The world was not merely in an era of war; it was defined by it. The days of the Great Conflict, when humanity united its meager forces to defy the terrifying strength of the Giants, were long gone, relegated to the hazy epoch of ancient myth. The battles that had raged for centuries since had been far more tragic: human pitted against human.
What drove this relentless, internal carnage? You might ask. The forces that caused men to turn on one another were tragically simple, even when a false peace settled upon the land: power, territory, wealth, and even the desire for women—all capable of curdling the milk of human kindness into bitter, endless strife.
Since the ancient epoch, following the very moment the last Giant fell, the world's most coveted prize remained the throne at the very top of the world. For nine glorious, unbroken centuries, the Thorenzians—the direct children and descendants of the legendary hero, Thorenz—had reigned supreme. Their empire was a beacon of power, so dominant that no rival could tear it down.
Yet, even the mighty Thorenzia stumbled. History whispered of three fatal flaws that led to its collapse under the weight of the encroaching Vylonia Empire. First, the Thorenzians grew complacent, their strength breeding a naive arrogance that halted military innovation. Second, the Vylonians were fanatical in their dedication to military advancement, giving birth to the powerful elemental ability known as Hera and the dark scientific research called Project Paragon. Armed with these, they finally defeated the Thorenzian legions. The third, and perhaps most devastating, reason was the timing: the fall coincided with a generation where the legendary black sword, the Oathkeeper's Shadow, had gone without a master. Without that legendary, powerful blade to guide them, the days of the Thorenzian rule were tragically numbered.
Thorenzia fell, deposed by Vylonia. For the next few centuries, Vylonia assumed the crown of world power. But their rule was far shorter than their predecessor's. Their reign was ultimately extinguished by the rising might of the Aethelgardians, led by their formidable Queen Lysandra Delacronix. The Aethelgardians were the descendants of Aethel, the long-forgotten brother of Thorenz. By blood, the Aethelgardians and Thorenzians were kindred, though the former now reigned where the latter had once ruled.
Now, the Aethelgardians occupies the world's ultimate territory, a vast land carved into the mountain peaks. The empire was divided into fifteen major provinces—including Cinder, Wane, Blight, Nexus, Flux, Whisper, Cadence, Rune, Harrow, Haven, Talon, Tungsten Hearth, Marrow, Valence-Shatter, and The Silence Meridian—each with its own unique identity.
Cinder, the capital, earned its name not from heat, but from the fine, perpetual fall of ash and ice that covered the city like snow. Because of this constant precipitation, the weather was brutally cold. Emperor Arthur Delacronix's towering castle sat squarely in the middle of Cinder, surrounded by a dense sprawl of factories, towers, and bureaucratic buildings.
One of the seventeen spies moved through the frigid streets. He was wrapped tightly in his heavy, dark cloak, but the cold still bit deep. He would occasionally stop, subtly raising a hand beneath his cloak and summoning a quick burst of Flame Hera to inject momentary warmth back into his chilled limbs. This was Valerus.
As he hurried past a stall selling hot, spiced wine, he overheard two citizens passing by, their voices muffled but carrying clearly in the crisp air.
"It's finally tomorrow," the man on the left said, his breath fogging the air. "I can barely wait."
"You mean, the Golden Sword's Next Master Tournament?" the second man replied, sounding mildly cynical. "Aren't you tired of it? It's been happening for centuries now, ever since four hundred years ago when we took the land from the children of that traitor, Thorenz. No one has ever won the tournament."
"That's the beauty of it!" the first man insisted. "It is said that whoever is able to wield the golden blade again will be its new master. But the fact that no one—not even the mighty Delacronix clan—has been able to even draw it from the rock itself makes the tournament even more fun, wouldn't you agree?"
Valerus froze, his eyes widening in a shock that cut through the cold. A golden sword piercing a solid rock?
He thought instantly of the vivid, confusing dream he had only a few hours prior—the old man, the immense stone, and the strange, blindingly bright blade. Could it be the same sword?
He closed the distance between himself and the two men quickly. "Hey," he greeted them, his voice low.
The two men turned, noting his foreign, heavily cloaked appearance.
"I overheard your discussion just now," Valerus continued, keeping his tone measured. "Where is this tournament you speak of taking place tomorrow?" he asked.
"Oh, a foreigner, huh?" one of them noted, his curiosity piqued. "Well, it's at Emperor Arthur's castle. The castle sits right at the center of Cinder."
"I see. You have my gratitude," Valerus said, giving a polite, quick bow.
"Don't mention it," the men replied, already continuing their journey and quickly forgetting the strange traveler.
Valerus stood alone, the chill of Cinder suddenly less important than the pounding urgency in his chest. I don't know, but it seems this is the same sword I saw in my dream. That old man was standing right in front of it.
The infiltration mission—the gathering of intelligence—was momentarily forgotten. A golden sword, a tournament, and a destiny he couldn't ignore. Valerus pulled his hood tighter and made his way through the ash-laden streets, heading straight for the colossal silhouette of the Emperor's castle.
While Valerus navigated the white-and-gray chill of the imperial capital, two of the seventeen spies found themselves submerged in the purple gloom of Wane. Located in the far western stretch of Aethelgard, Wane was a strange and unsettling province. Due to its extreme position, it experienced only a prolonged, shadowy twilight, never once enjoying the true, bright clarity of full daylight. It was a land of constant dusk, known for its nocturnal inhabitants and its deep, consuming shadows.
Prince Sunday and Solomon El Vitrifex were the pair assigned to this perpetual gloom. While their fellow spies might encounter external issues—loyalist patrols, magic-detection fields, or environmental hazards—the mission in Wane had one daring and immediate issue: the volatile, barely contained hatred between the two spies themselves.
They moved along a winding, dust-choked trail carved into the twilight mountainside.
"Hey! You're walking too fast! Slow down!" Solomon complained, his voice a tight rasp of irritation.
Sunday didn't even turn his head. "This isn't even worth comparing to a snail's crawl. You're just too slow," he said flatly.
"What?" Solomon stopped dead, his irritation snapping like dry wood. "Are you saying that a snail is faster than I am?"
Sunday finally glanced back, his face perfectly impassive. "Well, I guess it's okay to interpret it that way."
"Why you—!" Solomon roared, fury overcoming caution. He lunged forward, drawing his sword in a blinding flash of steel, aiming a swift, dangerous cut at Sunday's shoulder. Sunday moved with effortless speed, dodging the attack with a single, smooth shift of weight.
"In a battle between us, I'll always emerge victorious. So just give it up and let's focus on our mission," Sunday said, his tone devoid of challenge, which only seemed to fuel Solomon's rage.
Solomon, feeling the bitter sting of Sunday's words and superior skill, lunged again, his attacks fueled by the deep, ingrained resentment against the man he considered an enemy.
Tsk, how stubborn can he be? Sunday mused internally, his focus sharp.
In a breathtaking display of reflex and martial grace, Sunday evaded Solomon's sword once more, his movements economical and precise. He countered not with a weapon, but with a swift, powerful trip and a masterful lock, pinning Solomon face-down and completely immobilized against the twilight ground.
"Alright, go ahead. Kill me!" Solomon demanded, his voice thick with shame and defiance, his cheek pressed into the cold dust.
Sunday held the lock for a beat too long, then slowly eased his weight off. "And why would I do that?"
"Because that's what you vermin do, right?" Solomon spat, turning his head just enough to glare up at him.
Sunday looked down at Solomon for a long moment, his gaze searching the bitter fury in the young man's eyes. He saw the pain there, the historical grudge that felt as real as breath.
"Honestly," Sunday finally replied, his voice unexpectedly quiet as he stood back up, "I don't know what caused the conflict between your people and my people, truly. It happened centuries before we were born." He dusted his tunic before continuing, "But I do respect some people here. Valerus, Princess Alexandra, Isolde, the entire members of the Shield, Princess Alexandra's grandfather... these are Thorenzians, and I respect them so much."
Sunday turned to face the endless gloom of the Wane horizon. "Now, I've seen what they all want. They are sick of fighting and want the war to end." He pivoted back toward the still-reclining Solomon, his expression serious. "Isn't it about time you also drop the past and move forward too?"
Sunday didn't wait for an answer. He turned his back on his partner and continued walking along the path, his silhouette quickly swallowed by the surrounding shadows.
Solomon slowly picked himself up, brushing the dirt from his cloak. What's up with him? Why is he acting like Mr. Knowitall?
Despite the lingering fury, a grudging curiosity had been sparked by Sunday's genuine-sounding words. Solomon sighed, sheathing his sword. He then hurried after his unwanted partner. "Hey, you're too fast!"
Meanwhile, miles away from the chilly capital, another spy, Princess Alexandra, found herself in the desolate province known simply as Blight. Life here was not merely difficult; it bordered on the impossible. The landscape was a vast, sprawling wasteland of cracked earth and withered stalks, a place where agriculture had been strangled.
As Alexandra wandered the barren ground, her cloak blending in with the neutral tones of the dead land, she was immediately struck by the gauntness of the population. People moved slowly, their faces drawn and their frames painfully thin. She could hardly spot anyone who was not clearly starving.
She paused near a stone ruin and encountered a young lady, her clothes threadbare but clean, who was meticulously scraping something from the dry ground.
"Hello, I'm Alexandra, and I'm a traveler who just got into this country," Princess Alexandra said, offering a small, kind smile.
"I'm Maxi," the young lady replied, her voice soft and weary.
"Alright, Maxi, what's going on here?" Alexandra asked, sweeping her hand toward the devastation. "Why is this place like this?"
Maxi stood up, looking around the desolate horizon with a sigh. "Well, this is Blight. It was once known for its incredible fertility. But all that changed because the people of Blight stood against the idea that Thorenzians should be destroyed."
Princess Alexandra's breath caught in her throat. She struggled to keep her composure, maintaining the persona of a curious outsider. "Why did you oppose the idea? Aren't you all Aethelgardians?"
"Yes, we are," Maxi replied, her tone carrying a deep, heartfelt conviction. "You wouldn't understand because you are an outsider. But Thorenzians are our brothers and sisters, aren't they? Why can't we make peace? Why can't we coexist?"
Kinship, Alexandra realized, The blood tie to Aethel still runs deep here. "I see. Then what has that got to do with Blight being in this state?"
Maxi leaned in conspiratorially. "Well, this might sound absurd, but Blight's current state is a man-made disaster."
"How?" Alexandra pressed, trying to hide the urgency in her voice.
"Aethelgard is a nation that has practiced magic for so many centuries, stemming from our great ancestor Aethel who inherited his power from his grandmother. The Delacronix clan rules us, and they are the most powerful in Aethelgard—no one challenges them. But the day we, the people of Blight, decided to question their decision of going up against the Thorenzians, the Delacronix clan punished us."
Maxi's eyes dropped to the ground. "They cast a spell on this entire province. That spell made the land instantly and permanently infertile." She continued, the tragedy evident in every word. "To ensure we survive, the men of Blight decided to go plead with Arthur, but Arthur refused to lift the spell. Now, those men work as slaves in other provinces, trading their dignity for scraps of food." She paused, lowering her voice further. "Right now, the official word from Queen Lysandra is that the Thorenzians and the Vylonians are all dead."
Princess Alexandra walked slowly toward Maxi, the shock giving way to resolve. She reached up and pulled back her hood, revealing her face—her recognizable, royal features—to the loyalist woman.
"Hey, Maxi," she said, her voice now ringing with quiet authority.
"What?" Maxi asked, gazing up into the face of the young woman she had just confessed everything to.
"I'm grateful that you guys tried to speak for us. Thank you very much." Alexandra's eyes conveyed a promise of vengeance and hope. "Right now, leave the rest to us!"
With that powerful, cryptic assurance, the Princess turned and walked away, melting back into the shadows of the blighted landscape.
Maxi watched her retreat, her mind reeling. Huh? The word "us" echoed in her empty stomach. Is she from Thorenzia? She thought
Back in Cinder, the ceaseless, icy ash continued its silent descent. It was deep into the night, hours after the gates were sealed and the city had settled into its frigid slumber. Valerus stood hidden in a darkened alcove just outside the castle walls, his mind a whirlwind of historical urgency and personal curiosity. The Golden Sword. He knew, instinctively, that this artifact was tied not just to Thorenzian history, but to his own destiny.
Without hesitation, he slipped from the shadows and moved toward the colossal stone edifice. The guards outside were heavily armored and vigilant, but Valerus was a spy of the Shield, trained in the arts of silence and shadow. He moved with a dancer's grace, carefully gliding past the sentries, assessing their patrol routes.
He knew he couldn't rely on stealth alone once inside the maze of the castle. An idea sparked—a dangerous shortcut. He quickly positioned himself along a dimly lit passage, waited for a lone patrol, and then, with a sharp, precise strike, knocked the man unconscious. Valerus swiftly stripped the guard of his thick, fur-lined uniform and helmet, donning the gear himself.
The disguise was effective. Moving with the stiff, bored posture of a seasoned watchman, he was able to pass unchallenged. He used his position to casually inquire about the location of the tournament grounds. He was directed to a vast, sealed courtyard at the very heart of the citadel.
He easily found his way, walking into the enormous, circular training field. His eyes immediately fell upon the legendary object, bathed in the faint, ethereal glow of the ash-dusted night sky: the Golden Sword. It pierced a massive, rough-hewn boulder that stood proud and alone in the center of the field.
Valerus walked toward the sword, his boots crunching lightly on the thin layer of ash. The magnificent blade, radiating a suppressed, blinding light, seemed to pull him forward.
Just as his fingertips were about to brush the golden hilt, a voice resonated, not from the air, but from deep inside his consciousness.
"Valerus," the voice called, intimate and ancient.
"Huh? What was that voice just now?" Valerus mused, pulling his hand back, his heart racing. He dismissed it as a trick of the mind—a consequence of stress or the magic radiating from the blade.
He leaned forward again, renewing his attempt to touch the sword.
At that moment, a second voice pierced through the stillness of the courtyard, cold and unmistakably real.
"Valerus El Joranda," the voice called, the full name echoing off the stone walls.
This voice was different. Unlike the ephemeral whisper in his mind, this one was familiar—a deep, silken tone Valerus remembered very well. His blood ran cold.
He slowly turned, ripping the heavy helmet from his head. "Lysandra Delacronix," he called, naming the Queen of Aethelgard.
Queen Lysandra Delacronix emerged from the shadow of the portico, walking toward him with slow, predatory majesty. She was draped in midnight velvet, her pale beauty only enhancing the menace in her eyes.
"I thought I made sure you were dead, Valerus," she said, her voice dripping with cruel satisfaction. "But here you are. You really are stubborn. I guess this means that the Thorenzians are alive and are coming for our neck, huh?"
She stopped just a few feet away, leaning in close. Her breath was cool against his ear, and a faint, sickly purplish mist emanated from her mouth. Simultaneously, her eyes shifted, transforming into twin, multifaceted purplish diamonds that shone with dark, concentrated magic.
The mist entered Valerus's ear. An instantaneous, paralyzing vertigo seized him. He gasped, his vision swimming, and he began to stagger around the courtyard. He fell heavily onto one knee, forcing his head up, his eyes locking onto the hypnotic, diamond gaze of the Queen. Her victory was absolute. Valerus's consciousness receded, the cold of the ash-covered stone rushing up to meet him as his eyes slowly closed and he stumbled to the ground.
"Guards!" Queen Lysandra called, her voice sharp and ringing with triumph.
Two armed guards—real ones this time—rushed from the side entrance and immediately knelt before her.
"Take him away," she ordered, gesturing with a disdainful flick of her wrist toward the unconscious, disguised figure of the spy master.
"Right!" the guards obliged, hauling the heavy, limp form of Valerus El Joranda away.
Queen Lysandra Delacronix watched them go, her diamond eyes glittering in the gloom. As the guards disappeared, she tilted her head back, and a menacing, unrestrained laughter erupted from her throat, echoing through the empty courtyard and piercing the darkest night.