In the beginning was nothing.

Only a vast and formless Void, filled with a seething darkness, which despised the light of life. It was as it ever was and as it was ever destined to be.

Then, in the First Age—called the Age of Awakening by some, and the Age of Strife by others—the six Primevals stirred and were given substance, shattering the stillness of the Void with their presence.

And they were Aether and Water, Fire and Earth, Light and Darkness.

But the Void loathed its kin and, with insidious whispers, incited a war of such destruction that the foundations of reality shook beneath its weight.

— The Divine Book of Primevals - Parca 2, Kisim 11

***

The last of the hellish Uzra fell in a heap of butchered limbs and gore-soaked feathers, letting out a final gurgling hiss before casting the dusty cave into a tense silence, save for Rift’s labored breathing.

Death lay heavily, like a thick pall, throughout the cavern.

A voice, angry and low and insistent, muttered in the back of Rift’s mind. Reveling in the violence and carnage.

Bright arcs of blood decorated rugged stone walls that hadn’t tasted a drop of moisture in centuries, if ever. More pooled beneath the ten other monstrous creatures, all scattered around the natural cavern like men sleeping off a hangover after a long night of carousing. Not that anyone would confuse the things on the ground for men. Not even in the poor moonlight streaming in through the cave’s mouth, some thirty yards off.

Although they had the same rough brushstrokes of a man—arms and legs, a head and torso—nothing about them spoke of humanity.

But neither were they like the natural beasts, which prowled the blighted wastes of Okkorim, forever in search of shade and water and their next meal. These were Uzra, sometimes called Nightmares and other times Ravagers. Twisted manifestations, which had emerged from the depths of the Null, drawn to this cavern by the rich pocket of Blood and Death Mana that hung thick in the air like an invisible cloud.

These caves, nestled in the rocky red hills high above the dust-speck of a village known as Telrala had served as a makeshift crypt for the past three decades. Rift would’ve known that even if he hadn’t talked with the venerated clan elders. He could taste it with his spiritual perception. Years of death, decay, and destruction, had baked into the sand and stones, imbuing them with their Aspect. Their power.

That same power, left to sit untended for too long, always drew scavengers. Just like it had drawn the winged, blister red creatures with too long arms and too many teeth. It was the same reason Rift had come to this nowhere town bordering the edge of nothing.

He was a scavenger in his own way.

The elders would pay him handsomely for the service he’d provided. Not that Rift cared about the money. He had simple tastes and coin was a means to an end. Nothing more. Chains, on the other hand, would surely appreciate the payday. She was always hungry for gold and silver, while Idwan would rejoice in the good they’d done for the people here.

Rift cared about doing good as much as he cared about coin.

For him, the battle itself was the true reward and the creatures offered a treasure trove of Natural Mana, which far surpassed what simple wealth could offer. He savored the feeling. The snap of Uzra bone. His bloody blade carving effortlessly through tough skin and meat beneath. The creatures falling, even as they lashed out with talons and beaks and feathers as sharp as steel.

Rift shuddered while the voice of his unwelcome traveler purred contently in the back of his mind. He pushed the bloodlust away and centered himself, using a simple technique he’d mastered over long years.

The time for death was done. The battle was over. Now it was time to collect his prize.

The slaughtered nightmares radiated a noxious combination of Hunger and Blood Mana, though, like all Uzra, Nullfire Mana swirled and eddied around the fresh corpses. Their power would nourish Rift’s soul and help him move one tiny step closer to reaching his goals.

First, Paragon. Then Exarch. Archon, past that. And onward to Sovereign.

Each step, even the smallest one, was a victory in his eyes.

Rift took one more deep breath, surveying his handiwork for a final time, then let the gleaming scarlet sword in his hand dissipate. Instead of turning to smoke or blinking away like most conjured weapons, the congealed blood which comprised the blade slithered over his hand and crawled up his skin, flowing back into the deep gash that ran across his forearm. As the Blood Aspect slipped into his veins, the wound quickly knit itself closed.

A host of other minor cuts and deeper lacerations adorned his chest and arms and shoulders. His injuries would heal quickly enough, however. Just as soon as he started cycling the plentiful Mana in the cave.

For now, he paid them no mind.

Instead, Rift headed back toward the center of the cavern, where a sandy patch of floor, adequate for his purposes, waited.

Usually he wore armor, crafted from the Blood and Ruination Aspect that ran through his Mana Channels, but not now.

He was bare chested, his baggy linen pants little more than tattered strips of black fabric. Had Rift relied on the full scope of the enchanted gear at his disposal, killing the Uzra would’ve been easy. Too easy by half. What was the point of training if not to push oneself to the limits? It was only there, straddling the razor-fine line between life and death, that the faintest hint of advancement existed. Especially for one at his level.

He carried no pack and though the clothes he wore were ruined beyond repair, Rift was never far from the sacred treasures of his Unnamed Path. He had everything he needed tucked safely away inside his personal Dream Vault. It wasn’t so impressive. Any Cultivator who’d ascended to the venerated ranks of the Peerless could do as much. Though the number of such practitioners was exceedingly slim in the grand scheme of things.

Two thousand Peerless in all of Okkorim? Perhaps less. Which was nothing, considering just how far the shadow of the Ancient Ydrissid Empire stretched.

And of those, who’d done so without the guidance of an Archon or the backing of a Venerated Sovereign? Who, against all odds, had advanced time and time again, using techniques cobbled together from a hundred different broken paths?

Only one.

Him.

Technically, as one of the Peerless, Rift qualified as a member of the Xenoch—not that they would have him, or he them. He would rather cut out his tongue than name himself as one of their ilk. Instead, they called him a Bastard. An Outlaw. The Wayward. All were fitting epitaphs, and he wore each like a medal pinned to his chest.

With a grunt and a flicker of will, Rift opened a door in the fabric of the world, reaching directly into a small, self-contained pocket dimension. His Vault was a bubble of shifting iridescent colors, neither part of the Material realm nor truly part of the Dream realm. It was an in-between place, reinforced by his own Mana and tethered directly to his soul.

There were a host of items stored within, plundered from years spent in his chosen trade.

Sigil-scribed weapons. Costly suits of armor. Ancient urns filled with the harvested Mana of the Greater Uzra of the outer Abyss. Even the head of a Rakshasa Lord. And a hundred other treasures that many would give their right hand to possess.

Rift mostly used them for barter.

There were also mundane items as well, which were infinitely more useful so far as Rift was concerned.

An expansive yurt. A simple traveler's pack, a bed roll and blanket. A small hygiene kit and several fresh sets of clothes. Walking around a populated city in Blood-Bound Hemal Armor was impractical at best and could serve to draw the unwanted attention of the Battle Wardens or wandering Cultivators, looking to make a name for themselves. Unfortunately, even the most expensive and durable fabrics, like Frostspun, Goldsilk, or Dreamlace, weren’t resilient enough to last long under his tender care.

Thankfully, the glittering heap of platinum, gold, and silver coins, carelessly piled in one corner of the Dream Vault, ensured he could always find a suitable replacement when needed.

Rift turned his attention to a small, iron-banded chest near the front of the Vault.

Perched on top was a simple leather bundle, rolled tightly and sealed with a frayed string. He pulled free both the chest and the bundle, then let the rift snap shut, reality quickly healing just as his skin had a minute before. He dropped to a knee, placing the chest to one side, then casually unrolled the case across the dusty ground, revealing a set of familiar and well-worn ritual instruments.

Sigil inscriber. A null essence conduit. A runic soul mirror. Several paint brushes along with stoppered glass vials, filled with condensed liquid Mana.

Rift momentarily caught his reflection in the silvered surface of the mirror.

He was caked in so much dirt, grime, and blood that he looked only a little more human than the Nightmares he’d carved into pieces. His long black hair, streaked with thin lines of silver, was matted and stringy. His face was gaunt, almost skeletal, and a long length of shaggy black beard covered his cheeks and chin. His body was nearly as lean as his face, ropy muscle covering a frame that could use a hot bath and several good meals. A legion of black and red tattoos—old wounds that would never truly heal—littered his arms and chest and back.

Rift had seen maimed beggars and downcast street urchins who looked more respectable and dignified. Not that it mattered. He cared about his appearance even less than coin or helping others.

He turned away from the mirror and drew out a bone tube, engraved with glyphs in the ancient tongue of the Exalted Driss. He popped a waxy seal and carefully shook loose a tightly rolled scroll—yellowed, creased, and time worn. Rift carefully unfurled the parchment, reading over the archaic ritual for the hundredth time, studying the components and the various cycling forms required to activate the technique contained within.

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Gingerly setting the scroll down, he moved to the chest, popped the lid, then slipped free the six sacred treasures contained within. He laid them in a circle, each item representing one of the Divine Sentinels.

The items were as varied as they were unique.

The withered hand of a powerful Cultivator from the Path of the Undying, Destruction. A single, unblemished rose imbued with so much Life Mana that it would never wilt, Creation. A golden armillary sphere that radiated the power of a new-born star, Order. The ruined remains of a priceless artifact, burned to nothing more than ash, Chaos. An intricate pocket-watch, crafted by the finest artisans of Synthos, and powered by a diamond core filled with the stolen life span of a dozen men, Time. The last, a crystalline slate imprinted with the first dream of a newborn child, Dreams.

Then, following the patterns described on the ancient ritual scroll, Rift painted sigils, runes, and boundary lines onto the floor using the liquid Mana contained within the various vials. It was a labor-intensive process and a costly one. The ingredients used in the ritual would be worth a small—or not-so-small fortune—even in the capital city of Chentoufi, which was home to a great many fortunes.

The cost was not worth considering.

Not if this worked.

Rift had forced his way through each of the six lower Earth-Ranked Realms by sheer grit and force of will. By tirelessly working harder than anyone believed he could. By hunting Nightmares and accumulating enough raw mana to force his core to advance and his body to be reforged in the celestial light of the Primeval.

He’d done the impossible by breaching the ranks of the Peerless.

Advancing to Paragon was another matter entirely, however.

Strength alone was inadequate to the task and without a proper Path to follow, he was walking alone. Grasping in the dark for answers. Searching desperately for any hint of what it might take for him to ascend one stage more.

He’d borrowed this particular ascendancy ritual from the Archive of the Sanguine Skean, more commonly known in the back alleys of Chentoufi as the Bloody Razors. Though they likely would’ve considered it stealing more than borrowing. Especially since he had no intention of giving it back. Rift didn’t follow the Path of Bloodwater as the brothers of the sect did, but he’d cribbed other techniques from them over the years, which he’d been able to integrate without too much difficulty. Therefore, it stood to reason that this ritual might be compatible with his bastardized, Unnamed Path.

It was a gamble, but such was the way of life.

Liban jwa lizeva, as his people were wont to say. No blood, no risk, no harvest.

Once he finished with the sigils, he swapped his paint brush for the transference athame, crafted from the bones of an Abyssal Lurker.

It resembled a single-edged dagger, forged from a single piece of dark glass and etched with silver runes that sparkled like trapped stars. One of his most prized possessions, the athame allowed Rift to effortlessly dissect Uzra and harvest their various parts without leaking or disrupting the Mana and Natural Aspects trapped within their flesh and organs.

With practiced efficiency, Rift retrieved the offerings he needed from the dead horrors. The Nightmares were primarily manifestations of Hunger and Blood, but just as every Uzra radiated Nullfire Mana from the Null Domain, they also carried a token from each of the six Primeval Aspects: Light and Darkness, Water and Fire, Aether and Earth. There were countless other types of lesser aspects, of course, but they were all ruled by the six Primevals.

Rather than fleshy organs, each of the cores resembled glassy gemstones painted with hazy witchlight, though the color of their primary Aspect shone through like the sun piercing a thick fog.

Some were as small as the glass marbles the children of Ruk played with, while others were larger than Rift’s fist. Although they resembled rocks, they were actually crystalized Mana. Such Cores could be sold to power the vast Primeval Engines of Okkorim, or they could be cycled by those with compatible Mana, regardless of their Path. He collected the cores from each of the beasts, not wanting any of the resources to go to waste.

Most he stored in his Vault—trinkets to be sold off to Alchemeks, Gearwrights, and lesser Cultivators—but the six best remained. They would serve as the offerings and conduits. These he placed carefully within the ritual circle, forming a divine symbol every Cultivator was familiar with: The All-God’s Wheel. But instead of positioning them in the proper Celestial alignment, Rift transposed them so that Shadow, Earth, and Fire were ruled by the Domain of Creation, while Light, Aether, and Water fell under the purview of Destruction.

Ritual elements set, he took the Athame and slashed a deep line horizontally across his left forearm. Thanks to his Unnamed Path and his Twice-Forged body, tempered in Blood and remade in Ruination, his flesh was so resilient that even the most egregious wounds left no lasting marks, save the ritual tattoos which would never fully heal. Still, the obsidian blade trailed along a thick white scar; a wound which had been cut and healed a thousand times over.

The same metaphysical properties that allowed the Athame to butcher and harvest the Nightmares without disrupting their Mana, prevented his body from immediately sewing the wound shut. And when his body finally did heal the shallow gash, it would leave the scar behind as a reminder that everyone, no matter their Path, was vulnerable to something. Including Imperator Serafel, the Sorcerer-God of Chentoufi.

What path the King of the Xenchos followed, no one knew for certain, but no one was invincible. No one.

Normally, Rift could control the blood leaking from the wound as though it were an extension of his will—like another limb, even. Thanks to the nullifying effects of the Athame, it was just blood, temporarily stripped of its Mana-infused properties. He let it pool in the palm of his hand before sprinkling droplets over each of the ritual elements and taking his seat in the middle of the circle. Within the All-God’s Wheel, the center spot was always occupied by Null, which represented Conflict. Or Change.

Those who were especially bold might even say it represented Fate.

Not that any respectable man would ever whisper such a thing, for fear of being labeled a heretic by the scholars and hierophants. But then, Rift wasn’t a respectable man. He was a bastard and an outlaw and what he desired above all else was change. Even though it might kill him, he would take fate into his own hands.

He sat, legs crossed, eyes pressed shut, and envisioned his spiritual core—a nest of crystalline Mana, stained Scarlet and Purple—located between his naval and chest. It thrummed with potent energy that rushed through his torso and circulated along his arms and legs, suffusing every inch of his spiritual body with vital power just as his heart suffused every inch of his physical body with blood.

In that way, his core and heart served a similar function.

But unlike the body, which could not so easily be controlled, the spirit obeyed the will of the Cultivator. Wardens used Mana to reinforce their bodies and hone the senses, while the Theurgists used it to conjure and control the lesser spirit beasts and Uzra. Spiritists channeled it heavenward, creating pillars of faith capable of reaching the gods above—or so they claimed, though Rift had his doubts—and Arcanists shaped the Primeval itself, bending the vast forces of nature to their will.

Rift was none of these. And all of these.

Though he’d started life as a Warden with the Black Lancers, that was a lifetime ago or so it seemed to him.

He breathed in, drawing the thick clouds of Mana swirling all around him into his core, then compressed it down, tighter and tighter until it felt as though he was full to bursting with power. Power that needed to go somewhere before it consumed him. Still, he drew in more, letting the overflow leak into his mana channels. Slowly at first, then faster and faster and faster like a dam breaking. In seconds his body was brimming with more Mana than he'd ever held.

It wasn’t enough. Not to push his core to the next level.

The difference in power between the Peerless and the exalted Paragon above was an insurmountable chasm, impossible to cross without aid. According to the ritual manual he’d lifted from the Skean, that was the purpose the relics served. Rift had spent years talking with Senmhat Scholars and Mana Theorists about how exactly one might advance to Paragon. Though there seemed to be many ways, all agreed that some portion of the power had to come from without.

One could not ascend through the heavens without aid from the heavens.

Advancement to Paragon required either the concerted aid of a sect circle, binding the soul of a sufficiently powerful Divine Beast, or with suitable ritual vessels invested with purified Mana.

As an outcast, a sect circle was out of the question, and locating a sufficiently powerful Divine Beast was about as likely as finding an honest politician in Chentoufi, so the third option it was.

As the power built further, Rift reached out with his Mana and forced the influx of Blood Aspect into the first of the sacred vessels he’d prepared. He systematically emptied the entirety of his being into the unblemished rose, representing the Sentinel of Creation. The process took several agonizing minutes, and by the time he was done he felt like a wrung-out rag.

His body quivered, his spirit shook like a dry leaf, and sweat sluiced down his forehead and over his chest and back. It felt like pushing a boulder up the side of a sand dune. While hobbled. With his hands tied behind his back.

Then he did it again.

Rift drew in the overwhelming cloud of mana, refilling himself to bursting as he harvested and cycled.

He pushed the energy through his muscles using the unique pattern found within the scroll. Once his body couldn’t hold another drop, he channeled the mana into the second object of power—the pale, desiccated hand representing Destruction. According to the advancement manual, he would need to fill and empty himself completely six times. The rapid expansion and contraction of his core and channels would prepare him for the final step to advancement.

Since the Aspects filling each of the ritual relics was already purified and refined by his own spirit, his body would be able to accept it without the strain of processing the mana first. At least, that was how the theory worked. Once all six vessels were full, he would draw in every ounce of purified mana from each of the objects back into his Core all at once and…

Advance.

That, or explode.

Both seemed like possible outcomes.

By the time he forced his Mana into the third object—the golden armillary sphere which represented Order—Rift knew explosion was the more likely of the two outcomes. The power thrumming within the objects should’ve been stone stable, but he could already feel the energy surging and pressing against the artificial bounds of the prepared vessels. This path had been created for someone with a Blood Affinity, Twice-Forged in the Domain of either the Creation or Order.

Unfortunately, his Twice-Forged path was Ruination—a powerful but obscure Aspect governed by the Destruction Domain. His was an unnatural Core configuration. Although he’d used specialty prepared powders and vessels, the power of Ruin churning within his core was eating through the containers at a much faster rate than Rift ever could’ve anticipated.

Well, that wasn’t exactly true.

He had anticipated this could happen; he’d just hoped it wouldn’t.

He’d been a fool to trust in hope or providence.

Still, he tried to hold on, rushing through the process in a desperate attempt to outrace the destructive power of his own magic. As he emptied his Core into the fourth object, he felt something snap within his greater spiritual perception. Gritting his teeth, Rift cracked an eye and stole a quick look at the flower. A furious red and violet nimbus surrounded the rose and all but one of the petals had wilted.

As the last petal blackened and curled, the ritual failed all at once and chaos broke loose with the sound of a thunderclap.