The slums of Valewind were a haven for the forgotten, the cursed, and the damned. Cobblestone streets turned to muck when it rained. Children fought rats for scraps. The scent of smoke, sweat, and desperation clung to every building.
Myrelion sat on a crate outside a crumbling tenement, a half-eaten piece of stale bread in hand. His body was still adjusting—small limbs, bruised ribs, the faint sting of whip scars on his back. But his mind… his mind was ancient.
This boy's life was pain, he thought, chewing slowly. But he never broke.
That earned the dead child in him a nod of respect.
He sifted through more of Myrelion's memories—training in underground rooms, blades dulled to avoid killing other children. The voice of a masked instructor echoing: "The body is a tool. Pain is a teacher. Emotion is death."
The Veilwalker. That's what they had called him. The prodigy bastard born from elven nobility and gutter blood.
But Myrelion had been cast aside, hidden from the Brackwood name. His existence was a stain.
And now, he—a ninja from Earth with nearly a century of carnage on his hands—had inherited that same cursed name.
Perfect.
The sun dipped low, casting red over the broken skyline of Valewind. Myrelion stood, brushing crumbs from his ragged tunic. His eyes—once dull and tired—now gleamed with silent purpose.
"First things first," he murmured. "I need to disappear before they come looking."
He knew how these underground organizations worked. When a tool broke or went missing, someone was sent to discard the remains.
He didn't plan to wait.
He reached under his shirt, revealing a rune-etched mark on his chest—an assassin's brand. With a single breath, he focused his soul.
And the world… answered.
A pulse of black and silver shimmered from his core. Two shapes materialized beside him—twin daggers, elegant and terrible.
Nyxfang and Solbite.
His Soul Gear.
He could feel their hunger, their legacy humming in the air. Even sealed, they radiated an aura that whispered of forbidden divinity.
"A god of null-space… and a sun-warrior angel. Fitting for a man who danced between light and darkness."
His lips curved into a cold smile.
Let the world believe he was a broken child.
They had no idea what was coming.