The air was thick with the stench of ash and iron as Zarik raced down the crumbling alleys of the Freehold, his beat-up boots slapping against the fractured stone beneath him. The guttural roar of a Shadow Mage's beast echoed behind him, its claws getting closer with every frantic heartbeat. His chest burned—not from the effort of running, but from the bitter sting of failure. Another scavenging job had gone awry, and once again, he faced a night of hunger. The creature's hot breath brushed against his neck, and for a fleeting moment, he thought it might all end here: nineteen years of bad luck culminating in the jaws of a monster.
Zarik ducked behind a shattered wall, his heart pounding like a war drum. The beast—an enormous hound draped in shadows—snarled, its red eyes piercing through the swirling dust. Pressing his back to the stone, he clutched a jagged piece of glass he had picked up off the ground. With no powers, no Arcane Knowledge, just the instincts of a scavenger against a world that seemed indifferent to his plight, he thought bitterly about what a poor excuse for a hero he was.
The neon-lit slums of the Freehold sprawled around him, a tangled maze of rusted metal and flickering signs, but he knew no one would come to save someone as insignificant as him.
"Lost your nerve, rat?" hissed a voice from the shadows. It wasn't the beast that spoke; it was its master. A Shadow Mage, draped in curling black mist, emerged, her staff radiating with violet light. Her voice dripped with cold amusement, like a cat toying with a mouse. "Hand over the relic, and I might let you scurry back to your hole."
Zarik tightened his grip on the glass shard. A relic? He'd only been scavenging for scraps, not some cursed treasure. But the odd, warm orb in his satchel—a curious item he had snatched from a collapsed temple—suddenly felt much heavier. "I don't know what you're talking about," he retorted defiantly, despite his rough voice. "Maybe you should check your own pockets."
The mage's eyes narrowed, and the beast lunged forward. Zarik rolled away just in time, the hound's claws raking the wall, sending dust and debris flying. He scrambled to his feet, dodging through a narrow gap in the alley as the orb bounced in his bag. The mage's laughter followed him, sharp and cruel. "Run all you want, boy. The shadows always win."
He didn't stop to argue. Ahead lay the outskirts of the Freehold—a wasteland of ancient ruins where sane people dared not tread. If he could lose them there, he might just see the sunrise. His lungs burned, but fear propelled him forward through rusted spires and broken statues half-buried in the sand. The beast's howls faded, but the mage's chilling presence remained like a shadow on his skin.
Zarik stumbled into a sunken courtyard, its cracked tiles shimmering under a sliver of moonlight. This place was ancient—older than the Freeholds, older than any war. He collapsed against a pillar, gasping, and fumbled for the orb. It was about the size of an apple, its surface etched with swirling runes that pulsed faintly, like a slow heartbeat. "What are you?" he muttered, turning it over in his trembling hands. It felt warm, almost alive, and for reasons he couldn't quite comprehend, he didn't want to let it go.
A low hum answered—not from the orb but from inside his mind. Zarik. His name echoed in a voice like crackling embers, soft yet commanding. He froze, heart skipping a beat. "Who's there?" he whispered, glancing around. No one. Just the wind, the distant growl of the beast, and that voice again. Touch the core. Awaken.
He stared at the orb, his pulse racing. This was madness—artifacts didn't talk. Yet something about that voice felt right, like a key fitting into a lock he hadn't realized was there. He brushed his thumb along the runes, and the world exploded into blinding light.
Pain surged through him, white-hot, as if fire had ignited in his veins. He screamed and dropped the orb, but it didn't hit the ground—it floated, spinning, its runes glowing like tiny suns. The hum escalated into a chorus of whispers, and his vision flooded with images: a battlefield littered with bodies, a flame that burned without fuel, a shadowy figure smiling at him. You are chosen, the voice said, and his chest constricted, not from fear but with something deeper—hunger.
As the light faded, Zarik fell to his knees, gasping. The orb was gone, but a faint glow remained in his hands, sparks dancing across his knuckles. A strange weight settled in his mind, like a new muscle he didn't know how to flex. Words appeared in front of him, sharp and clear, as though seared into the air:
Astrid System: Initialized. User: Zarik. Tier: Initiate. Elemental Essence Points (EEP): 100. Primary Ability Unlocked: Flame Spark.
He blinked as the words faded, but the warmth in his hands lingered. "What the hell…" he rasped, clenching his fists. A tiny flame flickered to life in his palm, weak but undeniably real. A half-choked, half-mad laugh escaped him. Power. After years of nothing, he finally had power.
Footsteps crunched behind him. The Shadow Mage stood at the edge of the courtyard, her staff raised, the beast snarling beside her. "So, the relic chose you," she said, no longer mocking but cautious. "A pity. That system wasn't meant for a worm like you."
Zarik staggered to his feet, the flame in his hand flickering but steady. "Yeah? Tell me more," he said, forcing a grin despite the fear clawing at his gut. "Or better yet, come take it."
She didn't laugh this time. The beast charged forward, faster than before, jaws gaping wide. Zarik's instincts screamed to flee, but something deeper—the system, that voice—urged him to stand his ground. He thrust his hand out, and the flame erupted into a fierce arc, slamming into the hound's side. It yelped and skidded across the tiles, singed but still on its feet.
The mage's eyes widened in disbelief. "Impossible!" she hissed, raising her staff as violet energy crackled, forming a shadowy spear aimed straight at his heart. Zarik dove to the side, the spear grazing his shoulder and tearing through cloth and skin. Pain flared, but so did his determination. He refused to die here—not when he had finally found something worth fighting for.
He ducked behind a pillar as the system's words flashed in his mind again: EEP: 80. Flame Spark Ready. He didn't fully understand what that meant, but he was determined to figure it out. The beast was back on its feet, circling him, and the mage pressed forward, her staff glowing brighter. "Last chance, boy," she warned. "Surrender the system, or I'll rip it from your corpse."
Zarik let out a raw, reckless laugh. "You want it? Come and get it." He stepped out, flames sparking in both hands now, his heart racing with a thrilling mix of terror and excitement. He was no hero, no warrior—just a scavenger with a flicker of fire and an unfamiliar system. But for the first time, he felt alive.
The mage's spear shot forward, quicker than before, and Zarik raised his hands as flames surged to meet it. The collision rocked the courtyard, light and shadow twisting in a chaotic dance. He staggered, vision blurring, but refused to back down. The beast roared, charging again, and the mage's staff began to glow with an ominous new power.
Then the system's voice cut through the chaos, sharp and urgent: Danger. Shadow Mark Detected. A cold pain jabbed at his chest, and he looked down to see a black rune etched into his skin, pulsing like a second heartbeat. His flames flickered, weakening, while the mage's smile turned even colder.
"You're already breaking," she taunted, stepping closer. "The system will consume you before I do."
Zarik's knees buckled under the rune's chilling grip, but he forced himself to stand tall. The beast closed in, and the mage's spear was forming again. He had one final shot, one last spark left. With a steely resolve, he raised his shaking hand, flame flickering, and—
The ground beneath them cracked open with a powerful rumble, stirring something ancient from its slumber. The mage's confident smile vanished.