Cael walked through the ruins of his empire, and for the first time since waking, he truly saw what had become of the world.


    The great spires that had once housed the Hierophants—where knowledge had been preserved, where reality had been sculpted—were nothing but broken stone. Collapsed. Shattered. Forgotten.


    The streets where magic once hummed through the air, where scholars and spellwrights debated the very nature of existence, were now dust and silence.


    The rivers of magic that had flowed through the city—pure, crystalline currents that sustained entire civilizations—were gone.


    In their place? A city of imitators.


    Cael reached the city’s outskirts and halted, concealed in the ruins of an old colonnade. From here, he could see it—the people, the architecture, the way they moved through a world they did not understand.


    This was no longer Azeris, City of the Hierophants.


    It was Marrowhold.


    The name alone told him everything. A city built atop the bones of the past.


    And its people—they did not remember.


    They had never even been told.


    Cael narrowed his eyes.


    He had expected to find a world struggling to recover. He had expected remnants of what was. Faded echoes of knowledge, attempts to rebuild what had been lost.


    But instead?


    This city did not even realize it had once been greater.


    The streets were crude copies of the past, built with little understanding of the architectural precision the Hierophants had mastered.


    The enchantments that once fortified every road, every structure—ensuring longevity, ensuring perfection—were gone. Now, buildings crumbled under their own weight.Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    And worst of all?


    The people used magic like children wielding broken swords.


    He watched a group of cloaked figures in the city square. Mages. They stood in a loose circle, chanting, struggling to weave a simple stabilization ward. Their robes bore insignias, names of guilds and houses Cael had never heard of.


    But what mattered most was the spell itself.


    The mages moved their hands, tracing the old forms, whispering the old syllables—but it was wrong.


    Their gestures were uncertain, their voices hesitant, unsure.


    They were imitating.


    They did not understand.


    Cael’s jaw clenched.


    The Hierophants had sculpted magic as artisans sculpted marble—flawlessly, with purpose, with meaning. They had understood the way power flowed, the way it lived, the way it could be shaped to create something greater than itself.


    But these people?


    They had lost the knowledge.


    And they didn’t even know it.


    Cael’s fingers twitched. He could fix this.


    He could step forward. Correct the glyphs. Show them how magic was meant to be used.


    But the moment he even considered it—the realization struck.


    If the world had forgotten magic, who had ensured it remained broken?


    Because this was not just ignorance.


    This was intentional.


    Someone—something—had made sure the old ways did not return.


    Cael exhaled sharply, stepping back into the shadows of the ruined colonnade.


    Not yet. Not here.


    The mages in the square continued their work, unaware of the man in the shadows watching them with cold, calculating eyes.


    Then—one of them stepped forward.


    A young woman.


    Her robes were different—simpler, less adorned. And unlike the others, she did not hesitate.


    Her fingers moved with purpose. Her voice, though quiet, carried conviction.


    But her spell—still failed.


    Cael’s eyes narrowed.


    She had the potential. She understood something was wrong. But like the rest of them, she was using a shattered system.


    And it had nearly killed her.


    The failed spell lashed back at her, sending a shockwave of unstable energy through the square. The other mages stumbled away in shock as she cried out, collapsing to the ground.


    The backlash would kill her.


    Not because it was powerful—but because she didn’t understand how to stop it.


    Cael’s body moved before he could think.


    One step forward.


    Then another.


    Before the other mages could react, he was beside her, his fingers tracing the spell’s form mid-collapse.


    The structure was broken—but not beyond repair.


    Cael corrected it. Not through force. Not through raw power.


    But with knowledge.


    Magic flowed properly for the first time in centuries.


    The unstable energy dissipated instantly.


    The girl gasped, her eyes flickering open.


    For the first time, the world had seen magic as it was meant to be.


    And for the first time in centuries…


    Cael had left a mark.