Prologue
"Ñneeeee! Ñeeeee! Ñeeeee!"
The cries of a newborn echoed through the ward, sharp yet alive with promise.
"Shhh… baby boy, don't cry."
A woman's voice—soft, warm, filled with love—rose above the sound. Her eyes, clear and light blue, shone as she cradled her son.
"He's beautiful," she whispered.
"Indeed he is," answered the man at her side, broad-shouldered and weathered, his hair touched with the gray of years. He was Roland, husband, father, blacksmith.
"Such a strong child," murmured one of the nurses, and the others nodded, their faces alight with rare joy in their weary work.
The nurse stepped forward. "What shall we call him?"
The question hung in the air like a blessing. Even the child fell silent, tilting his tiny head as if waiting for the answer. The room burst into laughter at the uncanny sight.
The mother smiled, her voice trembling with devotion. "Don't worry, my dear… your name is Jefel."
The boy giggled, a soft sound, before drifting peacefully into sleep.
"A beautiful name, milady," the nurse said with reverence.
"He will be wonderful," Roland added, pride deep in his voice.
"Yes," his wife Jeline agreed, her gaze still fixed on her son. "He will."
---
Pectro.
A world of magic, kingdoms, beasts, bloodlines, and endless horizons.
Here, strength was everything, and weakness was unforgivable. In this world, a single child's rise—or fall—could shape eternity.
Jefel was born into this law. His father, Roland, was a blacksmith, inventor, and craftsman. His mother, Jeline, was a healer, her bloodline gift dismissed as useless. Yet through their love, they would shape the boy's first steps into life.
---
Six years later.
The sky above Valdren's district tore with unnatural light. The earth groaned and split as creatures poured from a dungeon outbreak, shrieking and screeching in waves like living nightmares.
Roland, returning from a hunt, froze as the horizon darkened with movement. By chance—or fate—he met Jeline on the road home.
"Whao… is this a coincidence?" Roland muttered, forcing a smile.
"Roland? What's wrong?" Jeline asked, her healer's satchel clutched to her chest.
"Nothing. Let's go together. I'm itching to see my son," she said, relief softening her face.
"Yes," he answered. But his eyes had already seen the truth.
Rumble. Rumble. Screeeeech!
The ground shook violently. A tide of horrors charged with such speed it seemed the earth itself would split apart.
"Is that… what I think it is?" Jeline's voice broke.
"Yes." Roland's face hardened. "An outbreak. And it's too close. We can't run."
Her tears welled instantly. "No… my son! My son!"
Roland's smile was calm, even as death bore down upon them. "I knew this day would come. I prepared for him. For Jefel."
Jeline shook her head, sobbing. "No! Not like this. I can't even say goodbye!"
They held each other tightly, lips pressed in one last desperate kiss.
The horde was upon them. Roland raised his hunting knife—not in hope, but in defiance—as he whispered to the abomination's looming shadow:
"My son… remembers."
And then the tide consumed them.
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💀 End of Prologue.