The words rolled over seas, mountains, deserts, and endless ruins. And everywhere, the powerful and the hidden felt their hearts tighten.
In the snow-white Palace of Pendragon, high atop marble steps and beneath dragon-carved arches, Emperor Caelan Pendragon stood at the balcony, gazing out across his realm.
His armor gleamed in deep cerulean blue, edged with silver and etched with runes older than the dynasty itself.
The iron crown sat heavy on his brow, dark against the pale sky. One black-steel gauntlet rested on the dragon-hilted sword at his side, the other clenched tight as the wind gathered strength around him.
Below, banners bearing the white dragon writhed in the rising wind.
In the great courtyard, legions of knights in scaled plate turned their eyes upward with their faces hard and silent. Even the capital itself seemed to hold its breath.
Far above, the sky still echoed with the divine words that had shaken the world.
The Emperor’s gaze did not waver as he stared at the sky. His voice cut through the cold air, low and unshaken:
"So it begins," he murmured, each word as heavy as iron. "Let the world come undone if it must... the dragon does not kneel."
Behind him, ministers and courtiers exchanged uneasy glances, feeling the weight of history settling on their shoulders.
Yet before them stood not just a sovereign, but a conqueror crowned in blood and flame.
Though the heavens split and the world trembled, the dragon of Pendragon stood unmoved, waiting for the storm to break against him.
In Babylon, the desert kingdom of gold and riches, the sun burned high above towers crowned with shining domes. The air shimmered over endless dunes, and silk banners hung from marble walls carved with ancient runes.
Inside the Grand Hall of Ash, where gemstones glowed on tall columns and fountains whispered into pools of blue stone, Master Scribe Karanth felt his quill slip from his fingers.
Before him, the Eternal Lexicon—a great black book resting on an ivory stand—began to turn its pages by itself. The pages stopped, and one word rose from the parchment in letters that glowed like fire:
Outside, merchants in rich robes fell silent in the markets of gold and spice. Even the priests at the obsidian altars looked up from their prayers.
Karanth’s voice broke the heavy quiet. He spoke softly yet firmly:
"The age of dust ends... and the age of blood begins."
In Kurogane, land of drifting mists and endless iron bells, the head of the Ryu Clan stood before the clan shrine.
Cherry blossoms fell around him, carried on a chill wind that smelled faintly of steel and incense.
His hand rested on the lacquered scabbard of the Dragonfang Blade.
"The Grail War..." he spoke in a low and steady voice, but cold. "Then blood must flow. Summon the Nine Blades. No heir of Kurogane will stand idle while fate chooses new masters."
Around him, masked retainers bowed silently as they sank into the shadows.
In Elarindor, where silver rivers wound through emerald forests and jade towers rose toward the broken sky, Overlord Acnicia sat upon her living crystal throne. Scales of ancient jade shimmered faintly beneath her robes, and her golden eyes burned with a timeless, draconic fire.
All around her, water flowed in quiet streams across marble floors, whispering secrets only she could hear. The vines that wrapped the great hall trembled, sensing her gathering power.
Far beyond forests and rivers, her gaze reached into memories older than time itself. Then her voice, low and resonant, rolled across the hall like distant thunder:
"Summon them," she commanded. "The Eight Monarchs of Elarindor. Tell them the age of silence is over. The Crystal Hall shall see us united once more—whether the world is ready or not."
Servants, spirits, and silent watchers raced to carry her words across valleys, mountains, and cities of stone.
And across the realm, the Eight Monarchs—masters of elves, dwarves, beastkin, and demi-humans—felt the weight of that ancient call.
For the first time in centuries, they would gather under one roof.
In the endless depths of Zar Kasha, the ancient forest where even daylight dared not tread, something far older than kings and empires stirred.
Zar Kasha’s ancient beast, cloaked in scales dark as midnight oil and crowned with horns that scraped the low-hung mist, lifted its head.
Muscles rippled beneath its hide like coiled storms, and with each breath, the ground itself seemed to tighten in fear.
Eyes the color of dying stars opened, burning through fog and canopy alike.
Its low voice rolled out like thunder crawling through the roots of the world:
"So the hunt begins once more... Let the bold come forth. I remain."
And across the silent glades and chasms of that primeval forest, beasts and spirits alike fled, for they knew that when the ancient beast of Zar Kasha moved, even the bravest hunters vanished without a whisper.
Far from any shore, in the heart of the endless ocean, a lone swordsman stood balanced on a narrow wooden boat barely wider than his own stance.
Salt wind tugged at the tattered coat draped over his shoulders, and an empty left sleeve fluttered at his side—cut clean at the shoulder, a silent testament to battles past.
Waves heaved and rolled around him, but his stance did not waver. One arm rested lightly on the hilt of the single blade at his hip. His gaze, as hard as sea glass, swept the horizon where mist curled low over black water.
From beneath the swell, the ocean stirred—and then parted. A colossal sea wyrm rose, scales dark as a storm-torn sky, seven burning rings of power circling in his eyes. Foam and spray crashed against the swordsman’s small craft, yet he did not move.
The wyrm lunged, jaws wide enough to snap a galley in two.
Steel whispered free as the swordsman’s single arm moved, swift and effortless.
There was no flourish. Just a single, perfect slash.
For a breath, nothing happened. Then the sea wyrm’s head slipped silently from its neck, crashing into the deep with a final hiss of steam and blood. The water around the boat turned red, then stilled.
Salt wind played at the swordsman’s empty sleeve as he sheathed the blade. His eyes, calm and distant, turned back to the open horizon—unchanged, unshaken.
"One arm," he muttered, the words nearly lost to wind and waves, "is enough."
And on that small boat adrift in the vast ocean, the swordsman waited—alone and unbending—ready for whatever dared to rise from the depths next.
And finally, in a hidden cave high in the shadowed mountains, twelve figures gathered.
They were known by many names—traitors, butchers, demons in mortal flesh—but the name whispered most often, in fear and hatred alike, was Midnight Suns.
Power radiated from them like heat from a forge. Ancient magic, monstrous strength, and dark gifts that had scarred nations. Each carried the weight of countless sins.
Yet one figure stood apart from them all.
A girl, barely seventeen at most. Slender, with small black hair falling messily over sharp black eyes. Her skin was pale as morning frost, her features soft—almost too soft for a place so steeped in blood.
She was different not just in looks, but in power: a mere second-ringed, painfully weak compared to the monsters around her. Yet she stood among them with arms crossed and back straight, as if she alone feared nothing.
She wore a worn-out black cloak, boots scuffed from long travel, and a simple silver chain around her wrist that glinted when the torchlight caught it. Her lips curled into a twisted, hate-filled sneer as she tilted her head back, glaring up at the moonlit crack in the cavern ceiling.
Her voice came out low, harsh, every word laced with raw venom and fury:
"Just you fucking wait, you bastard co-author. I’ll tear your fucking throat out myself. I don’t care what fucking gods or monsters you hide behind—I’ll burn them all to ash just to get to you."
She spat on the stone floor, black eyes blazing with murderous promise.
"Mark my fucking words. I’ll drag your worthless corpse through every hell I can find before I let you die."
And this marked the beginning of the journey of the author and her faithful reader.