The sky shattered.
Not cracked—not split—but torn apart, as if reality itself had been struck by something it could no longer contain. Fragments of burning light fell like rain, dissolving before they touched the broken ground below.
Sylas Greve stood alone.
The air pressed down on him, heavy and suffocating, vibrating with a presence that no mortal should ever face. The land beneath his feet trembled, fissures glowing faintly as if the world itself was afraid.
Something stood before him.
It had no fixed shape—only distortion, endless pressure, and overwhelming authority. Looking at it felt like staring into the end of all things.
A translucent window flickered into existence.
[Target Identified]
Race: God
Title: Destruction
Level: ????
"You should not exist."
It was cold and absolute voice.
Sylas tightened his grip.
In his hands was a legendary hammer, massive and perfectly balanced, its surface engraved with ancient runes that pulsed faintly with light. Power hummed through it, familiar, like an extension of his own body.
"If I shouldn't exist," Sylas said quietly, "then neither should you."
He swung.
The runes flared. The world screamed. Space itself warped as the hammer crashed forward and then...
...
Clang!
Sylas jolted awake. The dim morning light caught sparks from his forge.
"Sylas! Stop daydreaming!" Lina's voice snapped him back to reality.
Sylas let out a slow breath and pushed himself upright.
The dream faded, but the weight of it lingered. He glanced down at his hands. No legendary hammer. No runes. Just calloused palms stained with soot and old burns.
The forge was quiet.
A small, half-burnt fire smoldered in the hearth, its embers glowing faintly. Tools lay where he had left them the night before, tongs, chisels, a worn hammer resting against the anvil. The smell of iron and ash clung to the air, familiar and comforting.
Lina stood near the doorway, arms crossed, trying and failing to look stern.
"You were staring at nothing again," she said. "If you keep doing that, the metal's going to cool before you shape it."
Sylas managed a faint smile. "I was thinking."
"You always are," she replied, turning away. "Thinking doesn't put food on the table."
He rose to his feet and moved to the anvil, picking up the hammer. The weight settled naturally into his grip. He didn't need to look to know how to strike. His body already knew.
Clang.
The sound rang through the small forge, sharp and steady. Sparks jumped as the heated metal bent under the blow.
This was his world.
They lived on the edge of the village, where the stone paths gave way to dirt and the houses grew smaller, older. No banners. No guild halls. Just farmers, craftsmen, and children who grew up too quickly.
Their parents had died years ago, lost during a monster incident on a distant road. There had been no hero to save them, no miracle ending. Just two names added to a list that had grown far too long.
Since then, Sylas had worked.
He learned the forge before he learned how to grieve. Hammer before tears. Steel before comfort. The village blacksmith took him in, taught him the trade, and when the old man passed, Sylas kept the forge alive the only way he knew how—by refusing to stop.
"Don't forget," Lina said, softer now, "today's the day."
Sylas paused mid-swing.
He knew what she meant.
Today, the gods would decide.
He nodded once. "I know."
...
Today was the Day of the Gods' Gift.
Every child in the realm received it once, on the year they turned twelve. No exceptions. No delays. Whether born to nobles or raised in mud and ash, the gods would look upon them and decide what path they were allowed to walk.
A profession. A skill. Or, if one was unlucky, nothing worth speaking of.
Some became mages, their hands forever bound to mana. Others awakened as warriors, hunters, healers, or assassins. A rare few were chosen for stranger callings—summoners, tamers, or scholars touched by divine insight.
And many… became ordinary.
Farmers. Laborers. Craftsmen.
The gift defined everything. How strong one could become. Where one belonged. Whether one would be protected or sent to the front lines when monsters poured out of the dungeons.
Sylas struck the metal one last time and set the hammer down.
Outside, the village was already stirring. Children laughed nervously, parents whispered prayers, and somewhere in the distance, a bell rang calling those of age to gather.
At the center stood the stone platform.
It was older than the village itself, its surface etched with ancient runes worn smooth by time and footsteps. On ordinary days, it was nothing more than a relic. Today, it hummed faintly, light pulsing through its carvings like a slow heartbeat.
Standing beside it was Eldric Vaelor, a clerk dispatched from the capital.
His robes were deep blue, embroidered with silver thread that marked him as someone who had seen more awakenings than this village had years. A crystal tablet hovered at his side, rotating slowly, runes flickering across its surface as it recorded each blessing.
Eldric's gaze swept over the gathered children, calm and detached. To him, this was routine.
To the village, it was fate.
"Step forward when your name is called," Eldric said, his voice carrying easily. "Remain silent during the blessing."
One by one, children were summoned.
Light descended. Mana stirred.
Gasps broke out as a boy's hands ignited with flame.
"A fire mage!"
Pride burst across his parents' faces.
Another child followed, shadows curling at her feet like living things.
"Assassin class…"
Whispers rippled through the crowd, admiration tinged with envy.
Sylas stood near the edge, arms loose at his sides. He didn't push forward. He didn't look away either.
A boy nearby leaned toward his friends, snickering. "Why's he even here?"
Another voice chimed in, not bothering to whisper. "Forge boy, right? What's he gonna awaken—Extra Strong Hammer Swing?"
Quiet laughter followed.
Someone else added, "Maybe the gods will bless him with Soot Resistance."
Lina stiffened beside him, but Sylas only exhaled slowly.
He had heard worse.
He had lived it.
The forge didn't care about laughter. Steel didn't bend because someone believed in you. It bent because you struck it enough times.
More names were called. More destinies decided.
Then Eldric's voice rang out again, sharper now.
"Sylas Greve."
The murmurs faltered.
Sylas stepped forward.
The moment his boot touched the stone platform, the runes flared brighter than before, lines of light racing outward beneath his feet. A strange pressure settled in the air, subtle—but unmistakable.
Eldric's eyes narrowed slightly.
Sylas stood still, heart steady, hands relaxed at his sides.
Above him, light began to descend.