In 2020, the world changed — though no one realized it at first.
A company appeared overnight. No startup buzz, no origin story. Just a black dragon coiled around a crown, stamped across skyscrapers in every capital city. Its name: Dragonard.
No one knew who owned it.
No one remembered seeing the buildings being built — yet there they stood.
In Tokyo, a street vendor blinked at a tower that had not existed the night before, its black spire blotting out the sunrise. Something about it made him shiver. He shrugged and turned back to his stall, but the coins he counted felt heavier that morning, as if touched by a shadow.
In Nairobi, a schoolteacher watched the news and saw her favorite coffee shop replaced by Dragonard's logo. She felt a pang of loss — familiar streets, familiar lives, disappearing overnight. Her students whispered the name "Dragonard" like a ghost in the classroom.
Within two years, Dragonard controlled the global clothing industry.
By year four, every movie you watched, every song you heard, every image on your screen came from their studios.
By year six, your paycheck, your groceries, your medicine, your electricity — all filtered through their hands.
By year ten, Dragonard controlled seventy percent of the world's economy.
Not just weapons and food.
Everything.
The thirty percent that remained stood behind locked borders, resisting Dragonard's shadow. They would not resist for long.
2030. War begin.
Dragonard's armies were unlike anything on Earth. Soldiers in armor that shimmered like oil, rifles that fired without sound, ships that moved in impossible silence.
Nations fell, one by one. Not to sheer numbers — but to something worse. The moment Dragonard arrived, resistance crumbled. Leaders surrendered without explanation. Generals who had sworn to fight to the last smiled as they laid down their arms, as if they had always wanted to serve the dragon.
In a small Polish village, an old man leaned on his cane, watching soldiers march past. He had spent a lifetime fearing bombs and tyrants, yet now he felt… nothing. Not fear, not anger. Only an empty curiosity as they passed.
Five years later, there was no "enemy" left. Only the Dragonard Empire.
The masked Emperor appeared that day.
A man—or something wearing the shape of one—seated on a throne of black steel and gold. His mask was a mirror, reflecting every face that looked upon it. For a moment, it seemed the reflections hesitated, shimmering slightly, as if unsure whether they were seeing themselves or something else.
His voice was low, measured, and final — but it carried an echo, just beneath perception, like a memory sliding into your mind before you could claim it.
> "I am not here to rule you. I am here to protect you. Follow me, and no force in this universe will take you from me."
The world loved him instantly. Too instantly.
Loyalty became devotion. Devotion became worship.
Even those closest to him noticed the subtle… wrongness. His hands, gloved in black silk, seemed to flex with a rhythm no heart could produce. When he turned, the air felt heavier, charged with a presence that belonged to no human scale.
In Rio, a young musician felt a strange warmth in her chest while listening to Dragonard broadcasts — a warmth she could not explain, though her mind screamed that something was wrong.
2040 – The Expansion Begins.
Dragonard fleets slipped into the void, bound for other worlds. Technology surged forward decades in a single year. Humanity became a weapon, wielded by the masked Emperor.
Somewhere beyond the stars, something old and sleepless stirred — eyes vast and lidless, watching with recognition.