was a moonless night, shrouded in the kind of silence that only follows death. The great stone castle that once stood as the symbol of power and pride was now soaked in blood. The halls, once echoing with the laughter of nobles and the marching of armored guards, had fallen eerily quiet.
Bodies lay in pieces across the marbled floors. Soldiers who once guarded the royal halls were now corpses, their limbs scattered far from their torsos. The air reeked of death and burnt flesh.
In the center of the carnage stood a man no older than twenty. Blood coated his clothes and dripped from his sword. His long black hair stuck to his sweat-drenched face, and his green eyes glowed eerily in the darkness. He said nothing. He simply stood there, breathing heavily, as flames consumed what remained of the throne room.
The only soul left alive in the castle was the king's daughter. She had hidden until the screams had stopped. Now she stood trembling before him, tears in her eyes.
"Why?" she cried. "Why did you do this? For that one girl? For her, you murdered my father, my brothers, our people? I loved you, Sirab. I loved you!"
He looked at her without emotion, his green eyes as cold as ice. He said nothing. And then, in one clean motion, he raised his sword and ended her life. Her head fell into the flames, and her body crumpled to the floor.
Outside, Sirab sat atop his horse, staring into the horizon as the castle burned behind him. The orange glow lit the clouds as he whispered to himself:
"My name is Sirab. Son of Hercules, the Bear Hunter. I was born in a place small village. Maybe you think I'm a monster. Maybe I am. But I had a life. A simple life once, filled with laughter, with family. Until everything was taken from me."
He paused, breathing in the cold air.
"I've died more than once, yet I live. My body heals itself, even after death. I don't know why. But there is one voice that keeps coming back to me, whispering from the darkness: 'To find peace, you must kill the 12 Gods.'"
In the beginning, no one knew when time truly started. But long ago, powerful monsters roamed the land. They ruled the earth, shaping it with their strength and cruelty. Over time, they began calling themselves "gods," forcing humanity to kneel, to worship.
For a thousand years, humans lived as slaves.
Until one day, a boy named Toms was born. No one knew how, but Toms became the first human to wield magic. He killed the first of the monster-gods and freed his tribe. From that day forward, humans learned the ways of magic. They formed tribes, then kingdoms. They fought, made alliances, and began to grow powerful.
But not all magic was good.
Some forms were born from blood and death. One man, once named Hlko, turned to this darkness. He became known as Dercula—the Blood King. Using blood magic, he ruled with fear. Though he eventually grew old and died, his descendants were even worse, spreading evil across the world.
Now, there were six major kingdoms. The strongest was the Black Dragon Kingdom. The others lived in fear, paying tribute to avoid destruction.
Far to the east, beyond the shadow of kingdoms and politics, there existed a quiet village of hunters. Strong, independent, and proud, these villagers made their lives by tracking and killing the fiercest of beasts.
Among them was a man named Hercules. A legend. Known as the strongest hunter alive, Hercules stood 2.2 meters tall, his muscles like iron, his hair black as night. He had hunted legendary beasts with his bare hands—bears, wolves, and things too terrifying to name.
One spring day, the village held a festival. A mock battle was staged: five young warriors versus five others. Among the excited children, some shouted, "We don't want to fight each other! We want to fight Hercules!"
An elder laughed. "You want your bones broken? He once killed a mountain bear with a single punch."
One boy, bold and cocky, yelled, "He's old now! Let him prove he's still strong."
Hercules, watching nearby, smiled. "I accept," he said. "But I fight alone. And I won't use a weapon. Only my fists."
The fight began. The five boys rushed him, swords raised. Hercules moved like lightning. One punch shattered a boy's teeth. Another swing knocked one unconscious. The crowd roared.
"You want to hurt someone?" Hercules shouted. "Use your strength, not your sword!"
The match ended with all five boys lying on the ground.
"Hercules! Killer of beasts! Son of War!" the people chanted.
Then a girl ran to him. "Your wife has given birth!"
He smiled, tossed her a gold ring, and ran home.
The Birth of Sirabs
His home was simple but warm. Inside, his young wife—golden hair, emerald eyes—sat with a newborn in her arms.
"You missed everything!" she said, throwing an apple at him.
He caught it, laughing. "But I'm here now."
She smiled. Then the midwife entered, holding the baby.
"He's strong. Just like you."
Hercules took the child, his heart filled with pride. "His name will be Sirabs. After my grandfather."
Years passed. Sirabs grew strong. He learned healing magic from his mother and the art of war from his father. But he had a kind soul. He hated violence.
One day, when Sirabs was just eight, disaster struck.
The men had gone hunting. Only the old and young remained. A scream tore through the village.
"A wolf! A big one! It's attacking!"
Sirabs shouted, "Everyone go inside and lock your doors!"
He should have run too. But something in him refused. He remembered his father's words: "Show fear, and you invite death."
He faced the beast.
The wolf was enormous, its eyes glowing red, its mouth dripping with blood. It had already torn a horse apart. Sirabs stood frozen. His hands trembled. The wolf charged.
Sirabs ran, leading it toward an abandoned house. He slammed the door behind him but the wolf crashed through. It pounced, biting into his shoulder. Blood sprayed.
Pain. Terror. Death.
Sirabs screamed, fell to the ground.
His hand brushed against a broken spear.
With a final cry, he plunged it into the wolf's eye. The beast howled and fled.
Sirabs lay still.
Then he felt arms around him. His uncle.
"Wake up, Sirabs. You're alive."
He opened his eyes.
Outside, the villagers gathered. They cheered. But his father said nothing. He turned away.
Sirabs, a hero to all... except to the one man whose pride meant the world.
His heart broke that day.
And somewhere deep inside, the darkness stirred.