Several weeks after Arkanum Veritas fell,
The sky had cracked three times since Fitran laid down his sword.
Amidst the ruins of the ancient tower in the northern part of the world, he sat alone, surrounded by the whispers of time and the fog of magic that refused to dissipate. Gone were the sacred armor on his body and the radiance from the heavens embracing his shoulders. All that remained was silence—long, deep, and akin to a prayer left unanswered. It was as if that silence itself reflected the crumbling world around him, creating an abyss between a Paladin and the hope that once guided him.
The world called him Paladin.
Protector. Bearer of light. The right hand of the gods.
Yet Fitran himself… had forgotten what it felt like to be a part of that sky.
He laid down his sword not out of fear, nor from defeat. Rather, he had abandoned it upon realizing that the sword could only sever flesh, not meaning. In the emptiness enveloping his soul, he faced the reality that meaning—this was what had long vanished from the world he tried to save, creating a deeper collapse than the fortress he guarded.
Within the tower, far removed from chaos and conflict, Fitran began to construct something new. It was not the magic learned at the Tower of Atlantis, nor the dogma preached by the priests of Gaia. Instead, he forged magic from the very cracks of his being; a search for meaning amidst the void that could not be filled, and from wounds that could not be healed. Each effort he made became a part of a collective journey, touching the dark sides of uncertainty that had now seeped deeply into his society.
He named it:
Magia Ex Nihilo
Magic from Nothingness.
Magic that does not arise from elements, does not grow from structure, but radiates from an existence that has been forsaken. As the transformation within Fitran created a profound emptiness, the world around him began to tremble—faint sounds emerged from the places he once knew, as if making him a silent witness to the void that had been left behind.
A new language understood only by those who have lost everything yet still choose to stand. When he emerged from the tower, the world no longer recognized him. A dark black cloak replaced the holy armor, symbolizing a transformation that distanced him from the protector he once was. An old staff, crafted from dragon bone and roots of the world dried by time, took the place of the sword of faith, instilling uncertainty in the hearts of the townsfolk with each of his steps. The light that once accompanied him transformed into soft ash, forming a circle around his feet whenever he moved.
And the world, which once relied on him, now viewed him with fear and astonishment. The traces of resurrection and fall merged into a single breath. "Is he still the Paladin?" whispered a mother, echoing the doubts hanging in the air. "No," replied an elder with a trembling voice, as if acknowledging that hope had vanished. "He has left the light."
Yet even amidst those whispers, people continued to approach. Seeking help. Pleading for miracles. Clinging to their hopes for a figure who no longer favored light or dark, yet within that uncertainty, they found a shadow of what once resembled a hero.
And Fitran, with eyes that gazed through time and soul—a emptiness reflecting the longing for his lost identity—responded to them with a gentle yet weighty voice:
"I am no longer a Paladin. I am not the sorcerer you once knew. I am merely the one who listens. And from the void you left behind, I will create something new."
From that day forward, he was known by a name that had never been heard before.
Fitran, the Voidwright.
Not a creator of worlds. Not a destroyer. But a rewriter.
Yvellen, South of Thirtos City
The confrontation was unplanned, but rather a calling from the void enveloping the world's destiny. The world had simply... touched him first, as though fate sought to merge the emptiness within him with the uncertainty surrounding him. It happened in the small town of Yvellen, where the sky had never changed color and the people worshipped the false smiles of the nobility, mirroring the buried emptiness of hope in their hearts.
There, an Arbiter from the Tower of Atlantis descended. Her name was Aerisyl Moonshade—a celestial sorceress with four golden rings floating behind her, symbols of full power over the laws of magic, reflecting the transparent emptiness of the world's increasingly fragile control.
"I was sent to bring you back," she said to Fitran, delivering her message in a cold tone, as if piercing through Fitran's indifference. "You are too dangerous to be left free."
Fitran merely looked at her, devoid of hostility. Only a vacant gaze reflected Aerisyl's own—cracked, weary, and filled with falsehood. Within that expression lay an understanding: both were trapped in the emptiness of roles dictated by a failing world.
"I am no longer a part of your system," Fitran said quietly, his words echoing in the void between them. "And I do not wish to be part of anything anymore."
With uncertainty hanging in the air, Aerisyl struck first.
Four golden circles glowed, and four elements—celestial lightning, blue flames, crystal-clear water, and earth-splitting wind—surged toward Fitran. A classic display of power from the highest sorcerers of Atlantis, now a symbol of the struggle between hope and the emptiness engulfing Yvellen.
Yet Fitran did not retreat. He merely raised his hand, confronting the incoming forces with calmness.
No spells. No magic circles.
Only… emptiness, reminding the world that not every battle must lead to destruction.
And when Aerisyl's attack struck him, they did not explode. They did not shatter. They did not break.
They simply vanished.
Not canceled. Not reflected. Just... absent.
As if they had never existed, as if that world had never etched their presence into memory. In the void that Fitran had plunged into, he felt more than just an attack; he witnessed Aerisyl's hopes evaporating along with the dissipating energy in the atmosphere, creating an uncertainty that seeped into the reality around him.
"...Did you use erasure magic?" Aerisyl asked, her voice trembling, upended by the emptiness she faced. Fear affected the sorceress's charisma, casting a shadow of dread over the unexpected void.
Fitran shook his head, affirming his existence within the threatening emptiness.
"I did not erase. I simply do not acknowledge." Here Fitran stood: between a world full of flow and a void that challenged him, a ruler without credibility, embracing Aerisyl's failure as a reflection of the powerlessness of the society that revered her.
From behind his staff, cracks appeared in the air—like glass shattering from within a dream. In every blend of emptiness, there lay a void that rejected reality, creating invisible corridors between hope and desolation. The magic was not a creation. But the denial of creation. It did not forge strength, but rather rejected the reality that sought to bring him down; a reality threatened by ambition and the inability to act amid the intimidating political uncertainty.
"Voidspell: Denial of Flame"
Fire cannot burn those who have died in their own minds. In their emptiness, Fitran understood that this fight was more than just a duel; it was a statement, a refusal against those who had lost meaning in their ambition, creating waves that affected the entire order of the world around him.
"Voidspell: Negation of Light"
Light becomes blind when there is no meaning to illuminate. The transition between darkness and light reflects the uncertainty that begins to plague Aerisyl's mind. As he attempts his strongest spell, "Sky Circuit: Sun Judge"—a divine ray that has burned demons and sanctified the city—he feels an encroaching emptiness, as if he is facing not only an opponent but also a crisis of faith within himself. Despite the continuation of eternal power igniting through sweat and blood, even the sun loses its brilliance in the face of the emptiness that engulfs his soul.
At the end of the battle, Aerisyl Juno kneels. For a moment, the world around him freezes, and he is unscathed. Not physically defeated—his body is intact, but his spirit is shattered. He has merely lost confidence in his ability to triumph, a defeat that is deeper and more dramatic than mere physical loss. As he bows his head, a profound silence seeps into the atmosphere, creating an unfilled void.
That was Fitran's victory. He did not break bodies; he shattered the meaning of resistance. With every step, he not only marked the end of the battle but also heralded a greater transformation in the outside world. In the enveloping darkness, despair flowed among the spectators, and all remaining hope was sucked into the void.
And the sky fell into silence. The people watching the clash remained still, as if feeling the vibrations of emptiness touching their souls. There were no cheers of triumph; only whispers slowly spreading from mouth to mouth:
"Voidwright…"
"He is not from this world."
"He did not attack… yet we all lost."
Behind the city that now dared not approach him, Fitran walked away, feeling like a shadow detached from reality. He sensed the emptiness within himself, and as dusk cloaked the sky, he realized that the world no longer chose colors—only the fog of alienation and void.
The day after the battle felt strange, as if the wind itself avoided the touch of uncertainty. The breeze did not move as it usually would. The mist in the southern mountains remained unraised, and around him, a lingering sense of hollowness pervaded. It was as though the world itself was holding its breath, awaiting a response to the confrontation that had imparted an unexpected new meaning.
News of the battle in Yvellen spread faster than the kingdom's official messages, infiltrating the people's consciousness like a virus of fear. It was not delivered by a messenger, but through a sense of helplessness. Kael Juno, Arbiter of the Tower of Atlantis, one of the Seven Pillars of Magic, was defeated. Not physically, but existentially. This was a moment where magic, once deemed unassailable, confronted the reality of the void created by a Voidwright.
Tower of Atlantis
The tower, where science and magic united under the chill of logic, was facing a profound crisis. Within its walls, vibrating with tension, the Council of Magi convened an emergency session, every member feeling the pulse of the newly formed emptiness. The magic they had always prided themselves on now felt fragile, like an empty cup that could shatter at any moment.
"He created magic outside the structure!" cried Archmagus Leniora, pounding her staff onto the stone floor, expressing a seething fear. Each word carried weight, as if amplifying the void that loomed over their thoughts.
"No," replied an old Magus from the west, his calm voice spreading through the council chamber. "He is not creating. He is dismantling. He is negating the fundamental laws of existence." This voice deepened the weight of the emptiness, illustrating that what had long been believed to be reality was an illusion that might be redefined by a daring new power. They were not afraid of Fitran's strength—but of the possibility that their magic could become irrelevant, a shapeless echo of the past, that everything built over thousands of years could be shattered by a single person who… does not acknowledge reality.
"Your Majesty," Lord Alaric said, "if he can reject magic, how can we protect ourselves from him? What if he decides to... dismantle the kingdom itself?" The emptiness created by that question seemed to siphon the air around them, accentuating the uncertainty that increasingly eroded the existing order.
The question hung like a noose around the neck of power.
And Iris knew the answer: We cannot. The realization of this vulnerability struck the heart of each leader, serving as a reminder that the void left by Fitran in his refusal could very well shake the foundations they had built.
Among the People
In the corners of the city, amidst the markets and alleyways, Fitran's name became a sort of legend told in whispers. It was as if the wave carried to the people, introducing them to unexpected hope and the haunting presence of fear all at once.
"He stood against the golden sorcerer without flinching," said a child.
"He rejects fire, rejects light. What does that mean, Father?"
The father merely shook his head. "It means… even the world can be rejected, my son." Amidst those whispers, there was an emptiness; hope and fear united in a statement that would change their perspective on the world.
For the people, Fitran has become a symbol of paradox: a beacon of hope for the destitute, and a source of fear for those who believe the world should continue as it is. As emptiness envelops the souls caught in the grip of injustice, each opinion about Fitran fills these voids with unexpected emotions.
Underground Networks and Cults
Yet, in the darkness beneath the world, in secret spaces where whispers transform into proclamations, Fitran's name becomes a symbol of liberation. In the void of a system that breeds discontent, the spirit to resist is born.
Cults begin to emerge:
Order of Nihilum, who worship Fitran as "He Who Erases the Laws of Nature," manifests as a shadow in the creeping emptiness, hinting that something greater is turning beyond the reach of perception. At the same time, the darkness of the world begins to reveal its face, transforming Fitran's introspection into a tremor of power.
Sons of Silence, who seek to create magic through meditation within the void, sense tranquility before the storm. They predict that emptiness is not merely a space but also a potential — and therein lies Fitran's true power.
The Cult of Cancellation, which believes that the world is a mistake and Fitran is its eraser, drives people yearning for truth through abandonment. As every follower becomes entangled in doubt, just as Fitran questions the reality surrounding him, it creates a tension that seeps throughout. The assassins too begin to wonder: What if a client hires him? That question reverberates in the silence, signifying that a change in the heart of a Voidwright could become a tremor for the waking world. Within less than a week, the world recognizes a dreadful truth:
"The greatest power is not to create. But to refuse to acknowledge."
And Fitran… has chosen to ignore this world, isolating himself into silence, where new decisions are born from the pretense of nothingness.
Thus, they begin to prepare.
The sorcerers construct wards, creating lines of defense against the inevitable tide. The nobles draft emergency laws, concocting compromises to face an undefined threat. The gods… remain silent, trapped in the same void that Fitran currently occupies, as if they too feel helpless in the face of the Eraser's decisions.
Amidst it all, in a quiet place unmarked on any map, Fitran sat alone. He was inscribing something in the empty air—not with a pen, but with determination, creating something out of nothing, waiting for the right moment to unleash the power he had harbored in silence.