It was raining.
But the ash in the air told a different story.
The thunder cracked across the sky like the roar of some dying god, echoing across the charred valley where hundreds had already fallen. Burnt soil, scorched metal, and fading cries of soldiers blanketed the battlefield.
And yet—on the highest ridge of the valley—one man still stood.
Bloodied. Broken. But standing.
He couldn't have been older than twenty-five.
His armor was dented beyond recognition, barely clinging to his battered body. One eye swollen shut, a gash running down the side of his temple. His sword—snapped in two—hung limply in his right hand, yet he held onto its hilt with everything he had left.
Elven Valen.
Alone.
His brothers in arms… gone.
His lungs heaved with every breath, but something deeper kept him upright. Something unbroken.
Then—a shimmer.
A ripple of blue light twisted the air in front of him, growing until it formed a full portal. Static flickered around its edges. And from it, a figure emerged.
Draped in obsidian black armor that bore deep slashes and cracked plates, battle-worn yet unyielding. A thick faceplate masked his lower face, revealing only glowing crimson eyes that cut through the storm like blades. Long silver hair flowed behind him, unbothered by the wind. A massive blade rested on his back, and a crystalline pendant hung from his neck—glinting faintly.
The figure stepped forward, slowly. Deliberately.
Elven tightened his grip on the broken sword hilt, raised it forward. The blade trembled. So did his hand. But his feet? Firm.
He wasn't going to kneel. Not now.
The figure stopped a few paces away. His voice didn't come from his mouth—but echoed all around, calm and chilling.
"Why are you still standing?"
Elven's throat was dry, but he spoke anyway.
"Because… if I fall now… I won't be able to protect those I love."
The being tilted his head, almost curious.
"Haven't you lost everything? Your brothers lie dead. Your side is breaking. Your sword is shattered. There's nothing left protect."
Elven's eye narrowed. His voice cracked—but didn't falter.
"If I die here… then there will be no one left to remember them."
Silence.
Then the figure reached for the blade on his back. With a whisper of motion, it lifted—not by his hand, but through the air, floating sideways. It hovered in front of Elven, humming faintly with power.
A test. An offering. A promise.
"I give you a chance," the being said. "To protect what you love. Everything that still matters. Everything I couldn't. But it will cost you everything. Will you still take it?"
Elven looked at the floating sword. Then at the sky.
Then at the memories behind his shut eyelid.
"Yes," he whispered. "I will do whatever it takes."
The being's voice lowered.
"Let the blade taste your blood"
Elven didn't hesitate. He grithed his teeth and then He raised his hand—trembling—and drew it across the blade's edge. Blood dripped down his fingers. Then, he let it coat the weapon.
The sword responded instantly. A pulse of blue light surged across it. It shimmered—then shrank. Reformed. Became a longsword, sleek and balanced, perfectly forged for Elven's hand.
He grasped it.
It fit like it was always his. Like a extension of his soul
The being unhooked the glowing pendant from his neck and floated it toward Elven.
"Keep it," he said.
Then turned.
As he stepped back toward the portal, he left him with only a whisper:
"When the stars lose their hope… this will remind them of what they still hold."
And with that—he vanished.
The portal snapped shut.
Elven gripped the sword tighter....
One question...no answers
Who was he , why did he chose him ?