SSS Class Awakening: Start With A God-Level Choice System

Two hundred years ago, the Thalorien Empire shattered.

Once, it stretched across the southern plains and northern highlands, its banners of silver and crimson casting long shadows over fractured kingdoms.

Back then, mana flowed like rivers through ancient Sigil Veins, and engraved warriors carved legends into the earth.

Sigil Knights clashed with beasts that could level towns, Mages rewove weather and stone to shape destiny, and Priests banished demons with light that burned brighter than the sun.

But greed rotted even the grandest walls. The whispers of power and eternal dominion tempted lords and priests alike. Betrayal hollowed the empire's heart while demonic cults gnawed at its edges. What once stood unbroken for centuries collapsed in a single generation.

In the aftermath, kings crowned themselves in crumbling citadels, dukes warred like starving wolves, and cities bled for scraps of sovereignty. Demons prowled ruins that once sang of victory. Yet the dream of unity never truly died.

That dream burned brightest in Veylan Altharion, Grand Duke of Helrath, last bearer of the Lion Sigil—a relic said to descend from the first Emperor himself.

With five Sigils carved into his soul and veins blazing with mana, Veylan carved his name as the Lion of Thrones, one of the last true warlords capable of challenging fate itself.

A man who once rallied shattered legions to drive back demon rifts and reclaim southern strongholds.

But now, even the Lion found himself hunted.

…

On the walls of Helrath Keep, the city's last bastion, the air reeked of gunpowder and burnt oil.

The familiar scent of ozone from mana-infused steel and spellfire had long been drowned out by the alien stench of foreign weapons. Acrid smoke curled above shattered towers where enchanted banners once flew, replaced by blackened stone and scorched sigils.

Sigil Knights crouched behind crude barricades. Their once-bright armor, forged from runed silversteel, was dented and blackened by unseen firepower.

Mages, hands shaking, wove barriers of light and flame only for them to shatter like glass under storms of metal hail.

Even the dwarven-made cannons, pride of Helrath's northern allies, lay abandoned. Their barrels warped by heat no native magic could replicate.

From the battlements, Veylan stood tall despite the weight dragging at his shoulders. He watched the strange invaders tighten their grip around his city like a noose drawn link by link.

They were no ordinary warlord. No Sigil Knight or Mage. No beast tamer or crimson-robed cultist.

These new conquerors came not with mana-saturated swords or glowing spellcircles, but thunderous steel rods that spat fire and death.

Their armies marched with inhuman precision, clad in strange armor forged not by rune-hammers or enchanted smithies, but of materials even the dwarves could not name.

Six months ago, they arrived.

Five kingdoms have already been conquered, and eighteen dukedoms lie beneath their iron rule.

Helrath is one of the last banners yet unbowed.

…

"Duke," a knight spoke behind him, voice strained yet holding to the drilled discipline Veylan demanded of his men. "Reports from the southern gate… another volley from their iron weapons. We lost twenty men. Their attacks… pierce even blessed plate."

Veylan's scarred hand gripped the cold stone ledge. Beneath his weathered skin, the Lion Sigil thrummed with mana, the faint golden glow crawling up his forearm like fire trapped under flesh.

He had been a Sigil Lord for thirty years, had felt the crushing aura of demon dukes, had shattered mountains with his roars, yet these invaders cut through his knights like wheat before a scythe.

"They do not wield mana," Veylan said, voice low but resonant, the kind that could silence halls or rally armies. "Yet their force rivals B-rank Sigil Lords. These weapons… even Crimson Faith's demons never carried such fire."

He glanced at the fields below.

Once, Helrath's southern farmlands had been a sea of gold and green. Wheat swayed in mana-kissed winds, and the scent of tilled earth meant prosperity for thousands.

Now, it was nothing but a forge of war. Trenches scarred the land like claw marks from a vengeful god.

Barricades of metal and wood carved up familiar fields. Smoke belched from foreign machines that dug earth faster than dwarves working in shifts.

And above all, war engines, unlike any dwarven design, stood on their iron legs and treads. They spat death faster than a mage could chant, tearing through knights before their sigils could even shimmer to life.

Where once duels of honor decided the fates of lords, now soldiers died facelessly, silently, never even seeing who killed them.

"Send word to the remaining Lords," Veylan said finally.

His voice was steady, but a heaviness weighed in every word. "If Helrath falls, the southern plains are lost. We will not kneel to these foreign tyrants."

The knight saluted, fist to chest, and hurried down the stairs to carry the order.

Veylan stayed, his eyes locked on the distant enemy encampment.

A flicker of rage burned in his chest, restrained only by decades of war-hardened discipline.

…

The great hall of Helrath Keep echoed with the sound of iron boots. What once had been a place of feasts and triumphant banners was now a war council chamber.

Sigil Knights, battered and bloodstained, lined the walls. Mages in rune-stitched robes hunched over spellbooks, whispering futilely about counter-sigils. Beast tamers sharpened spears while wyverns clawed at chains outside the windows, restless from the scent of foreign powder.

Helrath's forces, once numbering tens of thousands, were reduced to fewer than a thousand elite.

Veylan entered, and silence followed him like a shadow. The Lion Sigil shimmered faintly above his brow, while the other four sigils etched along his arms pulsed with raw mana.

In an era where few mastered even two sigils, Veylan's five marked him as a living legend.

A single roar from him could topple a city wall. A single strike could crush a hundred lesser knights. When his aura flared, even demons staggered beneath its weight.

Yet even legends had limits.

"We hold," Veylan declared, voice booming like a war drum through the chamber. "No invader shall claim Helrath's throne while I draw breath. Our Sigils bind us to this land, to its people."

"These… trespassers bring foreign thunder and iron, but they lack our will. We are carved from war and bound by blood. We will show them what it means to face a true Sigil Lord."

Fists were raised.. Weapons slammed against shields. A guttural chant of loyalty rolled through the chamber.

But as the roar echoed, Veylan's mind stayed quiet.

Deep down, even he knew: valor alone would not halt the storm outside their gates.

…

Night fell over Helrath.

From a lone tower, Veylan observed the enemy encampment.

Strange lights flickered in perfect rows, casting alien glows against the darkened plains. Their constructs, metal beasts with churning wheels, patrolled tirelessly. Not even dwarves worked so relentlessly.

And amidst their lines, banners swayed, unlike any in Thalorien's fractured lands. A crest of a crown and sword crossed by chains shimmered silver under the pale moon.

It carried none of the chaotic, bloody energy of demon cults. This was something colder, controlled, and unrelenting.

Veylan's jaw tightened.

"Tyrannical Ruler…" he murmured, recalling whispers from fleeing spies and shattered lords.

The name spread like a curse across fallen dukedoms.

A woman who commanded not with mana alone, but with sheer dominance. One who bent armies, and even demons, to her will with words alone.

Those marked by her authority fought like zealots possessed, turning blades on kin and comrade alike without hesitation, without any ounce of mercy.

And she had generals.

Not ordinary warlords, but monsters cloaked in mortal flesh, wielding magic and miracles far beyond this world's limits.

One forged machines that defied logic. Another wielded forbidden spells with none of their legendary cost. Another bent fate itself to heal or empower allies.

Another one of them, which possessed beauty out of this world, had only been in slumber since six months ago. Yet, she could communicate and even judge the inhabitants of this world while asleep. Her servants of sloth were said to fulfill any of her whims.

Even demons bent their knee before these generals.

In a shattered empire, tyrants were no strangers. But this… this was something else.

And for the first time in decades, Veylan felt it deep in his bones, an unease he could not roar away.

…

The wind howled against the tower window, carrying with it the distant thunder of foreign engines.

The night had been long, sleepless; it had been that way for months.

Behind Veylan, the crackle of runic torches broke the quiet.

An old dwarf approached, his stout frame weighed down not by armor but by fatigue. His once-pristine beard was now a mess of singed braids and forge soot, his eyes ringed with sleepless shadows.

In his calloused hands, he carried a mangled weapon. It was one of the invaders' thunderous steel rods.

He set it down on the stone railing between them. Even bent and warped, it hummed faintly with residual heat.

"You've seen their weapons," the dwarf rasped, voice like gravel dragged across stone.

He ran a finger along its alien barrel, tracing strange markings burned into the metal. "We tried to dismantle one, thought perhaps it was some form of rune-forged wand. But there are no runes, no mana lines, no cores to feed on essence. Just… metal and fire."