Welcome to Tithe, a world some believe the gods have forgotten and others think was seeded by the gods. Either way, the rules are practically the same as in any world in which any person's sorry soul fell. You're born with or without. There are many species of creatures in this world; each has its own coven, tribe, and kingdom, along with countless faiths. Ergo, a terrible war left the world in fear and is believed to have driven many old gods away. As time passed, it seemed like a vain attempt of the old gods to grant one last act of revenge, or blessing, depending on which legend you learn from. People from foreign worlds landed in this one. Bringing with them many new technologies, reborn souls introduced technologies, philosophies, and techniques from their world of origin. As a result, significant friction ensued, and many vie for dominance over the shiniest new item to hit the market.
It took an insurmountable amount of time for the fighting to die down, and even the oldest races struggled to keep track of past events. Eventually, the world settled into an uneasy peace among its races. However, those of the old gods, specifically the more malevolent ones, are still believed to desire their Tithe one way or another.
In this world, there is one who is called on during times of dread, awaiting those to be bled and only seeking the slaughter. Pity him not, for he is no martyr; long live the one who is zero.- Missing text of the old world
Everyone knows the usual story: some dumb kid, older woman, or unfortunate soul falls into some bad situation in their previous world, only to land in a totally different world—a world of magic and power, where they are granted magnificent abilities. The story is nothing new; it's happened time and again, shaking the world in some shape or form. It's no different for one Malik, the estranged bastard child of a notorious aristocrat. Surrounded by many people who wish to spill his blood. However, he didn't shiver, much less shake, for he didn't care for them, for this was the day of his freedom. Eyes pierced into him from all sides, especially those seven who hid in the shadows. Awaiting the day that Malik would prove to be the true protector.
Standing dead center, in the ballroom, dressed in dark attire fit for a funeral procession. Along with black gloves, as he was stared down by the 3rd Prince, bellowing at Malik. The boy barely gave him much attention. Malik felt it, finally felt the dark pulse he truly feared that came to him.
"You accursed bastard, you and your family have traded with our adversaries; you are here by stripped of all powers. You shall be taken into custody until your father arrives to pick you up," screamed the Prince.
Malik only heard a handful of the Prince's words and responded with an indifferent look. He then raised his left hand into a fist with the back facing the Prince.
"1. You knew about my father's business for years." Raising his thumb
"2. I was a sacrificial lamb; my "father" is already out of the country with the Black Hearts." Raising his pinky.
"3. I have no more obligations to you." Malik said, raising his tall finger, in an insult to the Prince. The boy raised the rest of his fingers, allowing him to remove the glove swiftly. In horror, all the guests saw his hand slowly blacken and understood what had happened.
"The game has begun, surrender or run," Malik said as the Prince's face twisted in horror.