The world had long since forgotten the art of Soulcraft.
Torn by endless wars and drowned in the blood of its own arrogance, humanity clung to the ruins of a once-great civilization.
On the edge of a shattered city, where the sky was always a bruised violet and the air carried the scent of rust and sorrow, a boy named Kael stood alone.
His black cloak, patched and worn, fluttered weakly against the biting wind.
In his hand, he held a shard—a fragment of something ancient, something that still pulsed faintly with life.
"Find the Core," the whisper in his mind urged him. "Become the last Soulcrafter."
Kael tightened his grip around the shard. He did not know who had placed this burden upon him, nor why the old powers still called to him in a world that had forsaken them.
But he had seen enough suffering to understand one truth: strength was survival.
The ruins stretched endlessly before him, a labyrinth of broken stone and twisted metal.
Kael took his first step into the unknown, the shard glowing faintly in his hand—a single spark against the vast, dying night.
He would find the Core.
He would awaken the last Soulcraft.
Even if it meant losing himself along the way.
Kael's boots crunched over the shattered stones, each step stirring up a mist of gray dust that clung to the air like restless spirits. The deeper he walked into the ruins, the heavier the silence became, pressing against his skin, seeping into his bones.
He paused at the center of a broken plaza. The once-majestic statue of a guardian beast lay decapitated at his feet, its head shattered into a thousand forgotten memories. Kael knelt, running his fingers over the smooth, cold surface of the stone. A whisper, so faint it could have been imagined, brushed against his mind.
"Return... Complete..."
Kael stiffened. His hand instinctively reached for the hilt of his dagger, but he forced himself to stay calm. He was no stranger to the echoes of old magic. They often lingered in places where sorrow had rooted deep.
"Just the dead talking to themselves," he muttered under his breath.
But as he stood and turned toward the crumbling archway ahead, he saw them—shadows moving within the mist, shapes half-formed and flickering, like memories refusing to die. Their whispering grew louder, overlapping, urgent.
"Soulcrafter... awaken..."
"The price... the price must be paid..."
Kael narrowed his eyes. He recognized the signs now. This wasn't mere residual magic. Something ancient was still alive here... something waiting.
Drawing a deep breath, he tightened his grip on the dagger at his belt and stepped forward, into the heart of the ruin.
The archway loomed over Kael, a crooked monument to forgotten wars and broken promises. Vines choked its surface, and deep cracks ran across the ancient stones. At its center, a symbol was carved—a spiral of flame, half-faded but unmistakable.
The Seal of Soulcrafters.
Kael's breath caught in his throat. He had seen drawings of the Seal in old manuscripts, but standing before it now was different. It pulsed faintly, as if recognizing his presence.
For a moment, he hesitated. Beyond that gate, lay the heart of a dead civilization—a place no one had returned from. Even Soulcrafters of old had spoken of this place in hushed tones.
But Kael wasn't like the others. He had nothing left to lose.
With a determined step, he passed under the archway. The world beyond shifted. The air grew thick and heavy, shimmering with invisible threads of magic. The ground itself seemed to breathe, pulsing under his boots.
And there, at the center of the courtyard, stood a door—not made of wood or stone, but of pure black light, humming with a sound too deep to hear, too heavy to ignore.
The Gate of Forgotten Oaths.
Kael approached cautiously. Symbols floated around the door, spiraling like lazy stars. As he reached out his hand, one of the symbols flared—and seared a whisper into his mind.
"Blood for passage. Soul for memory."
Kael withdrew his hand sharply. His heart pounded. He understood now. This was not just a gate. It was a test—a price demanded by the ruin itself.
And somewhere deep inside, Kael knew:
Crossing this threshold meant leaving behind the man he was—and embracing something far more dangerous.
The world behind the Gate pulsed with ancient sorrow. As Kael stepped closer, a voice—neither male nor female—echoed inside his mind.
"Offer your blood. Seal your fate."
A ritual.
Kael understood: to open the Gate, he had to give a piece of himself.
He drew the dagger from his belt, a simple blade, battered from years of survival. For a second, he hesitated. Blood was not merely blood in these lands—it was memory, life, history.
With a swift motion, Kael cut his palm. Warm crimson welled up, spilling down his fingers.
The Gate responded instantly.
The symbols around it blazed to life, swirling faster, drawn to his blood like moths to flame. The black light of the door shimmered, then split open with a groan that shook the very ground.
Beyond it: a stairway spiraling downward into darkness.
Kael clenched his bleeding hand, steadying his breath.
There would be no turning back after this.
And with one last glance at the ashen sky, he stepped into the dark.
The stairs spiraled endlessly, swallowing Kael in layers of cold, damp air.
Each step groaned under his weight, and the darkness seemed alive, shifting with unseen whispers.
He tightened his grip on the dagger.
He was not alone.
Soft voices slithered around him—fragments of memories, regrets, and long-forgotten dreams. Some were mourning. Some were pleading. And some... were laughing.
As Kael descended deeper, ghostly figures emerged from the walls—transparent faces twisted in sorrow, trapped in endless lamentation.
One figure, a woman with hollow eyes, drifted close.
"Why do you seek the Soulcraft?" she whispered, her voice cold as death.
Kael did not answer.
He knew better than to engage with the echoes of the damned.
He pushed forward, his blood staining the ancient stones behind him, leaving a silent trail.
The air grew colder, thicker, until breathing became a battle.
Finally, after what felt like hours, he reached the end of the stairway.
Before him stood a massive stone door, carved with the same ancient glyphs as the Gate above.
But this one bore a single symbol at its center: a burning crown pierced by a sword.
Kael touched the mark—and the ground trembled.
The real trial was about to begin.
The stone door rumbled, splitting slowly open with the sound of grinding centuries.
Beyond it lay a vast chamber—walls covered in broken mirrors, each reflecting not Kael, but twisted versions of himself.
One mirror showed him as a tyrant, crowned in gold and stained with blood.
Another showed him broken, begging on his knees before unseen gods.
A third showed him... dead, impaled on his own sword.
Kael felt his pulse quicken.
This was no ordinary trial.
"Choose," a disembodied voice whispered from everywhere and nowhere. "Choose the self you will become."
The broken mirrors began to pulse with light, humming with dark energy.
Kael stepped forward, heart pounding. He knew instinctively—this was a test not of strength, but of soul.
He faced the reflections one by one, feeling their pull.
Each version promised something: Power. Survival. Peace. Death.
But Kael clenched his fists.
"I choose my own path," he growled.
With a roar, he thrust his dagger into the ground.
The mirrors shattered at once—exploding into a thousand fragments that dissolved into smoke.
When the smoke cleared, a bridge of light appeared, leading deeper into the unknown.
Kael, bloodied but resolute, stepped forward.
The true journey had only just begun.
As Kael crossed the bridge of light, the chamber beyond trembled.
At the center, atop a pedestal of obsidian, floated an ancient relic: a crystalline heart, glowing with blue-black fire.
The Heart of Soulcraft.
Kael could feel it—an overwhelming presence, a voice without words, calling to the very marrow of his bones.
He reached out.
The moment his fingers brushed the crystal, a shockwave burst outward, throwing Kael into the air.
Visions flooded his mind—oceans of stars, endless battles, cities burning, gods weeping.
And within it all... a single figure stood tall: himself, cloaked in shadows, wielding power enough to shatter the world.
Pain split his skull.
His veins burned with a searing, impossible energy.
He screamed—
But he did not let go.
Chains of soul-light coiled around him, binding him to the relic, rewriting his very essence.
The Heart spoke now, a voice like a dying star.
"You are the last Soulcrafter."
The bridge shattered. The ruins crumbled.
The chamber collapsed into a vortex of swirling light and dust.
When the dust finally settled, Kael knelt in the center—breathing heavily, eyes glowing faintly blue.
A mark burned into the back of his hand: the ancient sigil of Soulcraft.
He stood, taller now. Stronger.
Changed.
Above him, the sky split open. A monstrous, shadowy figure—something that had been waiting—descended from the rift, roaring.
Kael gripped his new blade—formed from the Heart itself—and smiled grimly.
"Let them come," he whispered.
The true war had begun.