The air on the Blood-Stone planet always tasted like rust.
Every breath was like swallowing dry sand. There was no real sun here—just a hazy red scar in the sky that baked the moisture out of the dying earth instead of giving it light.
"Seventeen...!"
CRACK.
The sharp sound of a snapping bone echoed across the Vajra Clan's training ground. It sounded like a dry branch breaking under heavy boots. But the hundreds of disciples watching in dead silence knew it wasn't wood.
It was a human rib.
Dragging himself through the red dust was a frail boy named Shunya. His body was trembling violently, not out of fear, but from the brutal muscle spasms of pushing past his breaking point. His plain white clothes were ruined, plastered to his skin with mud and fresh blood. Sweat stung his eyes, yet he refused to blink.
Even through the blinding pain, his mind was running like a cold machine.
'Third rib... left side. It's cracked. If his next strike lands two inches higher, it'll pierce my lung. I have to shift right... exactly when he inhales.'
Shunya took a ragged breath. His mouth tasted strongly of copper.
Towering over him was Vikrant—the genius heir of the clan and a Rank-1 'Shaurya' warrior. Vikrant swung his heavy Iron-Wood practice sword lazily. He wasn't sweating. He didn't even look tired. He just looked annoyed.
"Eighteen!" Vikrant roared, the sheer force of his voice rattling Shunya's eardrums.
The wooden sword blurred as it slashed down.
This time, Shunya didn't just brace for impact. He kept his eyes locked on Vikrant's shoulder. He saw the muscles bunch up a fraction of a second before the swing.
'Now!'
Ignoring the agonizing fire shooting up his spine, Shunya threw his weight to the right. The heavy sword grazed past his ear, cutting off a few strands of hair, before smashing into the dirt.
THUD!
A cloud of red dust exploded into the air.
A sudden ripple of whispers broke the silence of the crowd.
"Did that Rank-0 trash just dodge the Young Master?"
"No way... it was just dumb luck."
Shunya scrambled in the dust, trying to force his trembling legs to stand. He glanced up and saw Vikrant's eyes darken. For an awakened Shaurya warrior to miss an unawakened insect—it was a public humiliation.
"You..." Vikrant's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "You dared to move?"
Before Shunya could react, Vikrant's heavy boot lashed out, planting itself squarely in Shunya's stomach.
BAM!
No amount of calculation could dodge that speed. Shunya was launched backward, flying across the dirt before crashing hard into the ground. He rolled twice, his vision going entirely black for a second. When he finally stopped, he coughed violently, staining the red earth with dark blood. His lungs screamed for air that wouldn't come.
Vikrant closed the distance in two strides. He stepped heavily on Shunya's head, grinding his bruised cheek into the mud.
"Shunya," Vikrant sneered, leaning down. "Your name matches your worth. Zero. You are nothing but a 'Void' for actual warriors to step on."
High above the training grounds, seated on a stone balcony, Princess Inaya watched the scene below. She looked like a carving of ice—cold, indifferent, untouchable. An old leather-bound book rested on her lap.
When Shunya was sent flying, she didn't gasp. She didn't look away. But her fingers, which were about to turn a page, froze in mid-air. For just half a second, her pupils contracted. She held her breath, then calmly turned the page as if nothing had happened.
No one noticed the tiny crack in her icy composure.
The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long, twisted shadows over the Bone Fortress. The disciples had cleared out. Only two people remained in the empty grounds.
Vikrant reached into his pocket. The clinking of metal broke the dead silence. He pulled out three tarnished copper coins.
Shunya was still on the ground, struggling to breathe evenly.
"Here. Your payment for acting as my punching bag today," Vikrant said lightly.
Instead of handing them over, Vikrant casually tossed the coins into a puddle of foul-smelling mud right next to Shunya's face. Splash. "Pick them up. Maybe these scraps will buy your dying mother a few more days," Vikrant chuckled, turning his back and walking away, whistling a carefree tune.
The wind howled through the empty courtyard.
Slowly, agonizingly, Shunya pushed himself up on his bleeding elbows. He stared at the three coins sinking into the muck.
Was he angry? Anger was too weak a word. What brewed inside his chest was volcanic lava. Every instinct told him to grab a rock, sneak up behind Vikrant, and smash his skull in.
But he didn't.
His trembling hand reached out, sinking into the cold mud to retrieve the coins. He clenched his fist so tightly that his fingernails dug into his palm, his own blood smearing over the dirty copper.
"Mother..." he whispered through cracked lips.
Pride was a luxury for those who had power. For the weak, survival was the only religion. He shoved the coins into his pocket and limped toward the city gates.
The deeper alleys of the Bone Fortress were grim, built from black stone and the skeletal remains of massive beasts. The streets were lined with broken warriors—men who had lost their 'Fire' or limbs in past wars. The city didn't care for the weak; it swallowed them.
Shunya dragged himself to the entrance of the 'Life Apothecary,' the only shop in the district that sold basic medicinal herbs.
The heavy scent of bitter roots filled the room. An old physician sat behind the wooden counter, grinding something in a bowl without looking up.
"Physician," Shunya rasped, leaning heavily against the counter to keep from collapsing. "Three coins... just like yesterday."
He placed the muddy, blood-stained coins on the wood.
The old man finally stopped grinding. He pushed his spectacles up his nose, glanced at the coins, and then looked at Shunya's battered state. His eyes held zero pity.
"Prices went up," the physician stated flatly, not touching the money.
Shunya felt his stomach drop. "W-What?"
"Rumors of war at the border. Herb supply chains are disrupted," the old man said, going back to his bowl. "Five coins for a vial now. Take it or leave it."
Five?
Shunya felt dizzy. He had nearly died just to earn these three.
"No... please, you can't do this," Shunya's voice cracked, desperation bleeding into his tone. He gripped the edge of the counter. "My mother is coughing up blood. She won't survive the night. I beg you..."
"This is a business, boy, not an orphanage," the physician snapped, slamming his pestle down. He gave a quick nod to the shadows.
A massive guard stepped out, grabbing Shunya by the back of the neck—right where his muscles were already torn.
"Wait! I'll work for it! I'll clean the shop, I'll—"
CRASH!
Shunya was hurled out the door, hitting the hard cobblestone street next to a flowing gutter. The three copper coins were tossed out right after him, scattering across the wet stones.
"Come back when you have five," the guard grunted, slamming the heavy wooden door shut.
Shunya lay there in the filth. The stench of the gutter filled his nose. He didn't know if the wetness on his cheek was mud, rain, or tears.
He didn't know how long he walked. The sky above the ruined alleyway darkened completely. Thunder rumbled, and the rain finally fell.
But it wasn't water. It was 'Blood Rain'—thick, red droplets that smelled heavily of iron.
Shunya's legs finally gave out. He slumped against a crumbling black stone wall. The rain washed the dirt from his wounds, making them sting fiercely.
He stared at his scarred, trembling hands.
'I train until my bones break. I endure more humiliation than anyone. And yet... I am still nothing.'
He slammed his fist against the jagged wall. The skin tore open, blood mixing with the red rain.
"If power is the only language this world understands..." Shunya gritted his teeth, his eyes burning with a dark, unyielding fire. "...then I will take it. Even if I have to sell my soul to the devil."
Suddenly, the sound of the rain stopped.
It didn't fade away; it was cut off completely, as if someone had hit a 'Mute' button on reality itself. The howling wind died instantly.
Shunya looked up, his breath catching in his throat.
The raindrops were floating. Thousands of red droplets hovered just inches from the ground, perfectly frozen in mid-air.
A suffocating pressure crashed down on his shoulders. It wasn't the cold of the weather. It was the absolute, paralyzing chill of Death.
In the darkest corner of the alley, where the shadows seemed to bleed together, a figure stood.
He was incredibly tall, draped in an ancient, tattered cloak that writhed and shifted as if it were alive. The stranger's face was completely obscured by darkness. All except for his eyes.
There were no pupils. Just two deep, raging, bottomless blue oceans. Staring into them felt like falling into the abyss.
Shunya tried to speak, but his vocal cords refused to work. His body wouldn't obey him. This was true Aura Pressure.
The stranger took a step forward. His feet made no sound against the stones.
"Just two coins..." The voice didn't enter through Shunya's ears. It echoed directly inside his skull, grinding and ancient.
"Your pain... your pride... and the fragile life of that old woman. All of it, halted by the lack of two mere copper coins?"
Shunya forced his jaw to unlock. "Who... are you?"
The Sea-Eyed Man didn't answer. Slowly, he extended his right hand from beneath the cloak.
He wasn't holding a weapon, nor was he offering money. Sitting perfectly still on his pale palm was a Locket.
It was made of tarnished, dark silver, covered in intricate, impossible carvings that seemed to twist and breathe. The metal didn't reflect the dim alley light; it devoured it. Shadows visibly bent and swirled around the object, getting sucked into its core.
"This world is flawed, boy. The gods are deaf, and the demons sit on thrones," the stranger's voice rumbled in Shunya's mind, a cruel smile barely visible in the dark. "I can offer you a path. A way to drag yourself out of this mud and stand above the stars. But..."
The carvings on the locket began to pulse with a faint, blood-red glow. Shunya caught his reflection in the twisted metal—and the reflection was smiling back at him.
"...Fate always demands a toll. Are you willing to pay the price?"
Shunya stared at the cursed locket. Then he looked down at his own clenched fist, holding three useless pieces of copper.
He saw his mother's pale face. He heard Vikrant's mocking laughter.
The fear in Shunya's eyes evaporated. What took its place was pure madness. An internal fire that had finally found its fuel.
Without hesitation, he reached his bloody, mud-stained hand toward the dark metal.
"I'm ready."