Chapter 1: The Shattered Mirror of 1995
The year was 2000, but in this corner of the world, time felt like it had rotted away.
The room was bathed in the sickly green glow of a flickering CRT monitor. Ren sat hunched over an old, creaking desk, his eyes reflecting the jagged pixels of a 2D side-scroller game. The humming of the PC tower was the only thing masking the eerie silence of the jungle that loomed just behind the house. His room was a chaotic mess of discarded wires, old tech, and shadows that seemed to crawl up the peeling wallpaper.
Ren paused the game. His right hand was trembling. He lifted it, letting the dim light hit the underside of his palm. There, running across his thumb to the wrist, was a thick, jagged scar—pale and uneven.
As he traced the edge of the scar, the coldness of the room vanished. The green light of the monitor turned into the warm, golden glow of expensive chandeliers.
Flashback: 12 Years Ago
The house was beautiful—pristine white walls, marble floors, and the scent of expensive incense. But the atmosphere was suffocating.
"Are you insane, Martha?!" a voice thundered.
Ren, barely five years old, stood in the corner of the grand hallway, clutching the hand of his four-year-old sister, Hana. His father, a man once known for his dignity, was now a portrait of pure terror and rage.
"Look at him! Look at his eyes!" the father screamed, pointing at Ren. "The Vane is awakening in him! It's a curse, Martha! If the King's Sentinels find out we are harboring a Cursed Blood, they won't just take him—they'll execute us all!"
"He is your son!" his mother cried out, her voice breaking. She moved to shield the children, her hands trembling. "And Hana... she's just a baby. You can't throw them into the streets like trash!"
"I am saving this family!" the father roared. He grabbed his wife by the shoulder and shoved her aside with such force that she collapsed against a glass cabinet.
The glass shattered.
Little Ren didn't think. He didn't feel fear; he felt a sudden, burning heat in his chest. He lunged forward, throwing his small body between his fallen mother and the man he used to call 'Dad.'
"Don't touch her!" Ren screamed, his voice high and shrill. He pushed against his father's legs with all his might.
The father looked down, not with love, but with disgust. He saw a small shard of glass on the floor, and in the scuffle, Ren's hand swiped right over it. A deep, jagged cut ripped open across Ren's palm.
Bright, crimson blood began to spill, staining the white marble floor.
"Get out!" the father hissed, delivering a brutal punch that sent the five-year-old spinning into the wall. "Take your cursed brats and get out of my sight before I kill you myself!"
Present Day
Ren snapped back to reality. He was breathing hard, the ghost of that punch still echoing in his jaw. He looked at his hand again. The blood was gone, replaced by the silent, white scar.
His mother had chosen them. She had walked out of that palace with nothing but two children and the clothes on her back, trading her life of luxury for a life of hiding in a decaying house at the edge of the world.
Now, Ren was 17. Hana was 16. They were survivors. They were 'The Forsaken.'
Suddenly, a violent THUD echoed from the floor below. It sounded like something heavy—too heavy to be human—had crashed through the ceiling.
Then came the scream.
"REN! HELP!"
It was Hana.
Ren bolted upright, his chair clattering to the floor. His eyes darted to the door, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
"Hana?!"
He didn't wait. He grabbed a rusted pipe leaning against his desk and dashed toward the stairs.