His master, Kiereth, had once been a commoner, his village destroyed in a raid. He had been knocked unconscious, left for dead, while his wife and son were slaughtered. When he awoke to their lifeless bodies, something inside him shattered—and dark mana surged forth, awakening his potential.

  After Kiereth’s family was slaughtered, grief and fury consumed him. With nothing left, he chose a life of battle, becoming a mercenary. Without a teacher to guide him in magic, he sought knowledge from his fellow mercenaries—warriors who wielded aura techniques. Adapting their methods to his dark magic, he developed a unique ability—Blackblood, a dark mana enhancement that transformed his body, making him nearly invincible in battle.

  As his power grew, he formed a small group of elite mercenaries. Eventually, they were hired by a kingdom to eliminate a necromancer who had been pillaging villages and raising an army of the dead. The battle was brutal, but they emerged victorious.

  Afterward, while searching the necromancer’s lair, they discovered his grimoires. Kiereth, keeping his intentions hidden, secretly took the books for himself before ordering the base burned to the ground. In the shadows, he studied the forbidden knowledge, learning how to cultivate dark mana, summon the undead, and control them at will.

  With his newfound understanding, he expanded his mana pool, pushing his body and mind beyond their limits. Battle after battle, he grew stronger, his power unmatched. Yet, as the years passed and the bloodshed continued, the rage that once fueled him began to fade. And in its absence, a hollow emptiness took its place.

  The thrill of combat had dulled. The faces of his enemies blurred together. No matter how many fell before his blade, the past did not change, and the pain did not fade.

  One day, while passing through a market, Kiereth's gaze fell upon a boy—thin, ragged, and bound in chains. The child was touched by dark mana, his potential wasted in servitude. Seeing something of himself in the boy, Kiereth made a choice. He purchased him, not as a slave, but as an apprentice.

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  Under Kiereth’s guidance, the boy—Orin—learned discipline, combat, and the art of dark magic. He was taught to meditate, to sharpen his mind as well as his blade. Years passed, and Orin grew stronger, eventually reaching the level of a second-rank mage, his abilities honed through relentless training and hardship.

  But power alone was not enough. Kiereth sought true growth for his apprentice. And so, they abandoned their quiet life, venturing into a war zone—where only the strong survived.

  Yet fate turned against them. In a kingdom ravaged by disease, fear and superstition took hold. Dark magic became the scapegoat, and suspicion ran rampant. Seeking favor with the crown, the thieves’ guild saw an opportunity. They had once guided Kiereth’s group through the city’s underbelly, offering safe passage—but betrayal came swiftly.

  Whispers of warlocks and plague-cursed rituals spread like wildfire. The guild fabricated tales of forbidden magic, twisting truths to fit their own gain. It wasn’t long before the inquisitors descended, relentless and without warning, like hounds upon the scent of prey.

  Desperate and with no way out, Kiereth made a final decision. Knocking Orin unconscious, he carved a summoning circle into the ground—one of the last pages from a forbidden grimoire—and invoked the name of Marquis Orias, Lord of Flesh and Form. Amused to be called after centuries, the demon listened to Kiereth’s plea and offered a deal: his soul in exchange for a gift to his apprentice.

  When Orin awoke, a searing pain burned across his back. He couldn't see it, but something had been etched into his flesh—something unnatural, something permanent.

  Kiereth wasted no time. He convinced Orin that they needed to split up to evade pursuit, that it would be harder for the inquisitors to track them both. But it was a lie. Kiereth had no intention of running. As Orin fled into the shadows, his master turned to face their hunters.

  With a final, knowing smile, Kiereth raised his blade. The inquisitors swarmed him, their holy magic clashing against his darkness. He fought with everything he had, buying precious moments, ensuring Orin had a chance to escape.

  But in the end, he fell.

  Orin ran, desperate, his breath ragged, his vision blurred by exhaustion. But the inquisitors pursued him, their horses relentless, their torches a blazing reminder that there was no escape. His legs burned, his body screamed for rest, but stopping meant death.

  And then—pain. A blade pierced his heart.

  Darkness swallowed him whole.

  And then—Ezren awoke.