Kylas stood across from Seraph, his arms crossed, his body still tense from the ridiculous training she had just put him through. The sweat on his skin was drying now, leaving behind the faint salt of exertion, but his focus had shifted entirely. Before him, Seraph knelt down, the sleeves of her flowing robes slipping as she pressed her fingers to the dirt. Her elegant tails curled slightly behind her, the golden fur catching the dim light that filtered through the garden.
The ground beneath them became her canvas. With graceful, deliberate movements, she traced the shapes of something ancient into the soil, her clawed fingertips cutting into the earth with effortless precision. The symbols she carved were not merely shapes—they pulsed, as if recognizing their own existence, as if remembering a time when they were whole.
"Magic in Nýxhelm is not simply an energy or a learned craft," Seraph began, her voice carrying the weight of something far older than her youthful appearance suggested. "It is a living, self-conscious system of reality weaving. The Runes of Bahamut are not just symbols or spells, but the underlying threads of existence itself, rewritten and channeled through willpower, language, and understanding."
Kylas, now seated on the ground with a journal in his lap, was completely invested. His delinquent attitude had given way to something fierce, something hungry. He scratched down notes furiously, his usually sharp and untamed movements suddenly methodical.
Gunthr and Zedlock stood beside him, their towering, sentient armor forms leaning forward like children hanging onto every word of a grand tale. Gunthr's helmet tilted with an almost reverent curiosity, while Zedlock's gauntlets twitched in a gesture that could only be described as an excited fidget.
Seraph continued, drawing three interwoven symbols.
"It's called the Runes of Bahamut, and it allows for a dynamic, evolving magic—but only for those who truly grasp the cost of rewriting the world and their own soul."
She tapped one of the symbols. "Long before the gods usurped divinity, Bahamut was not a dragon, a deity, or a being—it was the foreign name of the Sphere itself."
Kylas' ink feather nearly tore through the page as he wrote. He looked up at her sharply. "The Sphere? You mean the entire system of reality?"
Seraph nodded. "The ancient name BΛHΛMVT meant—"
She carved the three syllables into the ground with effortless grace:
BΛ – "To shape that which has no form."
HΛM – "To bind the infinite into meaning."
VT – "To anchor the rewritten world into existence."
Kylas' heartbeat quickened. He didn't know why, but something about those words felt familiar.
'It's similar to the purpose of the Sphere. How it's a literal womb to create and destroy worlds, a thing that held gods and other unknown shit. It makes sense…it's like it's all connected. Oh wait it is. The hell am I thinking?'
"Bahamut," Seraph continued, "was the first entity to weave reality into structure using the power of the Sphere, the first force that held the unknowable chaos together. However, when the gods broke the cycle, the Runes of Bahamut were fragmented. Now, they exist not as laws, but as shattered pieces of the old world, the first world, scattered throughout Nýxhelm. This magic system has been recycled through every single world that has been created and destroyed."
Zedlock pressed a gauntlet to his helmet as if mimicking a mind being blown apart. Gunthr, meanwhile, clutched his chest plate dramatically, as if the weight of this knowledge was too much to bear.
Kylas barely spared them a glance, his grin stretching wide. "So, what you're saying is—this magic isn't just about hurling fireballs."
Seraph replied, "In crude terms, yes."
Kylas leaned forward, his muscles tense with anticipation. "Keep talking."
She continued, drawing new diagrams. "Unlike elemental magic or spellcasting, the Runes of Bahamut are a layered, interwoven system, functioning like a living language of reality."
She then carved out three sections:
A. The Three Core Aspects of a RuneEach rune, she explained, consisted of three fundamental components, like a sentence:
Foundation (Prime Form) - "The Essence"
The base concept of the rune, such as Fire (IZH), Shadow (VAKH), Flesh (OZH), or Time (ERH).
This determined the core affinity of the spell.
Weave (Thread Form) - "The Modifier"
This altered how the Prime Form manifested.
Example Weaves: Growth (YALH), Consumption (KOT), Shatter (VEZ), Bind (MAKH).
This allowed for personalized spell evolution.
Catalyst (Final Form) - "The Effect"
This finalized how the spell interacted with reality.
Examples: Instantaneous (ZOH), Lingering (RATZ), Recursive (VAZH), Paradoxical (KESH).
The wrong Catalyst could create unstable results.
Kylas stared at the symbols in fascination, his journal now a mess of scribbles and notes. His head was racing. This was more than just magic—it was rewriting the damn world.
Gunthr clapped his gauntlets together excitedly. Zedlock mimed wiping away a nonexistent tear, as if he had just witnessed the revelation of the century.
Seraph then stepped back and met Kylas' eyes. "Now, let's incorporate your chaos flames into this."
Kylas' grin widened. "Oh, hell yes. Come on, come on—!"
Seraph bonked Kylas on the head, saying, "Be patient, filthy human."
"Ow! Stop fucking hitting me!"
"No. Now listen."
Seraph's expression remained calm, but there was something knowing in her gaze. "In your past life, in the other world crafted from the Sphere, you created magic skills based on this system. You wove magic together."
Kylas' grip on his feather tightened. Something inside him stirred. The echoes of another life, another self. He had no memories of it, but hearing Seraph say it again and again made it feel real.
Seraph folded her arms. "I saw some of those techniques myself. And I'll teach you the ones I remember. You were close to my mother, and the fox-kin, and I never knew exactly why. But they always remained close."
Kylas shot up to his feet so fast it startled Gunthr and Zedlock. His grin was wolfish now, full of sharp excitement.
"Alright then," he said, cracking his knuckles. "Let's see what I can really do."
Gunthr raised both gauntlets to the sky in triumph. Zedlock, ever the dramatist, clutched his own head, feigning a faint.
Kylas' grin hadn't faded since the lesson began, his excitement a wildfire barely contained, but as Seraph continued explaining, his expression slowly contorted into something between intense concentration and profound confusion. She had crafted intricate diagrams into the dirt, sweeping lines and curling symbols that glowed faintly as she traced them with one elegant clawed finger. The way she moved—so fluid, so deliberate—was mesmerizing, and though Kylas tried his best to focus on the words, he found his mind flickering toward the way the lantern-light caught in her silver fur, how her ears twitched slightly when she spoke. He forced himself to look back at the runes. Right. Magic. That's why he was here.
But it was getting complicated. Too complicated. Something about the structure of the runes, the interwoven nature of their meaning—every symbol was a sentence, every sentence a spell, every spell a risk. He felt like he was in a philosophy class instead of a magic lesson. Seraph's voice carried an almost melodic quality as she continued, effortlessly explaining concepts that made Kylas' head spin.
Kylas scratched his head with a nervous chuckle, "Hey uh..I'm still kinda confused with these spells and stuff."
"The Runes of Bahamut are not just spells, you fool," she said, flicking her tail as she eyed him. "They are statements made against reality itself. If you don't fully understand what you're saying, you won't just fail to cast a spell—you'll break something fundamental, and reality will make you pay for it."
She sighed, clearly noticing the vacant, overwhelmed look in his eyes.
"For example," she said, drawing another pattern into the dirt with sharp precision, "IZH-YALH-ZOH. 'Fire' plus 'Growth' plus 'Instantaneous.' That would create an expanding burst of flame, yes? Now, if you were to modify it, say… VAKH-KOT-RATZ, that would mean 'Shadow' plus 'Consumption' plus 'Lingering,' which—"
"A shadow that eats light over time," Kylas muttered, surprising himself by catching on.
Seraph raised an eyebrow, pleased. "Good. And this?" She drew another set: ERH-VEZ-KESH.
Kylas frowned, gears turning in his head. "Time… shatter… paradoxical?"
"And?"
His eyes widened. "It would break time in that spot. Cause reality to piss out or some shit. Easy. No big deal."
'So people can create their own magic skills and spells based on these runes…'
Seraph nodded, but then, without warning, she flicked his ear, and before he could react, she reached up and pulled it sharply.
"Ow, what the hell?!" Kylas yanked himself back, rubbing his ear while she huffed.
"Because you still don't understand the cost," she said, folding her arms. "Magic isn't just about knowing what a spell does—it's about knowing what you lose when you cast it. The stronger the spell, the greater the price. And if you overreach your knowledge, reality erases you."
Kylas stared at her, quiet now, absorbing the weight of her words. He had always thought magic as a tool based on what his parents would tell him—something to wield, something to burn brighter and stronger until nothing stood in his way. But this was something else.
Seraph exhaled, shaking her head. "Alright. Enough theory. You're going to learn by doing." She sat down in the dirt, smoothing her robes, and then—without warning—she reached out, took his hands, and held them in hers.
Kylas stiffened, his cheeks flustered, his heart thumped.
'No way..'
This was terrifying. Seraph's hands were smaller than his but firm, her fingers barely pressing against his skin, and he had never—
—never held a girl's hand before.
His brain shut down.
'What the hell what the hell what the hell—?!'
His palms were suddenly too hot. Not because of his magic—just because of her. He swallowed hard, his entire body rigid, forcing himself to look anywhere but at the way her fingers curled around his own, guiding him into the formation.
'Focus, Kylas, don't be weird. It's just hands. Just hands. Hands touching. Hands holding. Hands. Her hands. Your hands. Together. No—stop thinking like that! Just focus on the magic! MAGIC, damn it!'
His face was burning. Not his flames. Just him. Just his own stupid, untrained, utterly useless social skills.
Seraph, completely oblivious to his internal crisis, closed her eyes, her voice softer now. "Follow my lead."
Kylas swallowed hard. Nodded. And tried his best to pretend he wasn't falling apart at the seams.
The silence between them stretched long and unbroken, a stillness thick with concentration. Kylas sat cross-legged, hands still entwined with Seraph's, struggling to drown out everything but the rhythm of his own breathing. The warmth of her fingers was a constant presence, grounding him, forcing him to focus—but his mind wavered. His flames had always been wild, untamed, an extension of his fury rather than something controlled. This was different. This was deliberate, a slow reshaping of power into something more than destruction.
Seraph exhaled, a steady breath that carried the scent of embers and wild earth. "Your affinity isn't just fire, Kylas," she murmured, voice carrying a strange reverence. "It's a Divine Affinity. Flaming Hex. Chaos Fire. Everyone is born with an affinity, and using the tunes of Bahamut, one can weave new skills and spells based on their affinity. And like your 10 false gods of this world, they also have a Divine Affinity, but they could hold hundreds of spells and skills in their arsenal."
"Hundreds?! And you want us to hunt them down and kill them one by one?!"
"Yes." Seraph nodded. "Back to your power, It doesn't just burn. It erases. It's fire that doesn't obey the laws of nature—it follows the laws you impose upon it. They're waiting for you to shape them."
His grip unconsciously tightened around her hands. Waiting for him to shape them? The idea sent a shiver through him.
Seraph guided his breathing, as the flickering embers of rune-etched power stirred within him, he felt something deeper. The potential to craft, not just destroy.
Seraph shifted, letting go of one of his hands to trace new symbols into the dirt between them. "You're going to weave your first spells now," she said, her tone gentle but firm. "I'll guide you through it. Close your eyes."
He hesitated. Closed them.
'Damn I'm nervous…I got this don't I? I'm heading towards recreating spells that I supposedly learned in my past life.'
And suddenly, he was elsewhere.
The battlefield was endless.
Kylas stood alone, clad in red-burning armor, its surface cracked and smoking, seething with an infernal glow. His gauntlets dripped with blood, fresh and thick, steaming against the heat of his body. The sky above him churned in deep, apocalyptic reds and blacks, ash falling like snow. The ground beneath his feet was a graveyard of twisted bodies—men and beasts alike, their flesh half-burned, their bones gleaming through the ruins of their charred forms.
'Where am I?!'
The next enemy stood before him, faceless, shifting—a thing made of dark metal and screaming embers. It lunged, too fast—
"IZH-YALH-ZOH."
The words were instinct, a whisper in the back of his mind, and the moment they formed, his flaming halo erupted behind him. A sigil of fire seared itself into his enemy's chest, a brand of divine reckoning.
Kylas didn't move—he was dragged.
His body snapped forward with inhuman speed, the sigil pulling him through the air like a tethered comet. He barely had time to register his own movement before his fist was already colliding with the brand, knuckles igniting on impact. The fire didn't just spread—it blossomed, an explosion blooming outward in a devastating inferno.
'Shit! Shit! Too fast!'
The enemy froze. Not from hesitation. Not from fear. It simply… could not move. The flames locked it in place, burning away the very concept of motion.
And then, it shattered.
Blood and fire rained down, searing the battlefield anew.
—
"Kylas, breathe." Seraph said softly.
His body jerked. His mouth tasted of copper.
His eyes snapped open, and he realized his nose was bleeding, his breath ragged, uneven. His ears rang, and he could feel the hot trickle of blood slipping down his neck. Seraph was staring at him, concern laced in her normally serene gaze.
"You lost control," she said.
He exhaled sharply, dragging the back of his hand across his nose. "I'll do it again."
Seraph hesitated, but nodded.
'This human…he won't go down easily. This has to be one of the reasons the fox-kin were so intrigued with him in the old world.'
They began anew.
—
A second vision, just as vivid.
Kylas' body moved on instinct, leaping forward, flames licking at his heels. This time, the fire curved unnaturally, extending from his back in a long, serpentine arc—a tail of burning red, stretching across the battlefield.
"IZH-KOT-MAKH."
The fire solidified behind him, forming a half-ring, a cage of searing energy. The moment his fists connected with flesh, the ring snapped shut.
A trap. A prison. A crucible of his own making.
Inside, the air burned with something deeper than heat. The flames feasted not just on flesh, but on movement itself. The more his enemy flailed, the slower they became, their own actions feeding the inferno. Meanwhile, Kylas only grew faster, hotter, his fists striking like falling meteors.
Every impact doubled the weight of the flames. Every struggle made the enemy sink further into oblivion.
—
The real world came back in a violent snap.
Pain wracked his body, a sharp agony pulsing behind his eyes. His ears were bleeding now, a warm, sticky wetness trickling down his jaw.
"AGH!"
"Kylas, stop."
Seraph's voice broke through his haze, and he looked up at her. She was still holding his hand, fingers firm, unshaken, but there was something softer in her eyes now. Kylas had gripped her hands tight to the point where her hands were bruised, but she didn't react.
"You need to take a break," she murmured.
He gritted his teeth, shaking his head. "No."
Seraph frowned. "You're letting it overwhelm you. You're anxious, and it's making you try and rush this. Calm down."
Kylas thought, 'It's hard not to be anxious…this is the key to getting rid of this damn seal on me and I'll be able to leave. Maybe I'm being reckless, it's hard not to be. I might actually be free. Am I really willing to die because of my anxiety…? What is wrong with me? Deep breaths…'
He wasn't going to stop. Not now. Not when he could see it. This power—this skill—it wasn't something he could just touch briefly and step away from. It was something he needed to master.
Seraph exhaled, studying him for a long moment. Then, wordlessly, she gave a small nod.
"…Alright. This is all on you, damn human."
They sat together once more, hands entwined, and Kylas closed his eyes again.
The battlefield awaited.
The fire within Kylas roared again, an infernal wave that flooded his senses as he prepared to try something more—something bigger, something that felt more like a part of him than anything he had done before. Seraph had remained patient, guiding him with subtle nods and soft instructions, but Kylas could feel the pressure building, that gnawing hunger to push his limits. His grip on her hand tightened for just a moment before she released him, allowing him to focus fully on the task ahead.
"Let's continue," Seraph said, her voice steady but with an edge of encouragement, as she looked over at Gunthr and Zedlock, who were standing nearby, watching with wide, curious eyes.
Gunthr gave a small clank, tilting his helmet slightly as if asking, what is this magic about? Zedlock, ever the silent one, simply shifted slightly, his dull metal frame scraping ever so slightly against the dirt. Their reactions were, to say the least, endearing.
Kylas ignored the adorable distractions. His focus was singular now, the potential of his magic swirling like a storm around him. He drew in a breath, steadying himself before he began.
"IZH-VEZ-KESH."
As he moved his hand through the air, the fabric of reality itself seemed to tremble. The air split before him, leaving behind a trail of burning fractures—tiny fissures in existence itself. Kylas knew the power was immense. As he continued to weave, the cracks widened, leaving only the smell of sulfur and charred ozone in their wake.
Anything passing through these rifts was shattered on a molecular level. Kylas could see it as he focused—fragments of reality breaking apart, burning in the aftermath. He pictured his enemy being pulled apart at the seams. The impact of the strike would leave nothing but charred remnants.
"Controlit…guide it…" Seraph said.
He then lunged forward with an open palm, thrusting it through one of the fractures. The space between him and his target twisted, and the air crackled as his palm collided with the very fabric of reality itself. As his target passed through the rift, the part of them that crossed the fracture was reshaped into living flame. Flesh became fire, burning and twisting in ways that made Kylas' insides curl.
It wasn't enough just to strike—it was about tearing apart the very essence of his enemy. The moment he clenched his fist, the living flame shattered, leaving nothing but hollowed, vacant wounds.
Kylas stood there for a moment, breathing heavily, the image of his destructive magic lingering in his mind like an aftertaste.
But it wasn't enough.
He could feel his flames inside him—like a beast clawing for release. He didn't want to stop. He wanted more.
"IZH-MAKH-VAZH." Seraph said, wanting Kylas to hear it, and control it, and guide it towards his soul.
This time, his body felt like it was burning from the inside out. The fire wasn't just in his veins; it was in his very soul. He grabbed at the air, slamming his hand down into the dirt with a primal force that sent shockwaves through the ground. His fingers seared into the earth, leaving scorched marks behind. The symbol burned brightly—an iridescent pulse of light, shimmering with the weight of fate itself.
As he stood over his imaginary foe, Kylas grinned through the pain. His body wasn't just moving—it was reshaping time itself. With each strike, the mark he left on his enemy folded. The hits he landed replayed, each attack becoming a recursive loop. A punch became two, a cut became three.
It was agony—but he reveled in it. He was slightly, very slightly, rewriting the laws of reality, his flames hexing it.
Each successive hit landed with an echo, each strike compounding the pain until the enemy could no longer stand. It was like carving time itself into cinders. By the end, the target—if it had ever truly been there—was nothing but a pile of smoldering ashes.
Kylas didn't give himself a moment to pause. The fire inside him was only growing.
"IZH-YALH-KESH." Seraph said.
His flames exploded outward in a wild arc as he launched himself forward. The ring of fire behind him expanded, burning with unrelenting fury. He could feel the air pressure shift, the intense heat making the dirt beneath his feet turn to dust. He folded into himself as his body collapsed into the shape of a flame, vanishing into the enemy's shadow with the ease of a predator hunting its prey.
Then, as if time itself had broken, he erupted from behind them, flipping the entire sequence on its head. He wasn't where he had started. He wasn't where he should have been. Time reversed around him, leaving only the streak of heat that followed in his wake.
His opponent was yanked off their feet by the backlash of heat, the air itself trembling with his return. As Kylas drove them into the ground, he let the fire explode inside their body. Their flesh burned, igniting them from the inside out. He could almost see it—like a human-shaped lantern, radiating the divine judgment of his fury. It was beautiful.
But the price of such destruction was steep.
Back to reality, As Kylas stood there, his body battered from the exertion, he felt the weight of his own power crash down on him. Sweat clung to his skin, the blood from his nose dripping freely onto the dirt beneath him. His breaths were ragged, his chest rising and falling as his body tried to process the sheer magnitude of the magic he had just unleashed.
Then, his knees buckled.
"Rggghhh…."
Kylas collapsed onto the ground, his hands instinctively reaching for the earth to steady himself. Blood pooled his mouth, a steady flow leaking from his lips as he struggled to stay conscious. His ears rang, and every movement felt like dragging a mountain.
Seraph was by his side in an instant, her expression unreadable, but there was something gentle in the way she knelt beside him. Her hand reached to rest on his shoulder, the coolness of her touch sending a brief shock through his body.
"Human, it's time to stop."
"No," Kylas growled through clenched teeth, his vision swimming. "Not yet."
But then, his arms refused to move.
'Shit!'
He blinked once, twice, trying to lift his hands—but they were as still as stone. His body had betrayed him, frozen in place. And then, in his dazed state, the full weight of the situation hit him, and for the first time since they began, he let out a weak, exhausted chuckle.
"Well, this is a new one," he muttered, feeling a small grin creep onto his lips despite the pain. "I can't move my arms."
Seraph's lips twitched upward in a barely perceptible smile, though she said nothing, simply giving him a knowing look. "TOLD YOU! FOOL! I TOLD YOU TO STOP BEING ANXIOUS!"
"SHADDUP! I CAN'T HELP IT! THIS IS ALL NEW!"
Kylas tried again, his legs wobbly as he rolled over, grunting as he pushed his arms into the ground, attempting to push himself up. He wasn't going to let this defeat him. His muscles burned, his bones screamed, but he would not stay down—he couldn't afford to.
"AGHHH! MY DAMN ARMS."
'This is embarrassing.'
But every attempt was futile. Instead, he just kept rolling around like a human tumbleweed.
"This can't be happening," Kylas muttered, his voice hoarse, his body groaning with every movement. He couldn't even get up on his feet. How humiliating. His limbs felt as though they'd turned to stone, and his head was spinning from the violent exertion. "This is so not how I imagined this going."
Seraph's calm laughter cut through the air, a quiet, melodious sound that made Kylas bristle with both frustration and a dash of annoyance. She wasn't even trying to hide her amusement.
"Do you always roll around like this when you're overwhelmed? Gross," she commented, her voice a mix of humor and exasperation. Her gaze followed him with an amused, almost fond air as he rolled closer to the wooden house. "What are you doing now?"
"I'm hungry now!" Kylas replied, his voice muffled as he rolled toward the structure, the grass swishing around him. He wasn't going to let this be the end of his pride. "I need food. Maybe I can crawl into the kitchen and find something."
Seraph raised an eyebrow, stepping forward. Her foot, graceful as always, landed with a soft thud on his chest, halting his rolling. She looked down at him, unfazed by his antics, her face a picture of composed elegance.
"I've checked your stock," she said with an almost dismissive tone. "You've got nothing but plants and vegetables. Honestly, what kind of man doesn't have a decent supply of meat?"
Kylas groaned in protest. "Plants are fine, fox demon. I can survive off grass like a cow."
Seraph's eyes narrowed slightly, her lips curling into a small, knowing smile. "You're more likely to become a walking vegetable yourself if you don't start eating some protein."
"Awww, Is it that you're worried about me?" Kylas teased, his voice dripping with mock sweetness.
Seraph's smile vanished, and without a word, she stepped down firmly on his head, her foot pressing into his scalp with a kind of playful dominance. Kylas yelped, his face squished into the grass beneath him, and all he could do was blink up at her.
"No, fool," Seraph said coldly, her heart unexpectedly skipping a beat. Her gaze softened for a split second, but she turned away quickly, not allowing him to see it. "I just don't want to see you starve on my watch. Plus, I can't have you being weak when we kill the gods."
Kylas huffed in frustration, but a grin tugged at his lips despite his situation. "Yeah, well, I can't exactly go out either. So I use my parents' ingredients and their insane supply of it to grow my own food. Badass right?"
Seraph chuckled, clearly not fazed by his complaints. "Tch. Hopeless. I'll go out and hunt for you."
Her words made Kylas pause, his brows knitting together in confusion. "Hunt? You? Of course, you're a fox demon. You always hunt down prey."
Seraph nodded, her posture shifting slightly as she glanced at the sky, her eyes gleaming with quiet pride. "My people—the fox-kin—are known for their ability to hunt. It's in our nature." She glanced at him sideways, her lips curling into a subtle, predatory smile.
Kylas, still on the ground and starting to regain a little more of his mobility thanks to Gunthr and Zedlock lifting him, groaned as he slumped in their arms. "Well, you better not die, you hear me? I still need you around to teach me how to actually stand up and wipe my ass."
"You're not funny."
"Also, I have things to ask you."
Seraph glanced over her shoulder, the faintest smirk playing at her lips as she walked toward the boundary of the garden.
As Gunthr and Zedlock shuffled him toward the wooden house, Kylas turned his head to look at Seraph's retreating figure. He gave a tired, lopsided grin as she moved toward the edge of the garden.
She was already gone, disappearing into the thick greenery surrounding the home.
And all the while, the large, black sphere in the sky sat motionless, casting an ominous shadow over the peaceful landscape. The sun shone brightly, but there was a palpable tension in the air, something that couldn't be ignored.
It just sat there, watching.