Ten years after the goddess spoke, the world learned how to wage war again.

  Steel rang against steel beneath a sky that still bore scars from the first invasion. Shouts—human and demi-human alike—rose and fell like waves crashing against a shore of blood and ash. Blades flashed. Spells tore through the air. The ground drank deeply from both sides.

  For a time, the battle stood evenly balanced.

  Then the ominous army began to change.

  The fallen did not remain fallen. Their bodies dissolved into shadow, pooling across the battlefield, crawling toward one another as if guided by an unseen command. The shadows twisted, merged, and rose—flesh forming where none should exist, scales hardening, wings tearing free from the mass.

  A colossal, dragon-like being screamed into existence.

  Its roar shattered resolve.

  Human and demi-human lines broke. Orders were shouted, then lost. Shields cracked. Spells fizzled. Even veterans felt terror claw at their chests as the allied army fell back, step by step, toward annihilation.

  They would have been crushed.

  A shadow crossed the battlefield.

  Something descended from the sky.

  The figure fell like a meteor and struck the dragon’s skull head-on. The impact thundered across the plain, yet the man did not stagger. He stood upright, coat fluttering in the wind, posture calm—as though he had simply arrived late.

  He placed one hand against the creature’s head.

  There was no chant. No spell circle. No surge of visible power.

  For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

  Then the dragon froze.

  Cracks spread from the point of contact, racing across its massive body in jagged lines. Light leaked through them—cold, absolute—and in the span of a breath, the creature shattered.

  Not into flesh. Not into shadow.

  Into glittering fragments that dissolved into the air.

  Silence fell.

  Then the remaining ominous beings screamed and fled, their formation collapsing as if their will had been severed.

  Cheers erupted.

  Weapons were raised. Voices roared. Names overlapped until they became a single cry of reverence.

  “GLORY TO HIM!”

  “THE FIRST!”

  “THE ORIGEN!”

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  The man exhaled softly.

  A sharp slap struck the back of his head.

  “Ow.”

  Seven figures stood behind him—humans and demi-humans alike, hardened by years of war. Among them stood two familiar presences, older now, stronger, marked by scars earned rather than feared.

  I stepped forward and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

  “Could you not steal the entire battlefield for once?” I said. “Let the rest of us exist.”

  Laughter broke out—real, unforced.

  He smiled, rubbing the back of his head. “You’re just jealous.”

  She folded her arms. “Try not to ascend into legend before dinner next time.”

  The crowd watched us with awe.

  In the years that followed, they would give his power a name.

  Glutton.

  At first, it did not look like divinity.

  In the early days, he fought like everyone else—blade in hand, blood on his boots. To claim strength, he had to earn it. Every ominous being he slew fed something unseen inside him. Their strength did not disappear; it moved.

  Into him.

  Speed. Endurance. Fragments of abilities no human should have possessed.

  He never hid it.

  When asked, he explained it simply. “I take what they leave behind.”

  At first, it required a kill. Then a strike.

  Eventually—a touch.

  By the time he reached the summit, steel was no longer necessary. He would step forward, place his hand against an enemy, and will it—cold, devouring, absolute.

  The ominous being would collapse without a sound.

  It was terrifying.

  And yet, everyone trusted him.

  Because he never turned it on humanity. Because he always stood at the front. Because he shared victory.

  So when the world recognized him—when he breached the final ceiling—no one objected.

  Origen.

  The first to reach the highest peak. The first world ranker.

  The title settled on him as though it had always been his.

  I did not feel small standing beside him.

  If that was the summit—then I would climb it too.

  My path was simpler.

  A knight.

  Sword. Shield. Footwork carved into muscle through relentless repetition. I trained until my hands shook, until my body begged for rest it would not receive. Battle after battle tempered something steady inside me.

  Faith—not in gods, but in standing back up.

  One day, it answered.

  Light surged through me on the battlefield—not blinding, not overwhelming, but warm. Where I stood, fear loosened its grip. Where my blade rose, warriors followed.

  My class evolved.

  Paladin.

  When I crossed the summit, the world acknowledged it without ceremony.

  The second Origen.

  She refused to be left behind.

  She trained with a quiet ferocity, adapting where others forced their way through. While we charged, she endured. While others exhausted themselves, she sharpened her edge.

  She rose without spectacle.

  And then—undeniably.

  The third Origen.

  Three pillars stood at the forefront of humanity.

  Songs spread faster than armies. Fortresses expanded. Territory was reclaimed. Across the world, fighters pushed themselves harder, believing the peak was now reachable.

  They were right.

  Five more rose.

  Different paths. Different strengths.

  Eight world rankers. Eight Origens.

  Hope became reasonable.

  And quietly—almost completely—something was forgotten.

  The prophecy.

  The descendant of the sun. The one meant to end the true catastrophe.

  Because when you already have living legends…

  Who needs a hero?

  —TBC