In a land scarred by devastation, swords stood impaled in the earth like tombstones in a grim graveyard, buildings destroyed, hundreds of corpses scattered around with blood splattered on the ground. A stone's throw away, a large, solitary red plum blossom tree stood tall and bloomed defiantly, encircled by a vibrant halo of red spider lilies.
Beneath its sheltering boughs lay a man. His hair, white as driven snow, framed a face where piercing cold grey eyes slowly faded, their light ebbing with each passing moment. Embedded in the ground just above his head stood a sword—its obsidian hilt adorned with an intricate bird motif, its blade etched from tip to guard with vertical runes resembling an ancient, forgotten language.
The man groaned, crimson rivulets overflowing from his lips like a macabre fountain. His gaze swept across the desolate battlefield—a wasteland littered with carnage and shattered steel. A closer look revealed a gaping void where his heart should have resided. Any mortal bearing such a wound would have perished instantly; yet, impossibly, he clung to life.
It's not fair; I tried, tried, and tried really hard, over and over again, but I still failed. No matter how hard I tried, it seemed like the world was against me.
Why won't you let me be happy? Why trample me? I've never wished to fight; I just wanted a happy, everyday life—but no, the world had to drag me and the people I love into this nonsense. Are the gods perhaps mocking me? Hahaha, fuck the gods, fuck this world, and fuck everything...I feel so empty.
I thought I was strong, but it seems it wasn't strong enough, this strength I call 'strong'...pathetic...sigh...this shit is tragic. Someone has to be behind this because there's no way in hell this is normal; it's like someone told the world to make me suffer. And they called me 'The child loved by the world ', what bullshit. More like 'The child hated by fate and the world or something'.
I hate it.
I despise it.
It disgusts me.
"The answers I want, this fucking world and the gods probably have them because I haven't uncovered all the mysteries that this world has, after all, the more knowledge I learned, the more I realized I know nothing at all, and the more I realized the gods have a big part in all this," he said
He looked above his head towards his sword "I'm sorry buddy, I failed again...if...if only I was more competent and stronger I could have saved everyone, I could have saved 'her' but this is not the end, your blade shall slice through the neck of the gods or anyone who obstructs our path, we'll find the gods and who is behind all of this. They shall pay for the despair they gave me, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. It may take another million, billions of years of tries, but I shall succeed in the end, that I promise you."
The sword runes lit up faintly as if they agreed to his statement.
His fading vision drifted upward to the blossoms of the tree. Despite the surrounding ruin, the tree radiated an ethereal, untroubled beauty. Suddenly, twin trails of moisture streaked through the blood and grime on his cheeks. Through blurred eyes, a memory materialized—a girl with raven hair flowing like spilled ink, her features indistinct yet achingly familiar. She seemed to reach for him across the veil of mortality. Then, his eyes turned to the brooding heavens. A final whisper escaped his lips, "A lonely death, huh...?" As life fled his eyes, a mournful rain began to fall, weeping as if the world itself grieved his passing.
Unseen behind the tree's broad trunk, another presence lingered. A young man with dark skin and cropped black hair leaned against the bark, his back to the scene. As if answering the departed soul, he murmured, "True... but perhaps... next time will be different." Between one breath and the next, he vanished, leaving no trace he was ever there.
Let me pose a question to you:
Is fate irrevocably carved in stone from the moment we draw breath? Or can even the most immutable destiny be rewritten?
Many claim we forge our own futures. But what if change is an illusion? What if, despite countless attempts—dozens, hundreds, millions of times—you are relentlessly dragged back to the same crushing conclusion? As if the universe itself denies your struggle, mocking your defiance.
Is it not profoundly unjust? Would you surrender? Or strive onward? Succumb to despair? Or find strength in the fight? Cower before inevitability? Or rise to shatter your chains?
**************
In the vast expanse of a nameless galaxy, a planet called Earth spun silently around its sun—a world teeming with life, different races, resources, and the very essence of existence: mana.
This primordial energy was the foundation of all things. Life arose from its currents; magic flowed through its veins. Every living being drew breath from its invisible tides. Where mana flourished, so did wonders beyond mortal imagination.
The living who learned to harness this power became known as Awakened. They wielded abilities that defied natural law—shaping reality or unraveling it with a thought. Faster, stronger, and sharper than ordinary beings, they stood as living forces of nature.
Yet people's greed proved as boundless as mana itself. Some Awakened unleashed their power for destruction, claiming innocent lives. Others rose as protectors, forging alliances to restrain both reckless wielders and the Beasts—creatures of horror twisted by mana's wild currents into monstrous forms. The most terrifying among them, beings beyond mortal comprehension, could shatter a continent in a day. Therefore, people who could fend off such dangerous beings appeared in different races; the gods blessed some, some had natural talent, some had discipline and worked hard, while others gained powers by exploring the perilous Terres d'horreur. It was a land of unknown and very dangerous, filled with monsters that no one would wish to encounter, and ancient ruins that, if one were lucky enough, would yield relics granted power by the gods and the ancient civilization. With such benefits, the different races joined hands to repulse those beings.
Over centuries, these protectors evolved into noble houses: Legacy Families who safeguarded the world's future, passing down power and wisdom through bloodlines. Civilization advanced, guarded by those who walked the razor's edge between order and chaos.
------
1,000 Years Later
Light spilled into a sterile hospital room where a raven-haired woman lay drenched in sweat, her labored breaths punctuated by a radiant smile. Her emerald eyes, vivid as spring leaves, contrasted with alabaster skin. Beside her stood a towering man with snow-white hair and dark crimson eyes—his grip gentle but firm around her trembling hand.
A newborn's cry pierced the air.
"Congratulations," the doctor beamed, placing the swaddled infant in the mother's arms. "A healthy son."
The woman traced the baby's cheek with a fingertip. His cries ceased as crimson eyes—mirroring his father's—locked onto hers.
"Hello, little one."
"He has your spirit, Geneviève," the white-haired man murmured, kissing her forehead before cradling the child. "And my eyes." Pride warmed his voice. "He'll grow strong. Worthy of our name."
His eyes were filled with tears of happiness as he looked at his son.
"Aww, are you crying, my love?" Geneviève teased while smiling at him.
Vladimir coughed and cleared his throat; the tears that were in his eyes disappeared.
"No. I wasn't going to cry, dear, there was just something in my eyes," he said while his face turned red.
Geneviève laughed at his embarrassed expression. The baby, as if he understood what was happening, giggled alongside his mother.
Vladimir clicked his tongue and smiled while handing her the baby, "It seems like he is as mischievous as you, dear."
"Hehe, like mother like son," she laughed.
"So, have you thought about a name? You know I am not good at naming. What shall we call him?" He asked
"I want to name him after you...hmm, let's see," she pondered while looking at the baby.
Genevieve's gaze softened, and she poked his left cheek with a finger gently and said, "Vladislav, that's his name."
---
Five Years Later | Schatten Estate
Two boys darted across sun-drenched gardens. Vladislav, five years old with fiery crimson eyes, snagged his younger brother's shirt.
"Caught you, Athelstan!"
"Not fair!" The four-year-old pouted, silver white hair glinting with emerald eyes. "Your legs are longer!"
"Of course! I'm older," Vladislav declared. "Now chase me!"
Before their race could restart, a calm voice cut through the laughter:
"Young Masters."
Atlas, their mother's butler, stood framed by rose arbors. Gray-haired and sharp-eyed, wearing a black butler's suit with a white shirt underneath, he moved with the grace of a Grandmaster—a rank few warriors ever achieved.
"Lady Geneviève requests your presence for breakfast."
Athelstan's lip quivered. "Can't we play longer?"
Atlas's stern expression didn't waver. "After nourishment, Young Master. Your mother's orders." He gently ruffled the boy's hair. "Adventure awaits on a full stomach."
With matching grins, the brothers followed him toward the manor—oblivious to the legacy of mana and war that awaited them.
*************
A/N: Yo, author here! This is my first time writing a novel, so my writing might be a bit rough. I've been reading books for a while now, so I thought I should try writing something. I already have the ending of this story in mind, but I might change it. Honestly, I'm just doing this for fun to see where it goes. Comments or advice? Fire away below! It'll help a ton.