Arin paused at a new page in the book, where the words seemed sharper, more vivid.
> "After the Dark Cataclysm, the balance of the world was shattered.
Aether energy, once a gift from the heavens and the source of all life and power,
became tainted with a darkness of unknown origin.
Those who dared absorb aether as their ancestors once did,
found their bodies decaying and mutating...
transforming into mindless, grotesque creatures,
driven only by hunger and violence."
> "Thus, aether — once a blessing — became a curse looming over humanity.
Without it, mankind was powerless, fragile before the predators of the new world.
With it, they risked becoming monsters themselves."
Arin slowly turned the page.
> "This dark age lasted for thousands of years.
Humanity withered, civilizations crumbled, and cities turned to ruins inhabited by the mindless.
Until a miraculous discovery was made.
Methods were found to purify aether — to cleanse it of its dark taint before it entered the body."
> "Through this, mankind once again wielded aether's power without succumbing to madness.
Yet, not all could master purification...
Only the few with enough willpower and purity could contain the purified aether."
Arin continued reading, finding a new chapter with a heavy title:
> "The Bearers of the Mark... or later called, the Bearers of the Curse."
> "Not all humans could use aether.
Only a chosen few, whose power awakened during a specific age range, could summon aether within themselves.
A mysterious mark would appear on their bodies, setting them apart — thus they were called 'Bearers of the Mark.'"
Arin lifted his gaze from the book, staring at the strange marks on his own hands.
Was he truly one of those spoken of in legends?
Were his marks a blessing... or a curse?
Flipping through more pages, Arin found another section titled:
> "Aether Purification Training Manuals."
He read with great focus:
> "After the discovery of aether purification methods, training manuals became invaluable tools.
These books contained techniques and methods designed to aid individuals in purifying the aether within themselves and protecting their bodies from corruption.
According to the quality and strength of the methods within, the manuals are categorized into several tiers:"
The text continued with clear classification:
Common: Basic manuals teaching simple purification techniques, suitable only for beginners.
Rare: Contained more efficient techniques, allowing users better resistance against contamination.
Exceptional: Designed for those striving to surpass natural limits, demanding greater skill and endurance.
Epic:
Legendary:
Unique:
Arin cautiously turned the page again, finding a new heading:
> "About the Bearers and Their Awakening."
He read, captivated:
> "The awakening usually occurs between the ages of fifteen and twenty.
Those who fail to awaken by twenty are forever closed off from the gates of aether."
The book recounted stories of those who had awakened before him:
> "Some awakened during mysterious dreams or harrowing nightmares,
others met their ancient ancestors in visions who guided them toward awakening.
Some only awakened after facing life-and-death experiences.
And a few — either fortunate or unfortunate — were forced into awakening through complex, costly rituals."
But no matter how different their experiences were, there was one common thread:
> "Every awakened individual bore a mark somewhere on their body.
It could be on the hands, forehead, eyes, or elsewhere.
The mark was not just a tattoo — it was a reflection of the soul, lineage, and bloodline.
Each person possesses only one mark, their unique signature.
It is a proof that cannot be forged... a weapon that cannot be taken."
Arin leaned back against the wall, tracing the strange markings on his hands.
He needed no further proof.
He had awakened.
But why now?
Why did he bear two marks instead of one?
What about the ancient castle?
And the mysterious pendant?
Finishing the last page, Arin closed the book carefully, brushing the dust off its worn cover.
He glanced out the small window.
The sun was sinking beyond the torn horizon, pulling its last orange rays from between the ruins of collapsed buildings.
A faint chime from the old bell tower signaled the end of the day's work.
Arin rose from his seat, feeling fatigue creeping into his bones.
He silently gathered his tools, returned the book to its place among the ancient shelves, and exited the crumbling library.
The cold wind whistled through the narrow alleyways, but Arin pressed forward, stomach grumbling with hunger.
When he finally reached his modest home, he threw himself onto the wooden chair and lit a small oil lamp.
He opened an old cloth bundle, pulling out some hardened bread and a small bowl of warm soup.
He ate in silence, the words he had read still echoing in his mind:
"The mark... the uniqueness of blood... the lineage of the ancestors..."
Raising his hand, he studied the mark that had not faded — if anything, it seemed to pulse faintly in time with his heartbeat.
That night, Arin fell asleep cradling a deep, strange feeling...
A sense that this broken world had only just begun to reveal its true face.