[FLASHBACK]
The annals of Kane's young life at age of four were etched with the vibrant hues of a stable and loving upbringing, a stark contrast to the grim reality that would eventually engulf him. His parents, Clara and Sam, were not ordinary souls; they were humans of awakened rank, individuals blessed with extraordinary abilities that set them apart from the common populace. Independent and fiercely competent, they operated on a contractual basis with the government, their unique skills serving the greater good. Sam, his father, possessed an aspect intricately woven with the gathering and analysis of information, a talent that made him an invaluable asset in unraveling complex situations and discerning hidden truths. Clara, his mother, was gifted with an aspect of profound healing, her touch capable of mending both physical and emotional wounds, a beacon of solace in a world often marred by strife.
By the time Kane graced their lives, Clara and Sam had diligently carved a comfortable niche for themselves, their hard work and dedication elevating them to a respected status within their community, a remarkable feat considering their origins in the often-overlooked outskirts. Kane's early years unfolded in a tapestry of warmth and security, a period of relative tranquility that stretched until the tender age of four. It was a week before the idyllic fabric of their lives was brutally torn asunder, a week etched in Kane's memory with a clarity that bordered on torment.
He had been slumbering peacefully in his small bed, the innocent dreams of childhood flitting through his mind, when a sudden surge of hushed, urgent voices from the adjacent room jolted him awake. Disoriented but instinctively cautious, Kane remained still, his small body nestled beneath the covers, listening intently to the hushed exchange between his parents.
Clara's voice, usually melodious and soothing, held a note of palpable concern. "Honey," she murmured, her tone laced with disbelief, "are you absolutely certain about this information? Why would Saint Broken Sword even contemplate such a reckless act, fully aware of the catastrophic consequences? The very foundations of our world will crumble, one way or another, if their endeavor succeeds and that explicit Scale proves to be a fabrication."
Sam's reply, though delivered in a low voice, resonated with unwavering conviction. "I am certain, Clara. The intelligence I've gathered is irrefutable. If Broken Sword and his cohort proceed with this… this audacious scheme… chaos will inevitably engulf the world, leading to unimaginable destruction. We have a moral obligation to bring this to light, regardless of the potential repercussions, even if it tarnishes the revered image of that Legacy Clan."
The conversation continued in this vein, the gravity of their words too profound for Kane's young mind to fully comprehend. Yet, certain phrases, certain names, lingered in the recesses of his memory, fragments of a puzzle he wouldn't understand until much later. This particular exchange, however fragmented in his recollection, would remain seared into his consciousness for the rest of his life, a haunting prelude to the tragedy that would irrevocably alter his destiny. It was within these hushed words that the name of his parents' killer, the architect of his ruined existence, was unknowingly uttered.
The week that followed was fraught with an unsettling tension. Unfamiliar figures, their faces etched with a mixture of apprehension and veiled threat, frequented their home. Heated arguments, punctuated by hushed warnings and desperate pleas, permeated the once-peaceful atmosphere. Kane, sensing the growing unease, clung closer to his parents, his innocent heart sensing the storm gathering on the horizon. Despite their outward reassurances, Clara and Sam carried a palpable weight of worry, their every interaction tinged with a silent fear.
The fragile semblance of control finally shattered at the week's end, when the anticipated chaos erupted with brutal force. Saint Broken Sword himself, a figure of both renown and veiled menace, barged into their home, his presence radiating an oppressive aura of authority.
"Cease your futile endeavors immediately," Broken Sword commanded, his voice a cold, imperious pronouncement that brooked no argument, "or face the full weight of my wrath."
Sam, his eyes blazing with righteous indignation, met Broken Sword's gaze unflinchingly. "Are you threatening me?" he retorted, his voice resonating with a defiant strength. "Stop your insane pursuit of power, Broken Sword! You are jeopardizing the entire world for your selfish ambitions. If you proceed, I will unleash the information I have painstakingly collected and expose your utter disregard for the well-being of the global populace."
Broken Sword's composure finally cracked, his face contorting in a mask of incandescent fury. As if on cue, a contingent of the Immortal Flame Clan's retainers, their movements swift and menacing, materialized within the confines of their home, seizing Sam, Clara, and the terrified young Kane.
"Fine," Broken Sword hissed, his eyes glinting with a chilling resolve. "You and your pathetic family will perish this instant."
A wry, almost mocking laugh escaped Sam's lips. "You underestimate me, Broken Sword. I anticipated your desperation. All the crucial details, the irrefutable evidence, are securely stored in a location you will never find. Even if you silence me, the truth will inevitably surface, leaked to the outside world. I will not allow you to plunge this world into oblivion, not while my son still draws breath in it."
A flicker of shock registered on Broken Sword's face, a momentary lapse in his carefully constructed facade. But it swiftly morphed into a chillingly smug expression. Suddenly, a gleaming sword materialized in his hand, its polished surface reflecting the dim light of the room. With a swift, brutal stroke, he severed Sam's head, the gruesome act unfolding before Kane's horrified eyes. From his father's lifeless hand, Broken Sword ruthlessly snatched a ring, a seemingly innocuous piece of jewelry, and crushed it under his heel.
"I saw through your little deception, Sam," Broken Sword sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. "You thought you were clever, hiding the information in plain sight, within this trinket. Yes," he continued, his gaze hardening with a fanatical intensity, "I will sacrifice every single one of you if it means she will live."
Clara stood frozen in shock, tears streaming down her face, mirroring the silent torrent that flowed from Kane's young eyes. In a desperate act of maternal love and quick thinking, she frantically summoned a precious memory, a powerful artifact imbued with temporal energy, a contingency plan Sam had entrusted to her. With a whispered incantation, she activated the memory, its ethereal glow enveloping her and Kane. In a flash of blinding light, they vanished from the house, teleporting to the relative safety of the sprawling outskirts. The memory, its energy expended, began to crack and shatter, disintegrating into shimmering dust.
Clara sighed, a sound heavy with sorrow and regret, and gently wiped the tears from her face. "Luckily," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion, "your father foresaw this possibility and entrusted me with this… this final measure. Forgive me, my love," she whispered, her gaze directed towards the empty space where Sam had stood moments before, "I cannot join you in the afterlife… not yet. For our son's sake. Kindly wait for me, would you?"
From that moment forward, Clara and Kane became fugitives, constantly on the run, seeking refuge in the treacherous landscape of the outskirts. Meanwhile, the insidious tendrils of the Immortal Flame Clan's influence spread like a venomous blight. They disseminated a carefully crafted fabrication, a malicious rumor painting the awakened Clara and Sam as rogue elements who had succumbed to madness, embarking on a senseless killing spree. The Immortal Flame Clan, cloaked in a false mantle of heroism, publicly declared their success in subduing the supposedly dangerous awakened Sam.
Unbeknownst to the public, the government, swayed by the Legacy Clan's fabricated narrative, dispatched their agents to hunt down the perceived threats. Simultaneously, other Legacy Clans, eager to curry favor or eliminate potential witnesses, sent their own skilled assassins into the outskirts. The relentless pursuit closed in swiftly. Within a week of their desperate escape, Clara was cornered and mortally wounded.
On the verge of death, her lifeblood ebbing away, Clara looked at her son, her eyes filled with a profound sadness. "Forgive me, my precious Kane," she whispered, her voice barely audible, "for being… a cursed parent. I yearned to see you grow, to witness your happiness… but it seems my journey ends here."
Tears streamed down Kane's face as he cradled his dying mother in his arms. "Mom… don't leave me," he sobbed, his small body wracked with grief.
Clara's hand, growing cold and weak, gently stroked his hair. "I cannot, my love… But here…" she managed, her voice a mere breath, "take this… this antique book. It contains the story of my life… and the key… to the location where your father… hid all the information. Hold onto it… use it wisely… But first… promise me this, my son. Promise me that you will strive for a peaceful and happy life. You can remember us, you can grieve for us… but do not let the desire for revenge consume you. It will not bring us back, and it will only cost you the happiness you deserve. Promise me that you will live… for yourself."
Her words, imbued with a mother's final plea, resonated deeply within Kane's young heart. "I promise, Mom," he choked out, his voice thick with tears.
Immediately after hearing his solemn vow, Clara's grip on his hand loosened, her breath hitched, and her eyes closed for the final time. In that desolate moment, Kane lost everything – his home, his parents, the innocent joy of his childhood. He was left alone in a hostile world, clutching an antique book, a cryptic legacy, and burdened by a promise he barely understood, forced to run for his life, the book a potential treasure that could also attract untold danger.
[CURRENT]
The rough hands of the guard unceremoniously released Kane, sending him stumbling forward onto the cold, unforgiving floor of the police station lobby. The officer on duty, his eyes widening at the sight of the emaciated boy covered in a tapestry of fresh wounds and older bruises, demanded, "What in God's name happened here, Garth? Did he try to rob you? And you beat him senseless? Why bring him here in this state?"
Garth, the man who had held Kane captive, offered a dismissive shrug. "Yeah, tried to steal some antique. But the real issue is this one's been hit by the Nightmare Spell. Going on a week now, by my reckoning."
The officer's face paled instantly. "Attention!" he bellowed, his voice echoing through the station. "Code Black in the lobby! I repeat! CODE BLACK!"
Without another word, Garth shoved Kane further into the station and hastily retreated, eager to distance himself from the contaminated individual. The officer, his movements now swift and efficient, knelt beside Kane, his expression a mixture of concern and urgency. He gently examined the boy's wounds. "What's your name, kid?" he asked, his voice surprisingly gentle.
"Kane," the boy replied, his voice hoarse and weak.
The officer nodded, his gaze steady. "Alright, Kane. How much do you know about the Nightmare Spell?"
"I… I read about it," Kane managed, "in my late mother's diary."
A flicker of understanding crossed the officer's face. "Good. Listen to me carefully. As soon as you enter the First Nightmare, you need to consciously check your aspect. Understand? We'll get an Awakened here as quickly as possible. Just… don't die on us, kid."
Before Kane could fully process the officer's instructions, strong hands gently guided him towards a nearby medical bed. Straps were fastened securely across his chest and limbs. A wave of exhaustion washed over him, the accumulated trauma and the insidious pull of the Nightmare Spell finally overwhelming his resistance. With a sigh of resignation, Kane allowed his consciousness to drift, succumbing to the encroaching darkness.
Immediately, a disembodied voice, cold and resonant, echoed in the void of his mind.
[Aspirant! Welcome to the Nightmare Spell. Prepare for your First Trial ...]