rastq12

A world ruled by Sovereigns, beings of absolute power bound by an eternal cycle. Every 1,000 years, reality resets, and history is rewritten. The strong ascend, the weak are erased, and none remember what came before.

Except for one.

When he awakens in a shattered battlefield, marked as “Forsaken,” he knows something is wrong. Fragments of past cycles burn in his mind. He remembers dying—again and again—fighting against a fate he could never escape. But this time, something is different.

His power is corrupted, broken beyond recognition. His existence is an anomaly, rejected by the world itself. The cycle should have erased him, but he remains.

Now, hunted by immortals who do not remember their crimes, he must uncover the truth behind the Pantheon of Sovereigns, the Architect who designed this prison, and the lost history of those who defied fate before him.

For the first time in eternity, the cycle is fracturing.

And he is the one breaking it.

Sovereign of the Forsaken Realm

His body flickered at the edges, as if reality itself was struggling to keep him tethered. The mark on his collarbone pulsed again, sending a dull ache through his chest. It wasn't pain—not exactly. It was something deeper. Something wrong.

His gaze drifted to where the creature had vanished. No corpse. No trace. It had been erased.

A low hum in the air, a vibration beneath his skin. He could feel it—an unnatural disturbance spreading outward, like ripples in a still pond. A signal.

A distant sound reached his ears. Not the wind. Not the rustling of the ruins.

His instincts screamed at him to move. His grip tightened around his broken sword as he turned toward the battlefield's edge. He had to get out. Now.

But the moment he stepped forward, the sky darkened.

A weight settled over the air, pressing down on his chest like an unseen force. The battlefield—already a graveyard of silence—grew even quieter. As if the world itself was holding its breath.

It wasn't human. It wasn't even a voice in the normal sense. It resonated through the air, cold and absolute, as if spoken directly into existence.

From the horizon, a figure emerged. Towering. Cloaked in shifting black mist, its form was barely distinguishable, as if it wasn't fully bound by the laws of reality. Its face was hidden beneath a smooth, featureless mask, save for a single glowing sigil etched into the center. A sigil that matched the one on his chest.

A wave of pressure crashed down on him, forcing him to one knee. His bones felt like they were grinding against each other, his muscles locking in place. His mark burned—not with power, but with rejection.

The Hunter's voice echoed once more, devoid of emotion.

"Anomaly confirmed. Erasure commencing."

And then, without warning, it struck.

Chapter 3: The Hunt Begins