Exilon was a world forged in hardship and baptized in suffering. It was a place where the sun rarely shone and where the land itself seemed to reject the warmth of life.
The skies were perpetually cloaked in thick, gray clouds that loomed like a judgment, and a bone-chilling rain fell for most of the year.
The ground was cold, damp, and unyielding, and the bitter wind carved its way across the land with a savage relentlessness.
In some seasons, the temperatures dropped so drastically that anyone without the strength of cultivation would simply freeze to death within hours.
Yet the climate was only the first of many trials Exilon had to offer.
Vast regions of the planet were designated as Monster Zones—hostile, dangerous areas teeming with grotesque and deadly beasts. These creatures, some as large as fortresses, roamed freely, hunting anything foolish or unfortunate enough to enter their domain. Entire caravans would vanish without a trace, and even fortified cities near the borders of these zones often faced monster attacks that left behind scorched ruins and rivers of blood.
And then there were the storms.
Electromagnetic anomalies in Exilon’s atmosphere occasionally gave birth to titanic electric storms—terrifying phenomena that could obliterate entire cities in moments. With lightning bolts capable of melting steel and disrupting advanced magical arrays, these storms struck without warning, often shattering the crystal-based communication systems that the various settlements relied upon. Their frequency was unpredictable, but their devastation was legendary.
It was a world where only the strongest, most fanatical, and most disciplined warriors could hope to survive. Conviction wasn’t just a virtue—it was a requirement for life.
But this was no accident.
The Zanis Family—the ruling power behind Exilon—had chosen this world specifically for its harshness. Though they possessed enough strength and resources to terraform the climate, subdue the monsters, and shield the population from the storms, they had no intention of doing so. The suffering and savagery of the planet were not problems to be solved; they were tools to be wielded.
Exilon was never meant to be a haven. It was a crucible.
The Zanis Family flooded the world with billions of people, knowing that the planet itself would act as the first trial. The weak would be cast aside by nature, devoured by monsters, or consumed by storms. Only those who survived past the age of five were deemed worthy to begin basic training. Even then, the mortality rate remained high—nearly 50% of all children perished before reaching the age of ten. Those who passed that grim milestone underwent a talent assessment.
If they were deemed capable of becoming Guardians, they were transferred to one of the main military facilities to begin rigorous cultivation and combat training. If their potential was capped at the level of High Champion or lower, they were relegated to more mundane roles—village guards, city watchmen, or laborers serving the greater machine of war.
After thousands of years of this system, Exilon had become a world where nearly every settlement was populated by soldiers—warriors who had survived the trials of nature and battle alike. Each of them bore the scars of a childhood carved by suffering and war. They were not just soldiers; they were zealots. Loyal unto death to the Zanis Family, they would carry out any order without question or hesitation.
Still, as with all systems, cracks began to form.
There were always those who defied the mold. Some were criminals—individuals who refused to live under the yoke of service and discipline. They rejected servitude and loyalty, choosing instead to rob, murder, and forge their own paths.
The Zanis Family regarded such individuals not as threats, but as yet another trial. If a person could not defend their belongings or family from criminals, then perhaps they were never meant to survive Exilon in the first place.
But rebellion was another matter entirely.
When someone dared to question the system—to reject the breeding of children into soldiers, to protest the inhumane conditions—they were labeled enemies of the world. The Zanis Family did not tolerate dissent. Entire towns were razed at the mere suspicion of harboring rebels. Their loyalty was not earned, it was demanded—and enforced through overwhelming might.
Today, however, Exilon’s skies looked... different.
Without warning, brilliant streaks of lightning erupted across the outer edge of the atmosphere, as if a cosmic storm had begun pounding against the very borders of the world. The Crystal Wall glimmered under the assault. Yet the storm, as powerful as it was, failed to pierce it.
It was a wondrous sight, one that stirred the laws of the world and shifted energy flows across the leylines. But the higher-ups in the Zanis Family barely paid it any mind. To them, unless the storm shattered the Crystal Wall, it was nothing more than an environmental anomaly.
Far from any populated region stood a massive mountain range known as Dragon Spine. Officially, it was considered uninhabited—too dangerous, too wild. Rumors told of powerful beasts and unspeakable horrors that prowled the craggy cliffs and dark valleys.
The truth, however, was very different.
Hidden beneath the rocky facade were a vast network of caves, all interlinked and winding deep into the earth. The interior of the mountain was hollowed out—a feat accomplished not by nature, but by decades of secretive magical engineering. The underground cavern had become a hidden city, crude and chaotic, but functional.
The floors were slick with blood from previous battles. Makeshift camps, half-collapsed buildings, and dim crystal lamps gave the place a ghostly appearance. Garbage was strewn everywhere, and the air stank of unwashed bodies, spilled ale, and burnt flesh.
But for its inhabitants, this place was perfect.
This was the domain of Dark Fang—a notorious gang of criminals, exiles, and defectors. The gang took its name from its leader, a monstrous figure who sat upon a makeshift throne of bones and stone.
Nearly four meters tall, the bald, muscular brute had dark brown skin and tribal tattoos etched into his flesh. His features bore the unmistakable traces of orcish blood, a common occurrence in a world where strength was the only measure of worth.
He grinned widely as he watched the chaos unfold in his underground haven. Battles erupted over scraps of food, fights broke out in drunken stupors, and slaves were bought and sold like cattle.
Dark Fang’s eyes narrowed in thought. "It’s been too long since our last raid," he muttered. "We need more slaves. The last batch is already dead."
Before he could speak further, a sudden presence made the air tremble. A figure appeared in front of him—silent, ethereal, and wholly unexpected. It was a young man with stark white hair and golden eyes.
Dark Fang’s instincts screamed at him to move. He reached for his massive axe, but before his fingers could graze the handle, the stranger raised a single finger and placed it gently on Dark Fang’s forehead.
In that instant, the gang leader’s eyes went blank. His soul was extinguished—erased from existence with terrifying ease.
Within seconds, thousands of soldiers poured into the underground city from every tunnel, every entrance, sealing off all escape routes. Their armor gleamed in the low light, their eyes cold and merciless.