This is a tale where the fate of the world and the destiny of a single man are bound in blood and fire.
Zyrex Drayke—driven by the hunger to hold up the very sky—would carve his name into the bones of history. Not as a savior, but as a force of nature. The founding father of a new empire: The United Great Expanse.
To call this anything less than a tragedy would be a lie. He was no noble hero, no shining knight. Just a mortal man, reckless enough to grasp at godhood. Fueled not by honor, but by a single, burning desire: freedom. A legacy that would echo through time like thunder—loud, impossible to ignore, and destined to destroy.
Our story begins at his birth.
April 2nd, Year 33 A.C. (After the Cataclysm). Zyrex Drayke was born in the fractured city of Old York—a relic of the fallen American Empire. The world had drowned beneath great waves of dark matter, known to survivors as mana. America lasted thirty-three years after the first wave. But the largest came soon after—and it didn't just drown cities. It reshaped the world.
Three days later, on April 5th, 33 A.C., came the event they call The Breach. The birth of a new Outer God—a towering, unknowable horror—marked the beginning of an era of nightmares. Old York was consumed in chaos. Zyrex and his mother fled, joining thousands of refugees as the Adventurers Guild made its desperate stand.
By June 4th, 34 A.C., Old York was gone.
Panic gripped the Great Expanse. Survivors flooded west, driven by terror, until they reached the San Andreas Strait—a violent chasm of water and mana that now divided the continent. Behind them, waves of mutated beasts surged forth, and all communication with the outside world fell silent. Cities crumbled. Homes were burned. Millions died in the dirt, clinging to whatever hope they had left.
Then came the breaking point.
July 1st, 42 A.C.—The Great Migration. Forty-four million people stood at the edge of the San Andreas Strait. Boats capsized. Bridges failed. Those with nothing tried to swim. Only two million made it across alive. The rest vanished into the churning black waters, and the world gave the strait a new name: The Strait of Styx.
In that storm of death and desperation, Zyrex became an orphan.
His mother—denied passage across—sold her body to the warriors who stayed behind, trading dignity for her son's survival. And when the day came, she let him go. Alone. Scarred. Nine years old, with nothing but blood, salt, and silence behind him.
And in that moment, Zyrex made a vow.
No matter the cost.
No matter the gods.
He would survive.
~
"General Hathaway, looks like we've got a real troublemaker headed our way."
Captain Voss of the Third Armed Defense Core Brigade handed over a folder containing the profile of Specialist Drayke—an eighteen-year-old fresh out of training.
"Hmm…" the General muttered, flipping through the papers. "Born in Old York… survived the Styx Tragedy… enrolled in the academy at twelve, top scores in every field. And yet—poor teamwork, low morale contribution, and battle hungry?" He scoffed. "Give him to Sergeant Kaldros. That thick-headed bastard might actually shape him into something useful."
The fifty-year-old general dropped the folder onto the desk without a second thought, lighting a cigar inside his tent with the same indifference he carried into battle.
Captain Voss hesitated. The name "Kaldros" alone sent a chill down his spine. "Sir, with all due respect… shouldn't we deny this transfer? We asked for reinforcements, sure, but sending a rookie straight from the academy to the frontlines is suicide. Especially one with potential like this."
"Captain," the General exhaled smoke. "When have I ever not put my men's lives first?"
Voss couldn't answer. He knew the man before him had bled and bled again to keep others alive.
"And from what I read in this file, that kid's got something more than skill. Surviving Styx? Seems like fate has its eyes on him. Let him come. Blood's going to spill out here regardless…"
~
The sun fell. The blood moon rose.
Sirens blared across Fort Carson's base perimeter. From the distance, aboard a military vessel, Zyrex stood on the bow of the ship and watched the braziers ignite one by one.
"URGENT ALERT. IMMINENT THREAT. CODE RED.
All available personnel to battle stations."
The alarm repeated like a drumbeat of war.
Zyrex grinned. Perfect timing. After all those simulations, the real thing was finally here.
He turned to the other soldiers behind him and gave a casual wave—then jumped off the ship, harnessing wind magic to skim across the ocean's surface toward Fort Carson, the bastion of the new world.
~
Sergeant Kaldros stood at the edge of the forest, eyes narrowed.
"You can smell those dirty bastards from a mile away… damn goblin horde stinks of their own shit."
He hefted his greatsword—nearly as tall as himself—its steel gleaming with mana crystal reinforcements. With a practiced motion, he cut his palm, letting blood drip onto the blade. It pulsed red.
They didn't call him "The Bloodhound" for nothing.
He stood still for five minutes, senses dialed to max. Then—he caught it. The scent of blood.
Close.
He activated his ability, a B Tier ability: Laplace's Domain. The surrounding forest, within a hundred-foot radius, shimmered crimson. Every creature inside was marked with Sanguine Coil—they had no choice but to attack him, or their life would be drained within thirty minutes.
The goblins charged. Any rational creature might hesitate, but Sanguine Coil robbed them of reason. And Kaldros? He welcomed them.
The greatsword danced in his hands like a twig. One swing. Dozens fell. Blood sprayed, painting the trees, his armor, his grin. This was where he thrived.
Zoom.
Slash.
Suddenly, goblins were dropping faster—too fast.
Not by his blade. Not by the Coil.
White flashes cut through the trees like lightning.
"Reveal yourself, soldier!" Kaldros shouted, slicing down two more enemies. "I haven't given the order to engage!"
Silence followed, until a figure stepped from the shadows.
Slim but athletic build. Brown hair. Eyes like midnight.
"Specialist Drayke, reporting for duty—uh, I think?" the youth said with a grin. "I'm new here. Is this what defense means? Just… come out and kill monsters?"
Kaldros stared, stunned.
Proper uniform. No insignia beyond the academy's. Had never seen him before.
Was he really just a fresh recruit?
"Well, fall in under me for now, kid." The sergeant chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder. "But damn—who taught you how to use a sword like that? That style looked real familiar."
"Master Sergeant Ashcroft," Drayke replied casually.
Kaldros paused mid-step. "No way that old bastard's still teaching. He trained me too."
He laughed louder, genuinely amused.
"You know what, kid? I've got a good feeling about you. Come on—let me introduce you to the squad. If you're lucky, you'll get into our assault team. You've got that hungry look in your eye. I like it."
They approached a group of five—each one giving off a distinct energy, like different flavors of danger.
"That's Specialist Mirelle," Kaldros said, nodding toward a slim woman standing with perfect posture. About 158cm tall, shoulder-length black hair, and the kind of presence that said she belonged somewhere above your pay grade. "Support mage. Barriers, long-range spells, tactical magic—she's the brains behind half our victories."
He jerked a thumb toward a massive figure lying flat on his back nearby, snoring lightly.
"Over there, catching Z's like he's on vacation? That's Specialist Ironhart. Backup tank. Looks lazy as hell, but trust me—he needs the sleep. Wake him up on the field, and he hits like a freight train."
The man was a mountain—190cm, shaved head gleaming, a black Fenrir tattoo coiled across his cheek like it was watching you.
A ginger with glasses gave a quick wave. "Hey, I'm—"
"Hey! Who said you could talk?" Kaldros snapped, not missing a beat. "I'm doing introductions."
He pointed at the redhead. "That's Specialist Grayson. Hide-and-seek champion. Slips into shadows like smoke—stealth ops, clean kills, vanishing acts. Don't let the specs fool you."
Drayke raised a brow, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Looks like I found my kind of crazy."
Kaldros smirked. "You haven't seen anything yet."
Kaldros cracked his neck and stomped the ground once—loud enough to make the new recruit jump. A hiss of hydraulics followed, then the hatch groaned open like it was waking from a bad dream.
"You hear that?" he muttered, stepping back as steam curled around his boots. "That's the sound of the Kaelwyn Twins making the rest of us look underqualified."
Private Kaelwyn emerged first—broad as a wall, streaked with grease, and built like someone who repaired tanks by wrestling them into submission. A welding torch buzzed quietly in his hand, and his toolkit clanked like a threat.
"Private Kaelwyn," Kaldros said, jerking a thumb. "Engineer. Gremlin. Field-repair genius. If it's broken, he'll fix it. If it's not broken, he'll take it apart to figure out why."
The man said nothing—just squinted at the terrain like it had personally insulted him.
Then came his sister.
"Specialist Kaelwyn," Kaldros continued, voice leveling out just slightly, like even he wasn't sure how to label her. "Tech interface. Signal witch. Runs recon through satellites, drones, and whatever Frankenstein rig she built last night while you were sleeping."
She adjusted a dial on her vest, eyes flicking through a HUD only she could see. The faint murmur of digital chatter echoed from her comms, like ghosts whispering through static.
"They share a brain cell," Kaldros muttered, half-grinning. "She programs it. He hits stuff with it."
Drayke tilted his head. "They always this quiet?"
"They're talking," Kaldros said, turning away. "You're just not on the right frequency."
The nearby comms from within began speaking before she said,
"Sergeant Kaldros, command wants a status update. What's our situation?"
Kaldros glanced back at the forest. The blood-soaked trees shimmered one last time as his domain faded, the crimson hue vanishing like a bad dream. The woods looked untouched—silent, serene—as if no battle had taken place at all.
He grabbed the radio, voice rough with adrenaline.
"Battle Station 2's all green," he growled, a wicked grin spreading. "And we've got Specialist Drayke in the pit. That shiny new stallion of yours? Fights like he was born for blood."
The receiving party didn't answer. Instead, a wall of static burst through the bunker, crackling sharp and loud enough to make ears ring.
"Apologies, Sergeant!" Specialist Kaelwyn snapped, already elbow-deep in the radio. "This old junker dies more than it lives. I'll see if I can kick her back to life."
She gave the unit a few sharp smacks, fingers dancing across the dials as she tried to coax it back to function.
Then came the explosions—deep, percussive booms rolling in from across the base. From the sound of it, Battle Station 5 was under fire.
"Artillery group," Mirelle muttered—but it was too close. Way too close. That wasn't support fire. That was a breach of the southern wall.
Sergeant Kaldros' grin stretched wide—too wide—and the area went quiet. Everyone knew that smile meant trouble. The kind that came with a plan no one wanted to be part of.
Drayke felt the eyes shift. The vibe was clear. This one had him written all over it.
"Drayke," Kaldros said, tone almost casual. "We can't move from this position without a direct order. But after watching you work that sword…" He chuckled. "Why don't you go assess the situation? You already broke protocol coming out here—what's a few more lines crossed?"
Drayke joined in on the devious grin, mirroring Kaldros a little too well. The rest of the crew exchanged looks—great, now there were two of them. Trouble was inevitable.
"Sergeant," Drayke said, his voice low and amused, "we share the same teacher. You know his principles better than I do."
Ashcroft had drilled it into them from day one: Rules are tools, not chains. Break them if you have the strength to bear the fallout. If you don't—don't.
He didn't teach obedience. He taught consequence.
And Drayke? He'd learned that lesson better than most. The only problem? He was still working on getting an outcome that matched the damn crime.
Without another word, Drayke bolted forward—vanishing in a blink of motion. Sword of Light.
His weapon soared through the air, a streak of silver light—and he was already chasing it, faster than the blade itself. He wouldn't stop moving until the hilt slapped back into his hand. That was the rule of it.
How did he master something so insane?
Simple. He was broken into it.
Day after day, Ashcroft had buried him in the sand of the sparring arena—bone-bruising beatdowns, one after another, until Drayke learned to react faster than pain. His speed wasn't gifted. It was beaten into him. His timing? Shaped by blood, grit, and the kind of agony that made most soldiers quit before their first meal.
Now, the ability felt like instinct—danger sparked, and the world just slowed down.
~
Sergeant Hawkins held her breath, fingers trembling as she struggled to fit the gas mask over her face. Her stone-like skin had withstood the initial barrage of explosions, but her lungs were a different story. The smoke-filled air felt like fire, suffocating her from within, threatening to tear her apart as it burned through her throat.
"Sergeant!" Specialist Garcia's voice cut through the chaos. "We need to move—now! They've breached the forest! They'll be on us any second!"
Garcia yanked at her arm, panic in his eyes. But he wasn't built for this kind of fight. He was a tech—good with mortars and gadgets, but not for the brutal, gut-wrenching warfare unfolding around them.
High-goblins were emerging from the southern forest. Creatures of twisted nobility among the filthiest of their kind, each one wielding magic like a weapon, their intelligence twisted to their advantage. The threat was more than just physical—they were calculated.
The sound of screams and explosions rattled through the air as Sergeant Hawkins tried to steady herself. Battle Station Five was in a severe casualty state. Of their fifty soldiers, only twelve could still move. The rest lay scattered, casualties to the madness. Those who could still fight unleashed a barrage at the advancing goblins, but it was barely enough. Trees snapped like brittle twigs before crashing to the ground in deafening waves.
Everything was happening too fast—faster than anyone could keep up with.
Like a bolt of lightning, the kid with stars in his eyes ignited the battlefield. The men at the mortars froze, their weapons idle as blood rained from the sky. In the blink of an eye, dozens of high-goblins dropped, their bodies littering the ground in the wake of Drayke's arrival.
"I heard you needed some help," Drayke called out, his voice cool and casual. "Looks like I'm just in time."
The goblins hesitated, their instincts screaming at them as the man before them radiated an aura they couldn't ignore. Slowly, almost in perfect unison, they retreated into the shadows, halting their assault.
Drayke shrugged, scratching his head. "Well, that's no fun. They ran off before things could've really gotten interesting."
Behind him, medics moved like shadows, scooping up the fallen and the broken, dragging the injured from the battlefield. Sergeant Hawkins shoved Specialist Garcia aside, her body frozen in place. She couldn't tear her eyes away from what was unfolding before her.