The legends say the gods abandoned us when we needed them most.
The scholars say they never existed.
But I remember the fire.
I remember the tower.
And I remember dying.
The day the sky turned to cinder and the Obsidian Tower split the horizon, I was a child. Just old enough to run, too young to understand what it meant to be marked. When they found me beneath the rubble—burned but breathing—I bore a black crest glowing like dying embers across my spine.
The Soulborne mark.
The priests called me a blight. The soldiers wanted to cut my throat. But an old swordsman found me first, and with him, I vanished into the forgotten edges of the realm.
He trained me in silence. Taught me the way of the blade, the breath, the stillness between strikes. But nothing could still the burning in my blood, or the voices I heard when I slept too deeply.
Whispers. Names not spoken for centuries.
They called me Kael.
Now, years later, the towers are awakening again. The same crest that cursed me is flaring to life. And the blades of old—the ones that drink more than blood—are stirring in their graves.
I never asked to be chosen.
I never asked to be cursed.
But if the world wants a monster… I'll show them one.