On the continent of Eryndor, where power is measured in ranks etched into the skin, those of High Rank rule entire kingdoms, and those of Low Rank serve... or perish.

No one cares who doesn't have a mark. No one, except General Tharvos, Rank Nine, the highest rank there could be in the stat, and one of the few carriers who had it, who tonight trembles in front of a young man/woman without a tattoo...

—How did you get in here? —Tharvos stammered, his sword still dripping from the last "invader."

The stranger didn't respond. He/she just walked between the ruined columns of the hall, his/her boots echoing with a calm that was more chilling than any spell. The stranger's white hair moved slightly in the little breeze that entered this area, and those eyes... Those purple eyes with a slight hint of gold shining.

—You can't be here! Without a Rank, you can't even breathe inside this fortress!

The young man/woman looked up, and for a second, the air seemed to stand still. He/she had a look that belonged to no known range. Because he/she didn't need one.

And without warning, he/she moved a finger.

Tharvos became alarmed.