'I could have sworn my life would never improve—and, evidently, it didn't. I liked it that way, oddly enough. And now, guess what I'm doing? Training to become the strongest, as always. Nevertheless, I expect the same result, too.'
August stood alone in the freezing expanse, an ice block clutched in his hands. His chest was bare—part of his self-imposed endurance training. It appeared to be working, perhaps. The cold had seeped into every crevice of his body. Realistically, had he been an ordinary human, he wouldn't have survived this level of exposure for more than a few hours. Nine was unfeasible—utterly impossible.
Fortunately, he was an awakened Exalted, capable of exceeding normal human limitations. For the past three months, he had trained like this routinely: enduring up to twelve hours of exposure before finally succumbing to the cold, then entering a two-day recovery phase to restore himself fully.
In truth, he had abandoned his residence to immerse himself in this remote, barren stretch of Atlantica. Technically, his abode remained within the region, though far removed from his current location. Unsurprisingly, no one was searching for him. That was the norm—and it didn't affect him in the slightest.
The cold no longer bit; it embraced him like a lover. He had remained outside for hours. At first, he had shivered uncontrollably, but that phase had long passed. His breathing had slowed, his fingertips had turned blue, and his hands no longer responded to command. He couldn't feel his feet or face. Somewhere between dusk and nightfall, his body had ceased resisting the cold. At that moment, he believed he had finally started to adapt.
In truth, he was already entering the early stages of hypothermia. He swayed unsteadily and, without warning, collapsed into the snow. His vision dimmed as darkness closed in.
Just before he lost consciousness entirely, a distant voice echoed in his mind:
[Soul Mending…]
[%]: 100 (Successful)
[Re-directing and Absorbing Render (Spiritual Energy)]: Exalted (Yes)
[Soul Core Type]: Hell Core
***
A thousand years ago, the sky bled open.
It was known as the Fractured Dawn—the moment the heavens split, and the first Corrupted Soul descended upon the world. They arrived as invaders, the incarnations of mankind's darkest sins.
These souls could manifest—taking on flesh, form, and thought. Some remained disfigured and spirit-like, while others, strong enough, possessed human hosts—nesting within, devouring them from the inside, and transforming them into nightmarish abominations. Towns disappeared overnight. Empires crumbled. The world teetered on the edge of annihilation.
Yet, as corruption spread, so too did something else: Render—the spirit-thread of existence. A dormant energy awakened by imbalance. It flowed into select individuals—not all, only those whose bodies could contain it—thus birthing the first Exalteds. They alone could perceive what others could not. They alone could confront the unseen. And so, the war between the two forces began.
Clans rose. Lineages were forged. Each generation refined the Render path, eventually structuring it into absorption rankings:
10 (Spark) — 1,000 (Blade) — 5,000 (Above) — 10,000 (Heavenly One) — 100,000 (Infinite Ascendant)
But the higher one climbed, the further they drifted from humanity. Beyond 5,000, Render began to alter the mind. It twisted thoughts, fed cravings, and warped the soul. Most who reached [Above] eventually became what they once fought—corrupted by a purity too immense for any human psyche to withstand.
The greatest Exalteds in history were not those with the highest power—but those who retained their humanity the longest.
Today, the modern world remains largely ignorant of the silent war. Only the Exalteds remember. They train. They fight. They fall—all to prevent corruption from spilling into a world unprepared for the truth.
And then there was August—born into the strongest clan, based in Antarctica.
The Eirson Clan, hailed as the pinnacle of Exalted power, had built their domain in the harshest region known to man. For centuries, they thrived where others perished, mastering Render through brutal tradition and unrelenting cold. They believed true strength could only be born through suffering—and their environment ensured no weakness survived.
August, however, was an anomaly.
Despite his bloodline and the expectations etched into his name, he remained stagnant—unawakened, unimpressive, and unwanted. Among the clan members, he was tolerated, not respected. Watched, but never truly seen.
Born with a fractured soul—courtesy of the incompatibility between his parents. His mother, a non-Exalted, was little more than a fading memory. His father, once among the strongest Exalteds, had long crossed the [Above] threshold, ascended to [Heavenly One], and succumbed to corruption. He had left August behind to "live" his own damned life.
It was fun, in its own twisted way.
No matter how far he pushed himself, he remained stagnant. Power eluded him. Progress denied him. And now, it seemed—against all expectations—he had reached the greatest turning point in his life.
A sociopath by nature, he might not have appreciated the significance.
But he had to—perhaps.
His soul, if the voice was to be trusted, had been mended.
And he now possessed a new soul type: [Hell Core].
A classification not found in any archive. The kind that shouldn't exist—let alone belong to someone like him. But the system had recognised it. His soul was no longer dormant.
What came next—this was the bigger question.
***
"Wake up, you idiot. You've been asleep long enough. Time to stop dreaming!"
The voice cut through the haze like a blade, followed by a sharp kick to August's shoulder.
'Huh? Was I found and brought back earlier? Weird. I thought I'd gone far enough that they wouldn't be able to track me. Amusing that they did, though. Pathetic me.'
He groaned, still half-submerged in the fog of unconsciousness—until a sudden, open-handed slap struck his face with a loud crack. His eyes snapped open, instincts flaring. In one motion, he sprang up from the bed, one hand clutching his stinging cheek, the other already halfway into a defensive stance—until he recognised the assailant.
A young man, roughly his age. Tall, lean, with spiky black hair and nut-brown eyes. He wore the same dark uniform August had on—standard issue for the lower quarters of the Eirson stronghold.
"Charming," August muttered under his breath.
The boy sneered. "Takes a slap to get you moving? Pathetic."
August didn't reply. He stepped past him wordlessly, heading for the door. But as the other turned to follow—
Thud.
August spun on his heel and landed a heavy swing kick straight into the boy's side. The impact was thunderous, sending him crashing into the wall with a dull thud.
"You started it," August said flatly, his voice low and cold, stepping over the fallen figure without so much as a glance back.
He walked out of the room with a blank face and lifeless eyes.