Arcadia was never meant to fall.

The city floated among clouds of synthetic starlight, cradled by gravitational anchors and the pride of mankind. Towers of light scraped the heavens, their walls lined with gold-threaded soulglass. Below, the wastelands burned—forgotten relics of a world humanity had once ruled. But here, above the rot, Arcadia thrived. The last hope. The final sanctuary.

Dr. Kael Raikuro stood at the edge of the observation deck in Saber Spire, Arcadia’s central research hub. His white coat hung loose over a reinforced suit, a relic from the days he had designed weapons instead of warnings.

Behind him, alarms flashed silently. Red strobes cast long shadows. But Kael kept his eyes on the sky.

It was breaking.

A thin, jagged line tore through the clouds, glowing with crimson light. It pulsed, widened. Wind howled through the breach—not air, but sound, warped and screaming in languages that predated human thought.

His datapad buzzed violently. Readings surged off the charts.

"Dimensional strain. Core integrity collapsing. The breach is active," Kael said aloud, voice empty.

Lysia’s voice cracked through the intercom. Calm. Too calm.
“Kael. It’s time.”

He turned.

She stood in the lab chamber beyond the blast doors, hand resting on the containment sphere — a humming orb pulsing with violent, red-gold light. Inside: the Hellsteel Core, an experimental fusion of demon matter and synthetic soulcode.

“We don’t have another way.” Her eyes burned with a terrible resolve. “You built it. Only you can use it.”

“I built it to study, not to wear!”

“You built it to survive. Now survive.”

Outside, the sky screamed.

From the rift descended a shadow. No, something worse. A shape of living black armor, ten stories tall. Tendrils of voidfire wrapped its body like chains. Within its helm: a burning furnace where eyes should be. The air fractured around it as it hovered above Arcadia’s central district.

The Abyss King had come.

Dreadvorr.

Kael stepped back from the window as explosions rippled through the city. Defense cannons fired in vain. Sonic walls collapsed like paper. Souls screamed into the breach—ripped from bodies before death.

The last words of Lysia played through the comm one final time:

"Live, Kael. Or none of us will."

The blast doors blew inward as the core activated. He staggered forward, arm reaching instinctively—and the energy swallowed him whole.

Pain.

It wasn’t fire. It wasn’t heat. It was memory burning. Every neuron shredded and rebuilt. Every heartbeat reset. Bones liquefied, reformed in liquid steel. Thoughts collapsed into code. Screams became engines.

He died.

He woke.

Not Kael. Not anymore.

The suit formed around him like a second skin. Black alloy with red pulse lines. A glyph burned in his chest—ancient, demonic, his own. His right arm was a living weapon, shifting between blade and cannon. Twin thrusters on his back hummed like dragon wings. His vision was no longer human. It was thermal, spiritual, dimensional.

He stepped out onto the ruins of Saber Spire.

Arcadia was burning.

The shadow of Dreadvorr hovered above it all, watching with indifference. No satisfaction. No cruelty. Just the silence of inevitable erasure.

Raikuro activated his thrusters.

He rose to face the beast.

“Dreadvorr,” he said, his voice warped and echoing like a dying star. “I am Raikuro, forged in the hellfire you brought here. I am what comes for you.”

The sky exploded in black flame as they clashed.