It was raining that night. A woman walked alone along a narrow, muddy path, surrounded by tall trees whose branches intertwined to shroud the night sky. The sound of distant thunder echoed through the woods. As she walked, the faint cry of a baby pierced the silence. The infant was cold, wet, and shivering in her arms, but the woman's face remained emotionless. Her eyes were hollow, staring ahead with a strange detachment.
Eventually, she reached a small, secluded church at the edge of the forest. Its stone walls were worn with age, and its stained-glass windows reflected the flickering light of a single candle within. The woman stepped silently onto the front steps, cradled the baby one last time, and whispered something—soft, inaudible—into the child's ear. Then she gently placed the baby at the door, wrapped in a soaked linen cloth, and vanished into the shadows without another word.
Minutes passed.
Inside, Father Eli stirred from his sleep, awakened by the faint sound of crying. He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes, and reached for the candle beside his bed. Lighting it, he stepped out into the hallway and made his way down the creaking wooden stairs. The church was quiet except for the rain tapping on the windows and the persistent wail echoing from beyond the front door.
When he opened the door, a gust of cold wind rushed past him. He saw no one outside—only the forest swaying under the storm—but then he heard it again: the cry, now just beneath him. Looking down, he saw a baby lying at the doorstep, no longer crying, but giggling at something—or someone—only he could not see.
Strangely, there was a shadowy outline beside the child, like a figure watching over him, but it disappeared as quickly as it appeared. A chill ran down the Father's spine.
Kneeling slowly, Father Eli gently picked up the baby, his robe soaking from the rain as the infant reached out and grasped his finger tightly. The baby laughed again, and Eli smiled softly in return—until he noticed the child's eyes.
They were dark—almost black—with a flicker of red deep within, like glowing embers buried beneath ash. Eli had never seen eyes like this in all his years, and though something inside him warned of danger, he could not bring himself to abandon the child.
He carried the baby inside, placed him carefully on a padded cloth upon the altar, and hurried upstairs. Moments later, he returned with a bottle of goat's milk, a bundle of soft, white clothes, and a towel. He dried the baby gently, removed the wet cloth, and wrapped the infant snugly in warm fabric.
Then, cradling the child in his arms, Father Eli climbed to the living room above the chapel. He sat on the old couch by the fire, rocking the baby as he slowly fed him the milk. As he sang a soft lullaby—a melody passed down through generations of caretakers—the baby's strange eyes began to close, lulled into peaceful sleep.
Yet even in slumber, the faintest trace of a smile lingered on the infant's lips… and just before the Father looked away, the red in the child's eyes pulsed one last time—like a heartbeat.
*
Eighteen Years Later
The sound of an axe striking wood echoed through the trees. Sharp, rhythmic—each swing landing with precision. A tall figure stood by the woodpile, his muscles flexing with each movement. It was the child once abandoned in the rain… now a grown man.
Michael wiped sweat from his brow, the morning sun filtering through the trees above. His black hair was slightly damp, his eyes—still dark with a flicker of crimson—focused on the task at hand.
From behind a nearby tree, someone was watching.
A girl peeked from the bushes, barely hiding her wide eyes and blushing face. Her name was Yuri, a cheerful, curious girl from the nearby village—same age as Michael. She had known him since childhood and secretly admired him for years.
Her gaze lingered a little too long on the way his muscles moved, how his tall, lean figure bent and twisted with each chop of the axe. A tiny, silly grin crept across her face.
Just as her thoughts were wandering, a hand tapped the top of her head—firmly.
"Ow!" she yelped, rubbing her scalp and turning around.
"What are you doing here, Yuri?" asked Father Eli, the elderly priest with a kind but stern look in his eyes.
"N-Nothing, Father!" she stammered, kneeling slightly in embarrassment. "My mother asked me to deliver some fruit here."
"Is that so?" Father Eli raised a brow. "Then where's the fruit?"
Yuri froze. "Ah…" She scratched the back of her head awkwardly. "I… I may have forgotten it…"
Father Eli sighed, though a small smirk tugged at his lips. "You didn't just come here to see Michael, did you?"
Immediately, her face turned red. "W-What?! N-No! I-I mean—"
"Michael," Father Eli called out, amused.
Michael paused mid-swing and turned toward them. Spotting Yuri, he set the axe aside and walked over. His steps were slow, steady, confident.
"Good morning, Yuri," he greeted with a warm smile. "How's your mother today?"
Yuri, now even more flustered, bowed her head slightly. "S-She's fine! Thank you for asking! How's… how's your day?"
Michael chuckled softly. "Not much, just helping Father Eli with the firewood. Same as always."
Michael had grown up within the walls of the old church, under the care of Father Eli. Though he ventured into the village often to help out or buy supplies, it was always his home. At first, he had been afraid of how people would react to his unusual eyes—those deep, ember-red irises—but the villagers had shown him nothing but kindness.
Over time, he grew strong, responsible, and well-liked—especially by the girls his age. Much to the dismay of many of the village boys.
As Yuri fidgeted, trying to act normal in front of him, something clicked in her mind.
"Oh! Michael—wait. I almost forgot!" she exclaimed. "Your master—Martin! He sent me to remind you about training. Don't you remember?"
Michael blinked, thinking for a second. Then his eyes widened. "Ah! Sword training! I completely forgot!" He turned to Father Eli. "Sorry, Father—I need to go meet Master Martin. I'll be back before evening to help out, I promise."
Father Eli gave a nod. "Go ahead. Just be careful, alright?"
"I will," Michael said with a grin, already starting to jog down the hill.
Yuri stood quietly, watching as his figure grew smaller with each step. Her heart pounded.
Beside her, Father Eli gave a long sigh… and tapped her head again.
"Ow! Again?!" Yuri rubbed the spot with a pout.
"Didn't you forget something else?" the Father asked.
"…The fruit." She laughed nervously. "Okay, okay! I'll bring it later. Bye, Father!"
"Be careful on your way," he called after her.
"Okay!"
Michael sprinted down the forest path, boots kicking up dirt as the trees whipped past him. The wind brushed against his face, cooling the sweat on his brow. Though he was already tired from chopping wood, excitement lit his steps.
Today wasn't just any training day.
At the edge of the woods, beyond the hills that framed the village, stood an old watchtower known as the Gatekeeper's Post—a relic of wars long past. It had been abandoned for decades until a swordsman named Martin claimed it as his training ground.
Michael reached the tower and slowed his pace. There, standing like a statue beneath the rising sun, was Master Martin.
Tall, rugged, and sharp-eyed, Martin had the aura of someone who had seen too many battles. His white hair was tied back, and his long coat fluttered gently in the morning breeze. A broadsword was strapped to his back, though he rarely needed to draw it to teach.
"You're late," Martin said without looking.
Michael grinned, catching his breath. "Sorry, Master. I was helping Father Eli with the firewood."
"Excuses are for the weak," Martin replied, turning to face him. "You want to grow stronger, don't you?"
Michael nodded. "I do."
"Then show me."
Without another word, Martin tossed a wooden practice sword toward him. Michael caught it midair. The weight was familiar in his hands—it felt like an extension of himself.
They stepped onto the stone platform near the tower—a space cleared for combat.
"Today," Martin said, "we're not just training your body. We're going to test your instincts."
Michael tightened his grip.
"Begin."
Martin lunged.
Despite his age, he was fast. Michael barely had time to react as the wooden blade came down toward him. He deflected it just in time, the clash echoing through the forest.
Step. Block. Twist.
Michael danced with his teacher, each movement like a memory etched into his muscles. He countered a feint, ducked a high slash, and pushed forward—but Martin was always one step ahead.
"You're thinking too much again," Martin said, striking his student in the ribs with the flat of the blade. Michael stumbled back, coughing.
"Your body is strong, your technique is sharp—but you're holding back. Why?"
Michael wiped his mouth. His eyes flickered.
Martin narrowed his gaze. "You fear your power, don't you?"
Silence.
Michael looked down at his hands.
"Ever since you turned thirteen, something inside you has been growing," Martin continued, circling him. "Your strikes hit harder. Your senses are sharper. And your eyes…" He stopped. "Those eyes of yours—they see more than you let on."
Michael looked up, a faint glow pulsing in his red irises.
"I don't want to hurt anyone," Michael said quietly. "That's why I hold back."
Martin sighed. "Holding back in training won't protect anyone. It will only leave you unprepared. Your strength—whatever its origin—is part of you. Learn to master it… or it will master you."
He raised his sword again. "Now—come at me without holding back."
Michael hesitated.
Then something shifted in him. He took a deep breath, lowered his stance, and charged.
This time, Martin could feel the difference.
Michael's speed doubled—his blade moved like lightning. Every swing had weight, purpose, fire. Martin parried, but barely. Michael twisted behind him, spinning and bringing the blade down in a clean arc.
CRACK!
The wood of Martin's sword split, and he stepped back, surprised for the first time in months.
Michael stood still, chest heaving, a faint red glow pulsing behind his eyes. But unlike before, he wasn't afraid. He was in control.
Martin looked at the broken blade, then smiled.
"You're ready," he said.
Michael blinked. "For what?"
Martin walked over to a hidden chest near the tower wall. He unlocked it and pulled out a real sword—a beautiful steel blade, simple yet elegant, with strange markings along the guard.
"For the next step."
He held it out.
Michael hesitated, then reached for the weapon. The moment his fingers touched the hilt, a strange warmth flowed through him. The metal shimmered faintly, as if responding to him.
In the wind, Michael thought he heard something—a whisper… or a memory.
Martin crossed his arms. "That sword belonged to the one who once protected these lands. I believe it's waiting for its new master."
Michael stared at the blade. It felt right in his hands.
And for the first time… he wasn't afraid of what he was becoming.
*
Michael walked slowly back toward the church, the weight of his new sword resting against his back in its leather sheath. The sun was beginning to set behind the hills, casting a warm orange glow across the village path. His training with Master Martin had left him tired, but there was a quiet pride in each step.
As he passed through the village, an elderly woman spotted him and hurried over, carrying a small bundle wrapped in cloth.
"Michael!" she called. "Here—take this."
Surprised, Michael turned to her as she placed a generous cut of meat in his hands.
"I was saving this for my stew, but you need it more," she smiled kindly. "You're always helping the village."
Michael blinked, taken aback. "I… thank you, ma'am. This means a lot."
The woman simply waved him off, "You're a good boy, Michael. Don't forget to eat."
He bowed his head respectfully and continued on.
But just before he reached the old church gate, trouble found him.
A group of boys blocked his path, laughing and talking loudly. At the front was Luther, the village troublemaker—and Michael's longtime nuisance.
"Well, well, look who's back," Luther sneered. "Where you headed, ladyboy?"
Michael didn't stop. He simply walked past, uninterested in playing their games.
Luther's smile faded. He wasn't used to being ignored.
"Hey, I'm talking to you!"
Without warning, Luther reached out and grabbed the sword from Michael's back.
That was a mistake.
Michael froze. Slowly, he turned, his crimson eyes locking onto Luther's with a deadly, calm intensity. For a brief second, the air around him grew heavier.
Luther hesitated, suddenly uneasy. He tried to mask it with a laugh. "What? Gonna cry about it? Those creepy eyes of yours—no wonder your mother dumped you!"
The other boys laughed, their jeers echoing. But Luther didn't notice how quiet Michael had become… or how fast he moved.
In a flash, Michael dropped low and swept his leg across the dirt.
CRACK.
Luther's feet went out from under him, and he landed hard on his backside, choking on his own laugh.
Michael calmly picked his sword off the ground and turned away, saying nothing.
Luther shouted after him, swearing and spitting insults, but Michael didn't even glance back. His silence was louder than any retort.
As he reached the steps of the church, he let out a tired sigh.
Father Eli was waiting at the doorway, arms crossed but smiling gently.
"Good job holding back, Michael."
Michael gave a small nod. "They're still just kids. It's not worth fighting them."
"Wise words," Father Eli said. "And what's that behind your back?"
Michael unstrapped the blade and held it out. "A gift from Master Martin. But… there's something strange about it. These markings here—they look old. Ancient, even."
Father Eli took the sword carefully, his expression shifting as his eyes scanned the blade.
"Ah… I see," he murmured. "These are runes."
"Runes?" Michael tilted his head. "I've never heard of them."
"They're old—older than most of the stories still told," Father Eli explained. "Long ago, they were called enchanted inscriptions, but that name was too long for most folk. So, they became simply 'runes.'"
Michael leaned in, curious. "So… this sword is enchanted?"
"In a way, yes," Father Eli said thoughtfully. "It's not just a weapon. It has a purpose. And if I'm right… this sword once belonged to someone very important. A protector."
"A lost item from the past?"
"Exactly."
Michael's eyes narrowed with interest. "Can you tell me more?"
"I can," Father Eli nodded, then gave him a knowing look. "But first, you need to wash up. I already prepared the water. Go clean yourself, then I'll tell you the full story."
Michael sighed with a groan. "You always make me shower before the good parts…"
"It's called hygiene, my boy," Father Eli laughed. "Even chosen ones need to smell decent."
Michael rolled his eyes, then turned to head inside. As he walked toward the washroom, his mind lingered on the sword—and the runes that hummed faintly along its edge, as if waiting to be awakened.
*
After finishing his shower and changing into clean, comfortable clothes, Michael stepped out of the hallway, rubbing his damp hair with a towel. The scent of roasted herbs and warm broth lingered from the kitchen.
As he entered, something on the counter caught his eye.
A small basket of fresh fruit—colorful, ripe, and carefully arranged.
He paused, recognizing it immediately.
"Yuri…" he murmured, smiling to himself.
He walked over, picked up a bright red apple, and gave it a grateful nod, mentally thanking her. Before he could take a bite, Father Eli's voice echoed from the dining area.
"Michael! Come help me set the table."
Michael placed the apple down and made his way into the dining room, where Father Eli stood carrying a pot of stew in one hand and bread in the other.
Michael helped arrange the food, then sat opposite his guardian, and together they shared a quiet meal under the soft glow of the candlelight. The room was peaceful, filled with the clinking of spoons and the occasional sound of the fire crackling in the hearth.
Once they had finished, Michael leaned back in his chair, eyes locked on Father Eli with quiet anticipation.
"So… what's the story behind the rune?" he asked.
Father Eli chuckled softly, sipping his tea. "Impatient as ever. But a good question."
He set the cup down and leaned forward.
"Which one would you like to hear first? The world before the rune was found… or after?"
Michael thought for a moment, then said, "Start from the beginning."
Father Eli nodded slowly. "Very well. Then let me tell you… not just the story of the rune, but the history of this world itself."
He looked out the window for a brief second, gathering his thoughts.
"This world… is divided into four dimensions," he began.
"The first is called Heaven, the divine realm where the gods reside. The second is our own world—Middle Earth—home to humans, elves, dwarves, and demi-humans. The third… is the Nether, a chaotic world of fire, ash, and monsters—ghasts, skeletons, piglins, and worse."
Michael nodded slowly, but his eyes narrowed in curiosity. "And the fourth?"
"The last one," Father Eli said with gravity, "is a realm lost to time. Forgotten. Some believe it no longer exists at all. It is known only as… The End."
Michael sat forward. "The End?"
"Yes," Father Eli said, his voice lowering. "A vast, empty space beyond the reach of gods and mortals alike. Cold, starless, endless. We know almost nothing of it—only fragments of legend. But there is one creature tied to that place. A being of ancient power."
Michael's eyes widened. "The dragon?"
Father Eli nodded solemnly. "Yes. The Ender Dragon."
He leaned back, his gaze distant.
"Long ago, there was a great war within The End—a war so violent, so destructive, it tore the dimension apart. The losing side, the fallen ones, were cast out… and some say they were sent here, to Middle Earth."
Michael swallowed. "Here? But where?"
"There is a place," Eli said carefully, "a cursed place. A realm beneath our own. It's called The Deep. The deepest caves, far below our world. No light reaches there. It was the dwarves who first discovered it… and nearly lost half their population in the process. Since then, all races have agreed—never go to The Deep."
A chill crept up Michael's spine. "So… how does the rune fit into all this?"
Father Eli nodded. "That brings us to the second great war. Centuries after the End war, the Nether invaded Middle Earth. They tore holes between realms with massive, burning portals. Creatures from the Nether swarmed across our lands—towns burned, kingdoms fell."
Michael's fists clenched. "What happened then?"
"That's when the heroes appeared," Eli said with reverence. "Four champions from different races, chosen by fate—or perhaps by the gods themselves.
"The first was a human—Steve. Once a slave, he was blessed by the goddess Salvia with immense strength and the power to build and protect. He was the first shield against the Nether tide.
"The second was Alex, a brilliant human girl with unmatched wisdom. She became the greatest mage and sage of the century, mastering arcane magic and leading armies.
"Third was Vaelra, an elven huntress with divine agility. Her arrows never missed. They say she once struck a target from three valleys away.
"And the last… was Casim, a demi-human warrior with strength rivaling giants. His fists alone crushed Nether beasts."
Michael sat in awe. "Four heroes… from four races."
Father Eli smiled. "Together, they united our world. They drove the Nether army back and sealed their portals. But they knew that wasn't enough. They needed a weapon—a sword—for future generations to wield should the darkness ever return."
Michael instinctively glanced at the blade lying nearby. "That sword," Eli continued, "was forged from the rarest
materials—diamond ore, found only in The Deep… and netherite, taken from the
heart of the enemy's realm. Only the dwarves had the knowledge to shape them
together. And the runes? They were carved by the elves—using an ancient
enchanting table, powered by knowledge we have long since lost." Michael leaned forward, eyes intense. "So… why can I wield it?"
"That," Eli said softly, "is the mystery. That blade you
carry is one of the last rune-forged weapons… but the runes etched into yours
are unique—the rarest of them all. Not even the elves today can read them."
Michael stared at the sword, feeling the weight of it in a new way. "To awaken that blade," Eli said, "you'll need to find the last of its kind. A living elf who still holds the knowledge of the old ways.
Perhaps even a descendant of Vaelra herself." Michael's heart pounded. "And where do I find someone like that?" Eli stood slowly. "We'll search. But for tonight, that's enough stories. You've had a long day."
Michael opened his mouth to protest, but Eli raised a hand.
"Tomorrow, we'll speak more about the heroes… and maybe about your own place in
this tale."
Michael sighed, standing up and stretching. "Alright,
alright. Good night, Father."
"Good night, Michael," Eli said with a smile. "And… keep that sword close."
That night, as the moon climbed high above the quiet church
and the wind whispered through the ancient trees, Michael drifted into a deep sleep. But it was not peaceful.
His dream began in silence. Then—fire. The sky cracked open, blackened by smoke, as violet
lightning danced across shattered clouds. Below, the world burned. Mountains
split. Rivers boiled. The air trembled with the weight of something ancient and
alive. Michael stood on a floating island in a vast, empty void—The
End dimension. In the distance, rising from a pillar of obsidian, was a
creature he had never seen… but instantly recognized. A dragon. Towering, terrifying, yet beautiful in a haunting
way. Its wings beat slowly like a heartbeat. Eyes glowing with otherworldly
power, its scales shimmered with hues of black and purple. Then came the whisper.
"You are not the first… and you will not be the last…"
From the darkened skies, a figure descended. A warrior cloaked in silver armor, seated upon the back of a second dragon—smaller, sleek, marked with radiant blue runes. The two dragons
clashed above, their roars shattering stars. Steel met claw, flame met ice, and
the void itself seemed to bend around them. Michael tried to call out—but he had no voice. He watched
helplessly as the battle turned. The silver dragon was struck, its rider thrown into the void. And as the dream crumbled into darkness, a symbol burned
into Michael's vision:
A sword. A dragon. And a tear falling from an eye.
Michael woke with a sharp breath, heart pounding. Sweat
clung to his skin. The early rays of dawn spilled through the chapel windows. "A dragon rider…?" he whispered to himself. But he had no time to dwell on it—for far away, across mountains and forests, in a hidden sanctuary woven into the trees, another
story was beginning.