A world so beautiful it should have been a sanctuary.
A place without war, without politics — where the falling of cherry blossoms could be watched in peace, without fear.
But Colossara is no sanctuary.
Its beauty hides a truth sharper than any blade: wars are fought without end, dangers lurk in every shadow, and mysteries do not wait to be solved — they kill those who seek them. Here, the wind carries both the scent of blooming fields and the stench of blood. Here, beauty and death walk side by side.
It has been hundreds of thousands of years since humanity first landed here. In that time, Colossara has known no lasting peace. Borders shift like tides. Kingdoms and empires rise and fall. Wars blaze and burn out — but never truly end. Here, the average awakened can topple rulers, the exceptional can erase continents, and the supreme can shatter universes.
Yet history is not only written by the strong. Sometimes it begins in the quietest places, far from the roar of armies and the glare of thrones.
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77th of Moongrave, Year 920,471 A.E.
It was a rainy night with a slight breeze when it happened. The crowns and the Ten Great Families — masters of continents, pillars of human power — were blissfully unaware. No omens burned in the skies above their capitals, no messengers came pounding at their palace gates.
Far to the continent's outer edge, in a remote estate wreathed in forest and mist, a woman labored through the long hours of the night. The downpour outside struck the rooftiles like the drumbeats of an army advancing from the heavens.
When the child finally came into the world, the rain stopped for the briefest second.
The midwives swore later that the air grew hotter with each breath the newborn took, as though some hidden furnace smoldered within his chest. Shadows flickered along the walls, dancing in shapes no torch could cast. One claimed she saw something in those shadows — the curve of horns, the sweep of a wing — but the others told her to hold her tongue.
The mother, pale but unbroken, cradled her son as if shielding him from the storm beyond the walls. Lightning flashed through the high windows, spilling light across the child's face — and in his eyes, a strange reflection danced, a mingling of fire and shadow.
She smiled softly, her voice a tender breath against his ear.
"Valrion Aurelith… my beautiful baby boy."
The father stood silent, hands clasped behind his back, his broad frame outlined by the fury of the night. Thunder rolled like distant war drums. After a long moment, he turned, his stern features easing into a rare smile.
"Hopefully," he said, voice low but warm, "you're not as much trouble as your older brother was."
The midwives laughed nervously, thinking it a jest. His wife gave him a look, half reproach, half amusement.
But the man meant every word. Trouble ran in Aurelith blood — reckless sons, stubborn heirs, children who never bowed. And this boy, whether blessing or burden, would be no different.
Lightning split the sky, revealing the fractured moon — its broken edge glinting like a blade in the heavens. Somewhere in the far reaches of the estate, the house's ancestral crest hung beneath the rain, the shapes of two ancient beasts locked in eternal opposition.
This boy was born of both lines.
Born in a world where beauty and death share the same breath.
Born to be both a nuisance and a savior.
Born to conquer, so his family's name would never be forgotten again.
And on that night, under a broken moon and three distant suns, Colossara itself seemed to pause — as though it too wished to remember.