The sky was burning red that night.
On the battlefield between two ruined kingdoms, mana storms raged like whirlwinds, tearing trees from their roots and splitting mountains in half. Rivers boiled, forests turned to ash, and the cries of men had long since vanished; drowned beneath the clash of two beings whose very existence defied mortality.
At the centre stood two mages of the Eighth Circle, the pinnacle of mortal magic.
One was cloaked in golden radiance, his black hair billowing in the storm. His eyes carried both compassion and resolve; the eyes of a man who bore the weight of an empire.
He was known to his people as Emperor Elion Veydris, the Benevolent Flame. His magic, a harmonious blend of fire and light, had shielded nations, healed the sick, and raised civilizations to prosperity. A ruler who raised commoners to the ranks of mages, who built a kingdom where talent outweighed blood, where farmers and nobles alike could dream. His magic was a radiant harmony of fire and light - warmth that healed, brilliance that inspired, and flames that shielded his people from despair.
Opposite him, wrapped in a void of shadow, stood a figure who exuded nothing but hunger. His crimson staff pulsed with the aura of countless sacrifices, his robes stitched from the skins of beasts long extinct.
His name was whispered with dread: Ambrose Kelthorn, the Devourer. He had razed entire cities to dust, draining their life to fuel his ascent.
Where Elion uplifted, Ambrose devoured. Where Elion's kingdom, Alyndor grew in unity, Ambrose's kingdom, Synthoros thrived on fear and hierarchy, nobles grinding commoners beneath their heels. His people followed not out of love, but terror.
His ambition was clear, to transcend the mortal limit and seize the forbidden Ninth Circle.
Between them lay the shattered crown of a dynasty, its central jewel missing. TheCrown Jewel, forged centuries ago by the ancestors of Alyndor's kings. Within it burned the sealed essence of generations past; power from Stage Nine Mages and beyond, preserved to guard the world in times of calamity.
Ambrose had hunted it for decades, scouring ruins, murdering sages, unraveling lost civilizations; all to grasp a treasure he could not claim.
But the jewel was no longer whole. Hidden by ancient spells, protected by runes carved into the bones of the world, its essence was sealed beyond reach. To find it, one needed a key of royal blood, passed down in secret through generations. Only the rightful heir could unlock its path.
To the people of Alyndor, it was hope itself. To Ambrose, it was the final key to his ascension. With it, one could break past the chains of mortality and wield power above all creation.
Their enmity had not begun that night.
For decades, Synthoros watched Alyndor prosper, envying its freedom. While Ambrose ruled through tyranny, Elion's people flourished, commoners rising as mages, scholars, and generals. Farmers' sons became sorcerers, daughters of shepherds became healers.
Even nobles from neighboring lands whispered of leaving their lords to pledge themselves to Alyndor. To Ambrose, this was blasphemy and a threat to his reign. He would not allow a kingdom of "equal-borns" to outshine the old order of fear and dominion.
And therefore, war erupted.
Armies clashed at borders, villages burned, rivers ran red. But none of it mattered in the end, for the war evolved into something greater than nations. It became a duel between kings; between Elion, fighting to preserve a world where hope still lived, and Ambrose, fighting to enslave that world to his hunger.
The battlefield trembled under their fury.
Elion raised his blade-staff, light bursting like dawn across the ruins, searing through darkness. Ambrose answered with a wave of abyssal fire, consuming the earth in black flame. Mountain peaks cracked, seas recoiled, and even the stars above flickered as if afraid to bear witness.
The kings battled without pause. Cities fell in the shockwaves of their spells. Kingdoms shook, unable to withstand the fury of gods walking as men. Thousands perished, their cries lost beneath the storm. By the dawn of the fourth day, the world itself seemed broken; its soil scarred, its rivers poisoned, its skies dimmed.
And yet, the duel did not cease.
Bloodied and battered, the two kings stood as shadows of themselves. Elion's armor was shattered, his robes burned away, his body bleeding from countless wounds. Ambrose's face was torn, one arm severed, his staff cracked yet still thrumming with cursed mana.
Ambrose's voice rolled like thunder:
"Do you still resist me, Elion? Your empire is ash. Your people scream in silence beneath my shadow. Hand over the gem's secret, and I shall grant you a painless death."
Elion's grip tightened around his blade-staff, golden light flaring brighter. His robes were torn, his body bleeding, but his resolve did not falter.
"You have taken everything, Ambrose. Kingdoms, lives, even hope itself. But you will never touch the Crown Jewel. Its power was not meant for tyrants, it was meant for the salvation of humanity."
Ambrose sneered, raising his staff, the black mana behind him gathering like a storm.
"Salvation? You speak of salvation while mortals crawl like ants, begging the strong to crush them? The Ninth Circle will free me from weakness! And with it, I will become immortal!"
The heavens roared as their spells collided.
Fire clashed with shadow. Light burned against abyss. Mountains shattered, seas receded, and even the stars seemed to flicker. For three days and nights, they battled, neither relenting.
Both men stood at the brink of death. Emperor Elion, coughing blood, forced himself upright.
Ambrose, one arm severed, eyes blazing with madness, staggered toward Elion. His hunger refused to die.
"Where… is it?" Ambrose rasped. "Where is the gem?"
Elion smiled faintly, though his body trembled with exhaustion.
"The key has already passed on… carried in the veins of my bloodline. One day, when the world needs it most, the heir will awaken. And you, Ambrose… you will never see that day."
With a final surge of light, Elion struck. His flame engulfed Ambrose, burning away half his body. Yet in his final breath, the dark mage's laughter echoed across the battlefield.
"Bloodline…? Then I will hunt them. One day, their descendant will fall… and through their blood, the gem will be mine."
And then…
A silence fell.
The two collapsed simultaneously.
When the dust cleared, both kings lay fallen. Their armies broken. Their kingdoms scarred beyond recognition. Neither claimed victory, and yet both were lost.
The Crown Jewel, its brilliance faint, vanished from sight; hidden by Elion's final spell, carried away from the hands of tyranny.
But Ambrose's dying words lingered like a curse upon the wind.
"The bloodline… I will hunt the bloodline. The Jewel will be mine…"
The battlefield fell silent. Cities lay in ruins. Kingdoms broken. And so, the legend spread: two titans who destroyed each other for a power neither could claim.
This ended the War of Flames and Shadows.
Thus began the legend that would haunt generations about a Jewel lost to time, of kingdoms broken, and of heirs whispered to be dead… or hidden.
But somewhere, in silence, the Jewel waited.
Time is a cruel healer. The world begins to forget the wars, the flames, the fallen stones; fading into children's tales and drunken boasts in taverns.
But legends do not die. They wait.
And somewhere, hidden from the world's eye, the fragment still exists, waiting for the one destined to awaken it.