BOOOOM!!!
A sudden explosion tore through the air, transforming it into a suffocating blend of mana, smoke, and blood. Soldiers, mages, and warriors—both living and dead—scattered, all confronting an impending disaster. It was utter chaos, characterized by an increase in death, bloodshed, and war, and he found himself at the very epicenter. Then, amidst the turmoil,and through the cacophony,a voice rang out.
"Hold the rear! We can make it!!"
Some disheartened groups of warriors managed to regain a semblance of balance and rejoin the fray, but the race traitors did not waste the disorienting moment. They relentlessly pressed forward, deepening the despair of the already crumbling formation.
He tried to assist, but his efforts fell short.
With every race traitor eliminated, he found,more of them increasingly replacing their fallen numbers, the cultists—this disgraced faction seeming almost endless.
His body bore the cuts of attacks he couldn't fully evade, fatigue creeping into his limbs. Yet, he harnessed his ability to manipulate his mana, urging himself beyond his limits—'he could not afford to fall.' Abstract thoughts raced through his mind: 'no,he could not fall just yet.'
Then, as if the cosmos sought to emphasize the futility of his struggle and determination, a massive object plummeted from the sky, crashing down with a violent thud that rattled and shook the battlefield. Allies and enemies alike in the vicinity were obliterated. When the smoke cleared, a colossal figure emerged—in a form of a man nearly seven feet tall, exuding raw muscle, his body partially shrouded in fur and knightly armor. This strange, bestial physiology could only be a result of his corrupted existence, and it gaze locked onto 'him' with a frenzied clarity, a wicked, bloodthirsty grin carving across his face.
Then, in a swift motion, the beast lunged, propelled by powerful leg muscles, and despite its bulk, it moved with astonishing speed. Caught off guard and weakened by fatigue, 'he' couldn't evade or block the onslaught. The beast's claws raked across his chest, puncturing him deeply, propelling him through the air like a rag doll,crashing into a cluster of trees, breaking several ribs in the process,his hand—instinctively raised to soften the fall—, shattered and dangling at an unnatural angle at his side, blood pouring from his opened wounds. As his consciousness faltered, he glimpsed his allies rushing to his aid, the last general abandoning her position to assist him. But in that moment of desperation, he posed the most vital question: could he defeat the beast? The painful truth echoed through him: "NO."
Yet, he wondered if that truly warranted giving up entirely. As he staggered upright, his resolve momentarily dulled the agony, allowing him to reflect.
In that fleeting moment, as if an illusion was stripped away, he questioned his own presence here:
'Why am i here?'
'He should have been at home.'
'He should have been in bed.'
' He should have been aslee—'
Then, as if the disturbance had been acknowledged, a low yet calm voice, ancient and thoughtful, resonated around him. Time itself seemed to freeze, as if the spectators of a play had paused.
"You should not be here yet; how did you arrive?" it inquired, contemplatively.
A grotesque image of a massive tree, soaked in blood and decay, filled his mind. As if he had grasped the answer, the tree's voice turned disdainful.
"Is this their plan—to alter the outcome of my arrival?".
It voice grew colder, venom sharpening it's tone.
"It does not matters .Nothing can change the inevitable."
For the first time, the voice turned his 'gaze' to 'him' directly, its tone reverting to calm but still tinged with contempt.
"It's time for you to return. Be gone,you mongrel."
Suddenly, an overwhelming pressure bore down on him, constricting his breath and causing his organs to groan painfully within.
Then his vision shattered like glass, pulling him from vision with brutal force,ripping him back from the reverie.
---+---
A 16 year old,El jolted awake, gasping for breath, sweat streaming down his body and thoroughly soaking his nightclothes and sheets. Instinctively, he checked his arm and chest, his heart racing like a drumbeat. As he took in the sight of his restored form, he managed to steady himself somewhat; his heart still thudded in his chest, but the intensity had lessened.
"That damned dream," El muttered, covering his face with his hands as he struggled to regulate his breathing.
This wasn't a new occurrence; what had initially been sporadic nightmares had morphed into a persistent pattern, haunting him at least twice a week. He still grappled with understanding these episodes, if they could even be classified as dreams. This one felt all too vivid, and the imagery of the ominous tree was unnervingly realistic—it seemed to communicate with him, almost as if it recognized that he was experiencing more than just a dream. Goosebumps prickled his skin as he recalled the intensity of the battle and the speech; it felt less like a dream and more akin to a vision. The very idea sent another chill down his spine.
Shaking off the unsettling thoughts, he turned his gaze toward the window, where warm sunlight poured into the room, scattering across the floor—a clear indication that night had retreated and day had emerged as the victor.
Knock, knock, knock.
"Young master, breakfast is ready, and the young miss is already seated, awaiting your arrival."
The three knocks and the ensuing voice from beyond the door solidified his thoughts.
He powered on his phone, which had inexplicably shut off during the night, and seized the moment to survey his room. A bookshelf stood proudly in the corner near the bed, close to the window. Once his phone fully booted, he glanced at the time: 8:23 a.m.
Pushing himself off the bed, he made his way to his personal bathroom. He needed to prepare; he couldn't keep his sister waiting, after all.
---+---
As El made his way through the familiar corridors toward the dining room, he paused for a moment to reflect on his life. Born the youngest son to the powerful lord of a great house of the continent, he had arrived as his father's final hope—a child destined to carry the family's unique bloodline ability. His father, now a commanding figure and one of the four foundational pillars of the realm, had once been a young man deeply in love with El's mother—an exquisite beauty preserved only in the portraits and photographs adorning their home. Tragically, she had passed away shortly after his birth, leaving behind a mourning husband, who had taken months to heal, yet it was evident he had never truly moved on.
El had inherited the notorious grey eyes associated with the Valerius family legacy—the king's eyes—an ability granting precise control and efficiency over any form of magical energy, provided the inheritor understood it. This was the innate function of the eyes: to grasp energy, coupled with an ever-heightened perception that became an omnipresent annoyance. The constant stream of information fed into his mind had plagued him with relentless headaches since childhood. After enduring this for over ten years, he had acclimatized to it, although the persistent ringing in his head lingered; he had learned to block it out, forging ahead despite the discomfort.
But all this did not seem to matter to his father anymore.
Upon reaching the dining room door, El stepped inside without hesitation, greeted by a table laden with an abundance of food.