Dirga stepped out of the City Registry building, the automatic doors sliding shut behind him with a soft hiss.
In his hand, he held a thin, translucent card embedded with faint red circuits. Etched across the surface were simple words:
Ortheva City ID – Level 1
A soft sigh escaped him.
Level 1. The lowest tier. But also, the most common.
According to the woman behind the counter, nearly 80 percent of Ortheva’s population held this level.
It wasn’t surprising—Dirga was new, unconnected, and from world called earth
Dirga had simply nodded.
She’d stared at him—a strange mix of disbelief and curiosity—before handing him the card in silence and waving him away.
Now he walked alone through the main street of Sector Z, card tucked into his pocket, eyes scanning the overwhelming sprawl around him.
Just himself and a promise.
The energy of Ortheva hit like a storm.
Buildings towered above like gothic machines—glass and stone, lined with crimson veins of light.
Rail lines floated midair, carrying sleek transport pods that hummed like thunder.
Down at ground level, massive mechanical beasts—freight crawlers and power rigs—hauled goods through traffic that swelled and snarled like a living thing.
Advertisements flared across holo-walls in every direction:
"Upgrade your Bloodline Today."
"Devil Arms: Now in Platinum Tier."
"Sector X Showdown – This Weekend!"
The crowd itself was a spectacle. Devils with horns of molten gold. Fae with skin like living crystal.
Titans with mountain-thick limbs and eyes carved from stone. Nephari in shimmering robes, data streams flickering around their heads like halos.
Even goblins scurried about in worker uniforms, hauling crates or yelling into comm-rings.
Another thing he learn from the woman is the race that live in here. Not everything but mostly
Dirga adjusted the collar of his Clothes
It hugged his frame tightly, accentuating muscle hardened by weeks of combat and survival.
His crimson core, dormant and concealed beneath layers of cloth, pulsed faintly against his spine.
One thing was clear—he wasn’t the strongest here. Not yet.
But he didn’t come to blend in.
Another thing he’d learned from the registry clerk: Ortheva had a citywide transport network. Buses, trams, and aerial lines—available to anyone with a valid ID.
His destination had already been decided.
Where fists spoke louder than words.
Where power meant entry.
Where legends fought—and earned their right to ascend.
Dirga took one last glance at the endless tide of strangers around him.
A short ride on Ortheva’s glowing skybus brought him across sectors, through glass tunnels and under steel bridges that pulsed with energy.
The vehicle moved almost silently, slicing through the air like a blade of light.
Then the voice came from the speakers above:
"Now arriving: Sector X."
The doors hissed open.
The heat hit first—thick, pulsing with Zarion. Dirga stepped out onto black pavement carved with glowing crimson lines that shifted like living veins.
Before him towered a coliseum.
Not just large. Titanic.
Forged from obsidian stone and darksteel, with jagged spires spiraling toward the sky.
Arcane symbols crawled across its surface like serpents—Zarion script etched deep into every brick.
He blinked up at it, heart pounding.
But as he explored the streets leading outward from the coliseum, Dirga realized something else—this sector was more than just battle.
It was entertainment incarnate.
Flashing signs, music that pulsed through the concrete, perfume and sweat and smoke mingling in the air.
Taverns, betting halls, augmentation clinics, and performance arenas lined every street.
The deeper he walked, the more chaotic it became.
Succubi in silken outfits leaned from balconies, whispering offers to passing fighters. Goblins danced on crates, selling enchanted gear at "special" prices.
Devils sparred in alleyways, flames licking their skin.
This was pleasure and violence, hand in hand.
He remembered what the registry woman had told him—the major races dominant in Ortheva. And now he saw them firsthand:
Devils, the ruling race. Horns, tails, red or charcoal skin—each radiating arrogance and power. Many bore the symbols of their rank or the suit they belonged to: Diamond, Heart, Spade, Club.
Goblins, fast-talking, green-skinned, with wiry frames and large ears. Some looked feral. Others wore suits and tech goggles.
Niphari, with glowing blue skin and silver hair, often seen operating drones or negotiating over glowing schematics. Masters of Manacode—technology and runes.
Elves, elegant and composed, with pointed ears and calm auras. Most walked in pairs, elemental energy trailing behind them. Likely users of Elementlink.
Fae, ethereal and otherworldly. They resembled elves, but with animalistic features—wings, horns, tails, or furred limbs. Spiritflare magic shimmered faintly around them.
It was a living parade of everything strange, powerful, and beautiful about Hell’s First Floor.
Dirga kept walking, his eyes sweeping across the endless current of life around him. But his thoughts wandered back—to the registry hall, and the woman behind the counter.
Maybe it was because he was a "first-timer," a newcomer from an unregistered world, but she had explained far more than just ID levels.
She had explained the foundations of power.
In this multiverse, all energy—whether light, dark, divine, or profane—originated from one source:
The raw, unfiltered energy of creation. The current of reality itself.
But it was unstable. Wild. Untamed.
Most beings couldn’t use Zarion directly.
Instead, they refined it—channeled it through internal systems, methods that stabilized its flow.
That was the secret behind the Six Paths of Energy Refinement.
Six major methods across the realms. Six philosophies. Six truths of survival.
Power born from the soul—shaped by personal meaning, forged in identity.
Every wielder of this path manifested differently. No two users were alike. It wasn’t something you learned—it was something you became.
This was the path of Devils. The true, ranked Devils. And for most races, it was simply too difficult.
Enhance the flesh. Strengthen the bones. Regenerate. Adapt. Evolve.
Power through the body—every battle, every injury, every bite meant more power.
Goblins were infamous for it, devouring the strong to grow stronger.
Survival of the fittest—made literal.
Magic of the mind. Rune systems, arcane programming, light-speed calculations.
A power of logic, formula, and tech.
The Niphari, with their glowing blue skin and silver minds, were its greatest architects.
To bond with the world. To feel the river’s pull, the heat of the flame, the silence of shadow.
To become one with fire, water, wind, and more.
This was the chosen path of Elves, graceful and deadly—commanding nature itself.
Emotion as fuel. Will as ignition.
It called forth the unseen—spirits, familiars, spectral weapons—bound by heartstrings.
The Fae danced along this path, forging weapons from memories and armor from sorrow.
Faith. Law. Divine decree.
Order woven into power. Commands etched in light.
The angels walked this path—those of Heaven, not Hell.
And here in Ortheva, not a single one could be found.
Dirga had listened to every word.
There were no limits on which path someone could walk—any race could try any path.
But each had their icons, their legacies, their specialties. And the truth was: mastering even one path could take a lifetime.
Still, knowing this... understanding this...
It made him feel grounded.
He might have come from Earth. But now he could finally see where he stood—in a multiverse shaped by power and survival.
And he had already started walking his path.
The path of Soulcraft.
The path of the Black Star.