The world burned.
Not with heat—but with narrative collapse.
As Darius touched the sigil, time and space folded inward like parchment set aflame. His consciousness surged forward, stripped of flesh, title, and form. His name, dominion, and even the divine mark upon his soul were peeled away. There was no Nexus. No war. No Celestia. No Nyx.
Only Void.
Then, a voice—not the Presence, not the Architect—whispered:
> "Welcome to the Trial of the Fourth Flame, Darius.
Here, you are neither player nor god.
Only the raw self shall survive."
[Plane of the Fourth Flame – Trial I: The Forsaken Path]
He woke in a body not his own.
It was human. Weak. Mortal.
His limbs ached. His breath was ragged. His hands were smeared with soot. Around him, a ruined world stretched endlessly—ashen skies, skeletal trees, and cities turned to bone. The air tasted of regret.
A name echoed around him. Elias.
That wasn't his name. But here… it was.
