Before the sun ever rose over the horizon, before time and space were a thing, before the world had a name, and before empires rose and fell, four were already destined to bring her to its knees. They weren't gods, but they were more than men; they were the pieces scattered across time and space, bound by a force older than the stars. Each of them reflected something the world could never escape.
The four figures draped in shadows stood at the edge of the horizon. The wind died the minute they arrived; with them came thundering silence that fell over the land as if the earth itself were holding its breath. The first was White playing God; his eyes were hallowed like the promises of salvation. The second was cloaked in crimson and wielded a blade, where its edges glinted with unquenchable rage. The third had eyes like the empty voids and listened to a distant drumbeat, where every knock was a rhythm in the world's last breath. The fourth had his face hidden beneath a mask of bones, remaining still, waiting for the others to make their moves. They were not here to conquer; they were here to end.
In the vast cosmos, two realms stand apart yet intertwined: Jahna, the realm of divine light, and Xaydia, the realm of mortal struggle. Xaydia was a world of magic where five continents divided by the sea played host to twenty-eight nations; each nation was ruled by their own nocturious groups known as the circle—keepers of ancient laws, arbiters of fate, and the unseen hands guiding Xaydia's course. The first continent and nation was Va'rua; if Atlantis ever existed, this was where it would be. It was a nation completely submerged under water as a punishment from the divine.
The second continent and the largest continent in Xaydia was Drakimiris, and it held three great nations: Zorobwe, a nation carved from time itself. It was a land where the trees whispered the names of ancestors and the rivers carried the wisdom of generations. The people of the land had skin kissed by sun and gold and hair that coiled like the roots of ancient baobabs. Strength was not just a trait, for it was their birthright woven into their bones.
The second nation of Drakimiris was Zorobwe's sister nation, Xochain. It was a nation wrapped in a dense rainforest. The villages were protected by cascading trees and web-like vines. The air in this nation was thick with the scent of rain and earth, and it was alive with the sound of calling creatures. The people of Xochian moved like whispers between the vines, their homes woven from wood, leaf, and magic.
Even though these two nations were sibling nations, they were separated by a larger land in Drakimiris. Everyone in Xaydia called them the Klad Klan; however, formally, they are known as Drakmire. A nation where the sun barely touches the ground. Its people—cloaked in steel and hardened by war—did not believe in diplomacy. Strangers who dared step onto their soil did not leave with their lives. Here, mercy was a fable, and kindness was weakness. Blood was their currency, and war was their only law.
The third continent, an archipelagis of twenty-one isle nations known as the Caribique, was a symphony of colours. It was a tropical paradise where the people spoke in rhythms and danced in storms. Their tongues wove dialects like poetry and their music was a heartbeat beneath the sky. Order was an illusion here; chaos reigned, but it was the kind of chaos that tasted like spice on your tongue and fire in your veins.
The fourth continent—Eidarian—had two nations, Eidemonia and Norvania. They stood side by side, yet they might as well have been worlds apart. In Eidemonia, time moved like ink on parchment, slow and deliberate. The streets were lined with grand marble structures, the air thick with the scent of oil paint and philosophy. Here, art and intellect ruled, and progress was measured not in machines but in masterpieces. But across the border, Norvania pulsed with electric veins. Towers of glass and steel clawed at the heavens, and the hum of machinery drowned out the whispers of history. Innovation was king, and tradition was nothing more than a relic of the past. Two lands, one continent, forever staring at each other across the line of time.
The fifth continent, the nameless continent, was the most open yet mysteriously private of them all. This continent held two of the largest island nations in Xaydia: Velomoria, a land where cultures blended like colours on an artist's palette. Here, the streets were alive with the sound of a hundred languages, and the markets overflowed with treasures from every corner of Xaydia.
And the Shenzhai Empire, the last whisper before the unknown, an island cloaked in mist and myth. The waves that touched its shores carried secrets, and the winds that howled through its cliffs spoke in forgotten tongues. It was said that the Xolin family did not just rule this land—they were bound to it, their bloodline entwined with the island's very soul. Outsiders called it the Dragon's Veil, for those who entered rarely saw beyond the mist, and those who left never spoke of what lay within.