The gateway opened with a sound like tearing cloth and breaking bone.
Matt stepped through, Voidlight bleeding violet from the edges of his boots and the blade in his hand. Behind him, the tomb collapsed in on itself, devoured by the Rift's endless hunger.
Before him stretched a corridor wrought not by hand, but by something older than intent—an ancient passage carved from obsidian and threaded with shifting light. It hadn't been built.
It had been summoned.
Older than language. Older than death.
He didn't hesitate.
The moment his foot crossed the threshold, reality bent. Light vanished—sucked away into nothing—and in its place bloomed a desolation more ancient than memory.
He now stood on fractured obsidian earth. Above, the sky churned—a veil of ash laced with sick aurora flame. Torn banners whipped in the scorched wind, echoes of wars long crumbled into myth. Statues rose from the ruins—Nitrine warriors with wings outstretched, halos shattered, their faces cracked like broken oaths.
This was Nyuga.
His birthplace.
Or what was left of it.
Behind him, the Realm Gate flickered once, then sealed with a soft shudder.
No way back. Only forward.
The air reeked—molten metal, dried blood, and something older still. Not decay. Not grief. A memory fossilized in bone.
The Shadowsidian Blade at his side pulsed.
"You feel it," the Void whispered, curling in his mind like smoke. "This is where you were forged."
He didn't reply.
In the distance, black spires loomed like sentinels. Lava split the land in great ritual scars. Titan bones—some divine, others monstrous—pierced the ground like forgotten weapons.
Each step stirred ghosts.
And they bled into him—
Flashes. Visions.
His father, wreathed in silver flame, shielding a crying infant beneath a sky ablaze.
His mother, her voice trembling, chanting ancient sigils as she sealed him beneath stone.
Then fire.
Then silence.
A ravine opened before him.
At its center, half-buried in ash and ruin, stood a sunken structure. Not quite temple, not quite vault. Shaped like a cracked lotus blooming from soot. Glyphs shimmered faintly across its stone petals.
Above the door:
House of the Flame-Born
He descended the ash-slick path. As he approached, the glyphs on his sword flickered—reacting not to the place, but to something buried in his blood.
He placed his hand on the door.
It opened without resistance.
Inside: silence.
Ancient Nitine statues lined the corridor. Warriors long entombed, each bearing relics of war—flame-glaives, thunder chakrams, voidforged pistols. Their gemstone eyes flared red as he passed.
Then one moved.
Its mouth cracked open, stone grinding like old teeth.
"Identify yourself."
"Matt Salurga."
"Lineage?"
He hesitated. Just for a breath.
"…Nitine."
A shrill tone pierced the chamber. The floor lit blue. Walls ignited in sequence.
Doors slammed shut.
"Lineage unverified. Void detected. Trial initiated."
The floor shuddered. Stone groaned. Gears awakened from centuries of dormancy. From the center of the chamber, something rose.
A giant.
Twenty feet tall. Forged from obsidian veined with gold. Wings ablaze. At its core, a divine emblem pulsed—the sigil of Pailance, Goddess of Balance.
RELIC GUARDIAN: PARAGON OF FLAME
It roared—and charged.
Matt blinked aside. The staff missed by inches, smashing the floor to shards. Heat and debris exploded around him as he rolled, blade drawn, ribs aching.
"Use me," the Void hissed again. "Tear it down."
He clenched his teeth. "Not yet."
The Paragon surged again. Fire screamed from its limbs. Matt blinked behind it, blade slashing in twin arcs.
Void Technique: Blink Slash
Shadow tore across the automaton's back—deep cuts, but not deep enough.
It turned. Its chest flared.
Flame.
A wave of it.
It hit him square. His coat ignited. He hit the stone with a grunt, coughing through smoke and flame. He forced himself to rise.
Not enough.
Then he saw it—an altar at the far end. Upon it, a crimson crystal throbbed like a war drum.
Blood Sigil of Resistance
The Paragon roared.
He ran.
Fire cracked the floor behind him as he dove. Rolled. Reached—
Pain exploded through him.
But it wasn't destruction.
It was rebirth.
The agony baptized him. Glyphs blazed across his spine. Wounds sealed. Flame bound itself to him.
Skill Unlocked: Ashdrinker Vein
He stood—different now.
The Shadowsidian Blade erupted in flame, sheathed in furious heat.
The Paragon struck again.
This time, Matt didn't flinch.
Steel clashed against staff. Fire met Void. He ducked, slid beneath its guard, and drove his blade deep into its divine heart.
Void-Fire Surge: Execute
Black and gold light detonated through the chamber.
The Paragon screamed.
Then shattered—molten gears raining down like divine ash.
Silence reclaimed the space.
Matt stood in the stillness, breath heaving, blade humming with spent fury.
"Lineage confirmed," came the whisper from the vault.
"Welcome home, Matt of the Flame-Born."
The wall behind the wreckage groaned and collapsed, revealing a corridor lit by flickering blue flame.
On its walls—murals.
Three Nayron Kings knelt before a cloaked figure, forged of both flame and Void.
The figure's face was lost to shadow.
But Matt knew it.
He had worn that face once.
Or perhaps he still did.
At the mural's base, in divine script:
He who balances wrath and will shall awaken the Exile Crown.
Matt reached out, fingers brushing the stone.
"I'm not a savior," he murmured.
The mural gave no reply.
It simply waited.