Borders of Narn and Archen Land – Year 6999 NY
The dust had not yet settled before the very air changed.
What moments earlier had been a battlefield wreathed in fire and ruin now stilled beneath an unseen gravity—a presence too vast, too ancient to be named with mere words. Even the wind seemed to kneel before him.
Razik, still looming in the center of the smoldering wreckage he had wrought, drew in a sharp breath as the haze began to thin. His glowing Albido energy, pulsing with cruel intent, sputtered for a moment as his eyes locked onto the figure that had interrupted him.
There he stood—King Darius.
The monarch of Archen Land needed no introduction, not when his presence alone declared him louder than any fanfare ever could. He was a Tracient of towering stature and silent strength, crowned by a quiet majesty that neither roared nor faltered. The morning light caught on his fur, a rich brown kissed with regal streaks of milky gold, glinting like sunlight on ripened grain. His cloak—a flowing mantle of lemon green—trailed softly behind him, stirring in the cinder-stained wind. Two horns, sharp and smooth as polished stone, framed his head like a crest of sovereignty. A golden ring glinted at his nose, not as ornament, but as emblem—an ancient badge passed through generations of royal bloodline.
But what froze Razik's breath was not the king's appearance. It was the weight.
The mana that radiated from Darius was not fierce or angry—it was composed, deliberate, and yet so immense that it pressed down on the battlefield like the hush before a storm. It was the power of one who did not need to assert his authority, because the world already knew it.
Razik staggered, his claws curling reflexively in the dirt. His lips peeled back in a snarl, but it trembled at the edges. He could not hide the small, involuntary flicker in his pupils—fear. Real, undeniable fear.
He tried to laugh, but the sound came out too sharp, too frayed. "You… You won't interfere, Darius! This is my fight!" His voice cracked at the edges, like iron scraped too thin.
It was a last grasp at dominance. A fragile veneer to mask the tide of dread swelling in his gut. Why is he here? Why now? Razik's thoughts raced, searching for composure that would not come. He had not prepared for this—not truly. Not for the Bull King himself.
Darius did not blink. He did not flinch.
He simply stood.
The silence that followed was heavier than Razik's words. Then, in a voice calm and resonant as a deep mountain spring, Darius spoke:
"It's not like you have a choice."
His words were not said in malice, nor in pride. They were stated like a truth as old as stone—simple, immovable, beyond challenge.
"The trio is now under my protection. And that means whoever dares to harm them must first face me."
He turned his head slightly, scanning the remains of the town. The buildings once humble and warm, now collapsed into smoldering heaps. The bodies—his subjects—lay scattered where they had fallen, faces turned to sky as if seeking help that had arrived too late.
A quiet sorrow moved behind Darius's eyes. He had seen too much death to rage. It was not fury that now kindled in him, but grief tempered into resolution.
"I cannot forgive anyone who harms my subjects."
The words struck Razik like a slap across the face—precise and personal. Because even he, for all his cruelty, recognized what was now before him: not a soldier, not a mage, not even a king. But a protector. A wall between light and darkness, ancient and immovable. And the more he looked, the more Razik realized—he had made a terrible miscalculation.
But pride would not let him retreat. Not yet.
The moment Darius spoke, the atmosphere shifted again—like a great tide being pulled forward by the unseen will of the moon. The green aura around him surged with life, gathering strength as if the very world had answered his call. His mana was no longer merely felt; it became visible—an ever-churning tempest of luminous energy, clinging to him like a royal mantle spun from starlight and storm.
It arced and whispered across his broad frame, crackling with barely restrained force, like thunder waiting for a reason to descend. Kon and Trevor could hardly breathe beneath its weight. Their already weary bodies felt the tremors of it through the ground. It was not a mana that sought to dominate or destroy; it was a shield, a judgment, a promise.
Trevor, still hunched over from his earlier exertion, could only gasp in awe, his voice strained through clenched teeth. "That… that's unreal."
Even Kon, ever composed even in the heat of battle, muttered quietly under his breath, "His power… it's on a completely different level."
They had fought monsters. They had survived battles. But this—this was something altogether different. This was the presence of a king who carried the very will of a people in his hands and the strength to protect them.
Then, Darius moved.
He extended one powerful arm forward, palm open toward the void of the sky above. His voice, calm yet resonant, rang through the broken town. "Come, Baltaçek."
The wind howled in response. From the space between moments, something ancient stirred.
With a burst of emerald brilliance, a weapon coalesced from the very air—mighty and divine. It landed in his hands with the weight of judgment. The weapon bore the shape of twin destruction: an axe on one side and a hammer on the other. Baltaçek was no mere tool of battle; it was the embodiment of righteous fury and sovereign power. The earth beneath Darius's hooves cracked under its arrival, bowing to its presence.
Razik recoiled despite himself.
The hyena Tracient bared his fangs, as though baring his teeth could hide the tremor that passed through him. His claws twitched. His breath shortened. A voice, sharp and wounded, rose from his throat, "I won't allow you to interfere!"
It was the cry of a wounded animal more than a warlord.
And then, fury.
With a furious roar, Razik thrust his arms forward, summoning a barrage of plasma beads, each crackling with unstable energy. They burst forth like shooting stars turned to madness—speeding toward Darius with malicious precision.
But Darius did not hesitate.
In a blur of motion that defied logic, the king moved—not away, not to the side, but forward, straight into the storm.
His cloak billowed behind him like a sail caught in divine wind. With every step, the ground shattered beneath his hooves, sending tremors across the ruined earth. The plasma beads, fierce enough to incinerate lesser warriors, collided with the green storm of his mana —and shattered like waves against a cliff. They exploded one after another, roaring with heat and light, but the king remained untouched. Untouched. Unmoved. Unshaken.
Trevor's mouth fell open. "He's fast!" he breathed.
"Too fast…" Kon whispered, watching as Darius closed the gap with impossible speed. There was a deep admiration in his tone, tinged with disbelief.
Even the air seemed to reel from Darius's charge, as if it could barely contain the momentum behind each stride. His focus remained unwavering. His gaze was fixed on the swirling mass of destruction that hovered behind Razik—the massive orb of raw Albido energy, unstable and shrieking with the threat of annihilation.
Darius reached it.
And in one smooth, powerful motion, he flipped Baltaçek in his grip. The axe blade glinted green as it cut through the smoke and haze.
Then—
He swung.
The axe met the energy sphere—and did not clash. It parted.
The orb, vast and menacing, was split cleanly in half, as if it were made of paper instead of concentrated destruction.
A pause followed, no longer than the beat of a heart.
Then the world exploded.
A shockwave burst forth, consuming sky and ground alike. Flame spiraled outward like a crown of fire. A vortex of green and orange engulfed the battlefield in a whirlwind of blinding energy. The force of it threw bodies through the air, leveled what little remained of the buildings, and flattened trees on the edge of the forest.
For a moment, the town was lost.
Kon, with fading strength, threw up his arms.
"INTERIUM!!!"
A dome of shimmering yellow light snapped into place around him, Trevor, Kopa and Adam. The barrier groaned under the weight of the explosion, ripples flashing across its surface, but it held.
Inside the barrier, they crouched low, shielding themselves from the deafening roar and the choking heat. Trevor's hands were white around his staff. Kopa and Adam—unconscious, were shielded behind Kon's form.
When at last the firestorm passed, and the roar faded into the weary crackling of fire, the world returned—scarred and silent.
Smoke rose in trails from what had once been rooftops. Rubble lay in every direction, ash dancing in the wind. But amid the devastation, a strange and quiet glow shimmered.
Kon blinked. He sat up slowly, chest heaving with exhausted breaths. "We're… alive," he whispered.
Trevor lowered his staff and stared, wide-eyed. Across the field, scattered among the fallen, were many of Kopa's soldiers. Yet their bodies were wrapped in a gentle green light—soft, pulsing, and healing. The king's mana had reached them. Had shielded them. Even amid the fury, Darius had not forgotten mercy.
At the heart of the destruction stood the bull king himself—unmoving, unscathed.
Baltaçek rested calmly at his side. His cloak had not even frayed.
But he was not alone.
Across from him, still standing, was Razik.
The hyena Tracient panted heavily, his once-glossy fur now singed and scorched. He swayed, his shoulders drooping with fatigue, yet defiance still burned in his eyes. His claws were cracked. His armor hung loose, darkened with soot. And yet, his pride would not let him kneel.
He spat on the earth and growled. "Damn you, Darius…" he hissed, his voice thin with exhaustion and wrath.
The king said nothing. He did not need to.
Razik's eyes narrowed, twitching between fury and something else—fear.
The realization had finally struck him fully. He had lost. Not just the battle, but the illusion. The illusion that he could match this. That he was ready to face a true Grand Lord of legend.
His breath hitched.
And then, in one swift motion, Razik vanished—his form twisting into shadow, dissolving into the air like a vengeful curse fleeing the light.
What remained of his army followed him. The lesser hyena Tracients scattered in a panic, abandoning their wounded and dead. They fled into the forest, into the wilderness beyond Archen Land, never once daring to look back.
Silence fell.
And in that silence, a strange peace.
The flames smoldered. The ash settled. But above the wasteland, the wind shifted—and it no longer carried despair..
_________________________________________
The fires had dimmed. The cries of war had long since faded into the stillness of aftermath, and in that silence, there emerged something far more profound than the clash of blades or the roar of magic.
There was peace—true peace, if only for a moment.
King Darius stood at the heart of it all, his broad shoulders relaxed now, his weapon vanished back into whatever realm it had come from. The storm of mana that had once howled around him had receded into a gentle glow, like the warmth of a hearth on a cold winter's night. And his cloak, bright lemon-green, swayed softly behind him as he turned from the smoldering ruins of battle and approached the survivors.
His hoofsteps pressed into the scorched earth, but where they landed, small tufts of green began to grow. Life, it seemed, followed wherever the king walked.
Kon and Trevor watched him draw near, their bodies still heavy from the battle, though the danger had passed. The faint scent of charred wood lingered in the air, and the sky was a weary grey, as if it too had seen enough.
Darius reached them at last and regarded them with an expression so unlike the one he had worn during the clash. Gone was the hard edge of a warrior-king. In its place was something fatherly—gentle, understanding, and full of calm.
"My apologies for the inconvenience," he said with quiet sincerity, his voice no longer the rolling thunder of a battlefield general but a soft breeze that stirred the heart.
He extended his hands, one to each of them, and placed them gently on their shoulders. In that moment, warmth spread through Kon's and Trevor's bodies like light entering a darkened room. The ache in their limbs, the fog in their minds, the bruises on their skin—all vanished. Not just mended, but wholly restored, as though the battle had happened in another life.
Trevor blinked. His tail twitched, testing itself. "That's… that's incredible."
Kon, though less vocal, found himself taking a long breath, savoring the clarity that now settled over him. The burden of strain had been lifted. But even more than the healing, there was something in Darius's touch that lingered—a presence, reassuring and whole. It reminded Kon, oddly enough, of how he had felt as a child when his father would place a hand on his shoulder and simply say, "I'm here."
Then Darius turned, striding toward the two fallen figures nearby—Adam and Kopa—who still lay unconscious amidst the rubble.
He knelt first beside Adam, the young wolf Tracient whose path had been paved with loss and prophecy. With a whisper of breath and a palm to his chest, Darius sent a pulse of green mana through him.
Adam stirred.
His eyelids fluttered as if waking from a dream, and he drew in a long breath. The scent of ash and healing grass mingled in his nostrils, and for a fleeting second, he didn't know where he was. Then he saw the face above him.
It was kind.
"Am I… dead?" Adam asked hoarsely.
Darius chuckled—a rich, deep sound that rumbled like distant thunder on a calm day. "No, Adam Kurt," he said. "Far from it."
He rose and moved to Kopa next, repeating the motion with practiced ease. The deer Tracient groaned softly and rubbed his forehead, disoriented.
Kon, now standing beside Trevor, watched it all unfold with a narrowed gaze—not suspicion, but revelation.
"So that's it…" he murmured aloud.
Trevor looked over at him. "What?"
Kon didn't take his eyes off Darius. "That's how he stood in Razik's plasma without flinching. That's how he moved through that storm of energy and came out without a single burn."
Darius heard the words and turned toward them again, a slight smile lifting one corner of his mouth.
Kon stepped forward slightly, his tone more curious now than confrontational. "You have a healing-type Arcem, don't you? That's how you protect the people around you. That's why none of the soldiers died."
Darius gave a slow, gracious nod. "I do."
He glanced over the battlefield once more, his eyes lingering on the unconscious warriors now bathed in gentle green light. One by one, they stirred, slowly rising to their feet, the worst of their wounds already knitting shut.
"But," Darius added, his voice deepening with quiet gravity, "my Arcem is not the only reason I survived Razik's fury."
There was a pause—a deliberate silence that hovered like a held breath.
"I am," he continued, "one of the Narn Lords."
It was not a boast. It was a statement of fact—uttered with the same calm a teacher might use to reveal a long-forgotten truth. But the weight of those words struck harder than any sword.
Kon's brows lifted in astonishment, and Trevor's mouth opened slightly in a silent gasp.
The revelation hung in the air like a bell's final toll.
A Narn Lord.
One of the ancient few, chosen and marked by Asalan's design, foretold by prophecy and bound to the defense of the land.
Before they could speak again, Kopa let out a soft groan and sat up fully. He blinked at the sky above, then at the crumbling remains of the village, and finally at the serene king standing beside him.
Darius extended a hand to him, brow raised. "It's unlike you to be caught off guard like this."
Kopa winced as he took the offered hand, pulling himself upright. "I…" He rubbed the back of his neck, his voice sheepish. "I wasn't expecting that level of power from Razik. I let my guard down."
His ears drooped slightly, a rare show of embarrassment from the usually sharp emissary.
But Darius only smiled, the warmth in his eyes dispelling the weight of failure. "You did well, all things considered. No one could have anticipated that Razik would unleash so much rage here."
With a subtle gesture, Darius raised one hand high above his head.
A soft glow blossomed from his palm and exploded outward in a wide arc—a wave of mana, warm and shimmering, like sunlight captured in liquid form. It spread across the ruined town like a sigh, weaving through broken stone and charred wood, brushing across every fallen soldier and wounded defender.
Trevor's breath caught in his throat as he watched the light wash over the battlefield.
Kon simply stood in reverent silence.
Wherever the light passed, wounds closed. Blood clotted. Eyes opened. The moans of pain turned into sighs of relief. And throughout it all, the green glow of the king's healing remained steady—constant, tireless, generous.
Trevor, barely above a whisper, murmured, "That's incredible…"
Even Adam, who had now found his footing and stood beside the others, could not hide the awe in his face. The young wolf looked at Darius—not as a warrior or a peer, but with the quiet reverence of one who sees, for the first time, the magnitude of someone called to lead not by conquest, but by care.
Darius turned to him.
"It is an honor to meet you, Adam Kurt,"
__________________________________
"It's an honor to meet you, Adam Kurt," Darius said, inclining his head with the gravity of someone who seldom bowed but did so now with sincerity, not ceremony. His voice was steady and smooth, imbued with the kind of respect that couldn't be faked. It wasn't loud or boastful. It simply was—like a quiet mountain, calm even after a storm.
The air still carried the scent of scorched earth and smoke, yet in that moment, standing before the mighty bull Tracient who had singlehandedly turned the tide of battle, Adam felt strangely grounded. There was no thunder now, no clash of energy—only the quiet rhythm of his own heart, beating fast in his chest.
He met Darius's gaze, those luminous lemon-green eyes as steady as the sky before dawn. It felt like standing in front of something ancient and just—something that knew your story before you even told it.
The young wolf straightened instinctively, pulling his shoulders back, the weariness from earlier melting into something more composed. "The honor is mine, Your Majesty," he said, not out of habit or tradition, but because the words felt right—like they belonged.
Darius's mouth curved into a faint smile. He shook his great head, the gold ring on his nose glinting slightly in the sunlight. "Please," he said gently, "no need for formalities. I'm simply a guardian, like all of you."
There was something disarming in the way he said it—not humble to a fault, but truthful. He wasn't trying to impress or diminish himself; he simply saw them as equals in purpose, if not yet in strength.
Trevor, who had spent the last few moments stretching his arms and shaking the stiffness from his limbs, bounded forward now, his usual playfulness returning like the sun after heavy clouds.
"Well," he said, spinning his staff lightly and planting it into the dirt with a grin, "if that was you just being a guardian, I'd hate to see what you're like when you're actually trying." His golden-orange eyes scanned the battlefield—what remained of it. "That was one hell of a show back there."
He let out a low whistle, clearly impressed, though his voice carried the familiar glint of jest. The ground beneath their feet still bore the scars of the confrontation—cracks from Darius's strike, scorched patches from Razik's fury—but it somehow felt… safer now. Watched over.
Darius accepted the compliment with a quiet nod, though his smile remained modest. "I do what is necessary to protect my people," he replied. "And those who fight for Narn's future."
The air seemed to still as his gaze drifted across the ruins of the once-thriving town. There were no sounds now but the faint stirring of the breeze and the soft groans of recovering soldiers rising to their feet. And yet, in the solemn silence, his words seemed to reverberate through more than just the ears—they echoed somewhere deeper.
Trevor's smile faded slightly as he followed the king's gaze. The destruction was stark. Houses that might have once held laughter were now husks of blackened stone and smoldering wood. Paths that children might have run along now bore the weight of warriors' blood.
Beside him, Kon remained quiet, the fire in his eyes subdued. He didn't need to speak to understand what Darius was seeing. What he was feeling.
Adam's ears twitched as he listened. He had seen suffering before—too much, too young. But there was something different in Darius's tone. It wasn't just grief. It was ownership. The pain of someone who carried the burden of every life that bled under his watch.
"Razik's cruelty knows no bounds," Darius continued, and now there was iron beneath his words, soft though they still were. "I will not tolerate anyone harming my subjects."
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
It was clear now, more than ever, that Darius did not rule through fear or force. He ruled with resolve. With an unshakable conviction that the lives of those under his care were not just his responsibility—they were his purpose.
Adam's tail flicked softly behind him, and he felt the weight of the moment settle in his chest. This was not a chance meeting. Not a convenient ally. This was the fourth Grand Lord. And unlike the others, Darius had already lived what the rest of them were still preparing for.
He had already paid the price for standing firm.
And somehow, he was still standing.
Kon stepped forward, his feet crunching lightly against the scorched and broken earth. His eyes, golden and steady, remained fixed on the tall figure before them. He was still turning over Darius's earlier words, as though they were pieces of an ancient puzzle suddenly shaken loose from the dust of centuries.
"You said you're one of the Narn Lords," Kon began slowly, his voice firm but thoughtful. "But how? We thought the only remaining Grand Lords were those tied to the Aryas."
There was no accusation in his tone—only an earnest search for clarity, as though his soul longed to understand the full tapestry of what they had stepped into. The journey had brought them through so much already—myths becoming truths, prophecies unfolding before their very eyes—and yet, this moment felt heavier than the rest. More rooted. More real.
Darius's gaze settled on him, not stern but searching, as though he had anticipated the question long before it was asked. He stood motionless for a heartbeat, the wind catching the hem of his royal cloak and sending it fluttering gently behind him. The milky-gold sheen of his fur caught the low light like sun-warmed marble, and for a breath, he looked more statue than creature—carved by the will of the land itself.
"There is much," he began at last, his voice calm as distant thunder, "that has been lost to time. Much about Narn's history that even the most faithful scribes have forgotten… or simply chosen not to remember."
He folded his broad arms across his chest, a posture of both thoughtfulness and command, and let his gaze fall upon each of them—Kon, Trevor, Adam. His eyes were not the eyes of one who sought glory. They were the eyes of a king who had stood long watch over the edge of a crumbling world.
"I inherited more than the Arya of Evolution," Darius continued. "I inherited a calling. Like each of you, I am not merely a wielder of an Arcem. I am bound to Narn's fate. Bound to her as roots are to earth. As breath is to life."
There was a pause—brief, weighty—like the silence before a bell is struck. Then, Adam, who had been quiet for some time, his thoughts deep and swirling like leaves caught in a stream, lifted his voice.
"Then you're..." he hesitated, but the truth shaped itself anyway, as though it had always been there, waiting in the quiet between heartbeats. "You're the Grand Lord of the Bull Tracients?"
Darius turned to him, and this time his expression carried a softness not often seen on kings. Not pity, not pride—but kinship. An acknowledgment that, though they had traveled different paths, they had both arrived at the same place.
"Yes," he said. "I am."
He said it without fanfare, without pride. It was not a title he wore like armor—it was a truth he carried like a crown of thorns and gold alike.
"My ancestors have watched over Archen Land for centuries. And though the world may forget, our line has never abandoned its charge. The Arya of Evolution has been passed through the hands of my forebears since the First Era. It was given, as all Aryas were, to the first Grand Lords to preserve the balance of the world."
He looked past them for a moment, out toward the ruined skyline where the last of the fire still glowed faint and red against the blackened sky. "That balance," he murmured, "has been teetering for a long, long time."
Adam lowered his gaze at those words, feeling the ache of them ripple through his chest. He thought of his uncle. Of his parents. Of the prophecy. The words from Asalan's mouth rang anew in his memory—not like distant echoes now, but like fresh footprints. "Speak to your guardian… ask him about the Great War."
He remembered. He remembered it all now. And the weight of destiny had never felt so near, nor so pressing.
Trevor, meanwhile, looked from Darius to Adam to Kon and back again. His tail swayed behind him, a small flick of motion betraying the energy already returning to his frame.
"Well," he said, grinning, "looks like we're in good company then, eh?"
His voice broke the tension gently, and for a moment, the corners of Darius's mouth curled upward again—not with amusement, but appreciation.
"Indeed," the king replied, his tone warm now, like sunlight after long frost. "You are each Grand Lords in your own right. And though your trials have only begun, you've already taken the first—and most important—steps."
Trevor gave a half-bow, theatrical as ever. "We do try."
Kon, ever more grounded, only nodded, but there was a glint in his eyes now—something kindled. A quiet fire. It was strange, he thought, how in the span of days, his world had turned inside out, and yet here he stood… not broken, but sharpened.
And Darius—this ancient guardian of the South, who wielded evolution itself—was now part of their circle.
Adam looked from Kon to Trevor, and then back to Darius. The alliance was real now. Not just prophecy or promise—but presence. A complete circle of three Grand Lords, and one more standing before them. A final piece sliding into place.
And in the silence that followed, a silence not of fear but of quiet certainty, a single thought unfurled in Adam's heart like a banner:
The time has come.