With a wave of his hand, the soldiers nearest him fell lifelessly in a seamless motion. His cold, murderous voice rang out to the hundreds of soldiers standing before him:
—"Mock, arrest, do as you please. But lay a hand on my family, and you will die. This city is under the protection of the Hand of Death—Raka."
Veron watched, frozen, his small frame trembling between fear and awe. The image of his indomitable father etched itself into his memory—a fiery compass guiding him forward. The surrounding soldiers exchanged uneasy glances, staring at the corpses of their comrades, struggling to comprehend what had happened, how they fell without a single strike from their adversary.
Four years passed. The boy had vanished, replaced by an eighteen-year-old exuding quiet confidence, sharp as a blade. The quiet memories of the past lingered, but suddenly, it was broken—Veron found himself surrounded by a band of thieves. Their smiles were cruel, their teeth glinting under the lanterns.
Veron drew a folded sheet from his pocket—the wanted list. His eyes scanned the faces until they landed on a familiar one: the gang leader. Calmly, he tucked the paper away, a small smile curling his lips.
One thief stepped forward arrogantly, his face full of swagger, as if he owned the alleys.
—"What do you have for us, little one?"
Veron struck without a word. In an instant, he was in front of the man who had dared move toward him. His fist connected with precision, the impact snapping through the alley. The man collapsed, and the others froze, caught between fear and disbelief.
Veron whispered to them, cold and calm, with a hint of his emerging confidence:
—"Who's next, gentlemen? I have a schedule to keep, and lunch waits for no one."