Rain poured from the heavens like a broken dam, relentless and unyielding, drowning the world in a chaotic symphony of storm and shadow. Each droplet hammered the cracked earth with a fierce insistence, turning dust to mud and carving tiny rivers down shattered stones. The winds howled with a voice both ancient and wild, a primal cry that stirred the very bones of the land, thrashing the trees that dared to stand as silent witnesses to the night's fury. Deep within the heart of the Forgotten Hollow, amidst the crumbling remains of an ancient stone citadel swallowed by centuries of neglect and silence, seven cloaked figures stood motionless in a tight circle. Their hoods hung heavy with rain, robes soaked through and clinging to their bodies like second skin, outlining every tense muscle and rigid posture. Yet, despite the tempest raging around them, none of the figures stirred, their stillness echoing a grim determination.
This was the Forgotten Hollow—a place older than kingdoms, older than the gods most people now knew. Here, beneath the weight of time and shadow, the very air tasted of secrets long buried and whispers never meant to be heard. The scent of damp stone and rotting moss hung thick, mingling with the sharp bite of lightning that occasionally tore the sky asunder.
Cracks of thunder rolled across the jagged cliffs, echoing like distant screams that rippled through the night. The cloaked ones were unbothered by the tempest's fury. They were not mere mortals, nor simple magicians. They were the Mages of the Dark End—the last remnants of a secret order erased from history, hunted by kings and gods alike. Their rituals were forbidden, their magic older than time, wielded with a reverence and desperation that burned in their eyes.
Before them lay a large, flat black stone, its surface cold and slick with rain. Ancient runes glowed faintly across its face in a sickly purple hue, pulsing faintly like the heartbeat of a long-forgotten power. This was no ordinary summoning circle. The seven kingdoms had their rites, sanctioned by gods whose names filled temples and whispered prayers. Their summoning circles blazed with holy gold and silver light, symbols of protection and blessing. Champions rose from these circles, hailed as heroes and champions of divine will.
But this circle was different.
This was not a call for protection.
It was a cry for rebellion.
"Begin," rasped the eldest mage, his voice dry and brittle, like dead leaves rustling in a bitter wind.
One by one, the others raised their hands, fingers trembling slightly with anticipation and fear. Ancient chants spilled from their lips—words twisted and tangled in tongues not spoken for a thousand years. The sound was rough, jagged, and filled with a raw power that clawed at the edges of reality. The runes on the black stone flared to life—no longer merely glowing, but roaring in twisted flames of purple and gold, light and shadow entwining violently, as if warring for dominance.
This was not divine magic.
This was older.
"Let the gods tremble," whispered one of the cloaked figures, his voice barely audible beneath the storm.
"For their forgotten sins," said another, eyes burning with a fierce hatred.
"For the return of what they erased," the eldest vowed, voice thick with grim resolve.
The wind thickened with energy, charged and electric. Bolts of jagged light streaked upward from the stone, splitting the clouds apart in violent fractures of brilliance. The earth beneath their feet trembled and cracked, sending tiny shards of stone tumbling into the shadows. Something—someone—was coming.
Meanwhile, in the modern world...
In a quiet town, light-years away in another reality, beneath the flickering glow of a rusted streetlamp that buzzed with the tired hum of electricity, a lone teenager trudged down a rain-slicked sidewalk. His soaked schoolbag hung heavily from his shoulder, and his thick glasses were smeared with raindrops and fog, distorting the world in blurred mosaics of light and shadow. The relentless rain had battered the town for hours, the kind of downpour that washed away sound and time alike. His battered umbrella had long ago been torn away by the wind, lost to the storm.
Dorian Vale, eighteen, an awkward soul wrapped in a lanky, unremarkable frame, moved forward with the tired rhythm of someone used to being invisible, unnoticed. His black hair was plastered flat against his pale cheeks, strands clinging like dark veins. His golden eyes, rare and sharp, flickered behind foggy lenses, constantly seeking but never quite seeing. They were beautiful eyes, windows to a restless spirit, but they rarely caught anyone's attention—not here, not now.
He whispered under his breath, voice barely audible, "If I had magic, I'd probably just use it to stay dry…"
Dorian was the kind of person who slipped into the background of life so seamlessly that most forgot he existed at all. He liked it that way—content in the shadows where no one's expectations could find him. He buried himself in manhwa and fantasy light novels beneath the dull glow of classroom lights, said little, and was, by most modern standards, a NEET with surprisingly excellent attendance.
People called him awkward. Others said he lacked ambition or direction. What they didn't know was that his mind was always elsewhere—lost in worlds where dragons soared and heroes rose from nothing but ash and hope. He lived for stories where powerless people became something greater. Secretly, desperately… he wished he could be in one of those stories.
The thunder roared again, deeper, closer, a voice that shook the ground beneath his feet.
Dorian lifted his gaze. The sky above him had split open—not just with storm clouds and lightning—but with an unnatural light, swirling torrents of purple and gold dancing like a storm of flame and smoke. Time itself seemed to slow, the air thickening with a presence that pressed against his skin, a weight heavy with meaning.
And then—
Pain.
A crushing sensation, as if his entire body was being squeezed inward, pulled through a hole far too small to exist. The rain vanished, the cold fled. Sight and sound were swallowed by an endless void.
There was only falling.
Back in the Forgotten Hollow...
The ritual surged to a crescendo. The earth beneath the mages cracked and trembled violently, sending dust and shattered stone into the swirling storm above. Blinding light shot skyward, pure and jagged, slicing through the dark clouds like a sword through silk. Then came silence. A stillness so profound it felt as though the world itself held its breath, waiting for what was to come.
From within the blinding vortex of purple and gold light, a figure began to take shape—hunched, soaked, disoriented. The shape solidified, a boy collapsing to his knees with a gasp, his body trembling as he fought to breathe air that tasted strange and alien.
His clothes were soaked from rain that belonged to another world, fabric heavy and unfamiliar against his skin. His light brown skin gleamed faintly beneath wet strands of black, messy hair. His golden eyes flickered faintly, glowing with a light that seemed both distant and powerful. At his side lay a blade unlike any the mages had seen before—strange, shimmering black with flickers of purple, humming softly with a power that defied comprehension.
He wore light leather armor, rough and practical, laced with dark fabric embroidered with faint purple linings. A dagger was strapped to his thigh, a silent promise of danger and survival. Everything about him pulsed with an energy that was old and fierce.
"A child?" one of the mages whispered, disbelief coloring his tone.
"This is the vessel?" another questioned, eyes narrowed in suspicion. "He looks… lost."
"He's not just a vessel," the eldest murmured, voice low and reverent. "He is the echo of the forbidden."
The others fell silent, the weight of those words pressing upon the night like a shroud.
Elsewhere, far away...
Something else had crossed the boundary between worlds.
A man—nameless, forgotten, unwanted by the living—had been swept up in the chaotic storm of the ritual. Unlike Dorian, he had not been chosen. He had been caught by chance.
Unlike Dorian, he died.
His broken body shattered against the cold rocks of this strange new world. His heart stopped. His breath faded into nothingness.
But something answered.
Something dead.
Something hungry.
From the broken corpse, a new life rose. Bones reformed with unnatural precision, cracking softly like ancient timber. Eyes opened, hollow and dark, glowing with a cold fire that was not human. The man stood, breathing again, though he no longer truly needed to.
He knew nothing of this world.
Only one thing burned in his mind: hate.
A consuming, endless hatred.
And now… finally, he had the power to do something about it.
Back at the circle…
Dorian's gaze flickered toward the seven cloaked figures surrounding him, his mind struggling to catch up with the impossible reality. His lips parted, but no words came—only silence.
One of the mages stepped forward cautiously, his eyes searching the boy's face for some sign, some clue.
"Do you know your name?" the mage asked softly.
"…Dorian," he said slowly, voice rasping with exhaustion and confusion.
The mages exchanged uncertain glances.
"The gods… will be furious," muttered one, voice trembling with unease.
"Let them be," hissed another, eyes sharp and defiant. "They cannot see him. They do not know."
The eldest mage stepped forward, his face half-shrouded in shadow, eyes burning with an eerie light.
"Welcome, Dorian Vale. You have been summoned to a world ruled by false gods… and remembered only by those they fear."
Dorian blinked, overwhelmed, heart pounding.
And in the sky above them, unseen by mortal eyes, the seven gods stirred.
But none could see the boy in the summoning circle. None could hear his ragged breath. None could sense his presence.
Because his power… was never meant to be theirs.