PART I: THE LIBRARY OF THE BEGINNING
Despair was the only daily banquet in the Void Churches of Siert. North of the Corrupt Mount, the air felt heavy—a vague, lifeless atmosphere that crawled between rotting trees and a landscape that seemed to writhe under a palpable curse. There, the sound of souls was a constant whisper that made one's skin crawl.
Wistert walked alone through the hallways of the Sacred Library of the Past. His footsteps were the only noise in that sanctuary dedicated to the principles of Argos Vierp and the Goddess of Steam. Tiny stones and dust fell from the ceiling with every movement, as if the building itself were crumbling under the weight of history.
"It smells very damp, be careful," Fasmort warned, his voice echoing in the gloom. "I'm fine, you too," Wistert replied without stopping.
His heart beat forcefully, the only pulse of life in that dead library. The singing of birds on the roof was a distant reminder of an outside world that no longer belonged to him. Wistert searched with frenzy, throwing books against the shelves in a fit of frustration.
"No, no! There is nothing here!" he exclaimed. "No chronicles of the Empress, no trace of the origin of the Succubus. Did no one dare to write about them?"
"Hey, calm down, Wistert. Relax," Fasmort approached, seeing his friend's face sunken and distorted by pain. "What are you really looking for among all this dust?"
Wistert stopped in a vast open space and turned with a bitter smile that chilled the blood. "It is our answer, Fasmort. The only way to escape this hell."
Fasmort looked down at the book Wistert was holding. On the cover, worn by millennia, glowed the symbol of steam from the Imperial Era.
"Wistert, look at me," Fasmort said gravely. "Tell me what use that book has for you."
Wistert sat on the cold floor and asked his companion to do the same. "First, thank you for not abandoning me like the others," Wistert whispered. "You know why we are here. I am a child born without magic in a world of dead Titans. To the Confederation, I am trash to be deported to the void. But I read about an era where humans did not need magic. They used machines, weapons, and ingenuity. If the Church hides this, it's because they fear that era."
Wistert placed his hand on the book's cover. "Are you ready for the truth?" "Go ahead," Fasmort replied.
As he opened the cover, a shadow emerged from the pages, its voice an ancient whisper that seemed born from the darkness itself: "Those who dare to be free... this dying world has sown an enemy that knows no borders. An enemy that seeks what it has lost and shall gain hatred... or glory."
PART II: THE FORBIDDEN MIRACLE (5,000 Years Ago)
Tircopolis, Capital of the Orkawest Empire. It was the Day of the Red Eye. No one went out into the streets for fear of death. The sky burned with a crimson hue that snatched the life from newborns; a week of terror that usually decimated fifteen percent of the population. However, a cry broke the silence of the capital's hospital.
"Mr. Vollert, it's a miracle," the nurse said, amazed. "Your son was born healthy on the Day of the Desert Eye. You can be proud."
Vollert, sitting in the reception area, felt his soul return to his body. But the doctor's expression, as he slowly approached, was not one of joy. He placed a hand on his shoulder. "Mr. Vollert... you know we live in a world where those who do not possess magical powers are enslaved or executed."
Vollert's face sank. "Your son was born without magic," the doctor sentenced. "The bill is paid. The civil registry awaits you whenever you are ready to decide what to do with him."
Vollert left the hospital with an erratic pace. Hours later, he was at the bar of the "Sweet Oysters," drowning his sorrow in wine. "Another glass, quick!" Vollert roared at the waiter. "Count Vollert seems discouraged today," the employee murmured, pouring the liquid in fear. "I don't pay you to talk, you filthy scum!" the Count replied, drunk with rage and pain.
Beside him, a female figure materialized from the shadows of the bar. She had a strange gaze: one eye was gray and the other was red. She raised her glass, the distorted lights of the hospital reflecting in the crystal.
"Everyone drinks for a certain pain, right, Count?" the lady said. "Or is it for lost glory?"
Vollert looked at her, surprised by her presence. "My parents died in the invasion. My wife is blind. And now, my only son is born without magic. He is useless. Who will inherit my titles? Who will remember my name?"
"I think he should live," the woman said with supernatural calm. "We all serve a purpose. Perhaps his destiny is to leave painful footprints upon this world."
The lady handed him a small inkwell. "Take this. My father used to say that an ink mark on the forehead guarantees a bright future. Just make the sign of luck."
Vollert accepted the gift, unaware he was sealing an eternal fate. He returned to the hospital and entered the doctor's office. "Doctor, I am going to register him. His name will be Argos Vierp, after the ancient conqueror."
In the newborn ward, a gray steam began to emanate from little Argos's crib. While the other babies cried, he remained in silence. His eyes glowed with a white and gray tint, and on his forehead, the ink mark throbbed. A shadow smiled at him from the corner of the room before vanishing into thin air.
Far from there, at the Chapel of Saint Borges, a woman rested on the roof, exhaling steam from her mouth. Her eyes, blue and red, reflected the despair of a people who would soon meet their new lord.
"I am the Goddess of Steam and manipulation," she whispered, watching as the world began to burn. "And this child's life shall be the air that feeds my fire