Drifting.
That was the only word Elarion could grasp as his soul floated through the unknown. There was no sky, no ground, no stars—only a vast, formless void that pulsed with silence. He felt neither pain nor peace, only the strange sensation of being unbound, as if the weight of flesh and time had finally slipped away.
Then, like ripples in still water, memories began to surface.
He saw himself—young, fierce, and twenty years old. The world had called him the Twin Blade Devil, a name whispered with awe and fear across the western reaches of Avalonia.
His twin blades, forged from the bones of fallen wyrms and infused with elemental mana, had carved through legions of monsters and men alike. He had no master then, no disciples, no ties. Just the road, the hunt, and the thrill of battle.
But one mission changed everything.
A village near the city of Virell had fallen to demonic beasts. Elarion arrived too late—the air still thick with smoke and blood. Amid the ruins, he found her. A little girl, no older than six, curled in the corner of a shattered hut, her eyes wide and silent, her cheeks streaked with soot and tears.
He knelt beside her, gently lifting her into his arms. "What's your name, little one?"
Her voice was barely a whisper. "E-Eleanor."
"Are you hungry?"
She nodded, clutching his cloak with trembling fingers.
He carried her back to Virell, his steps heavy with the weight of failure. At the Adventurer's Guild, he reported the mission with a grim tone. "The village… is gone."
No one questioned him. No one dared. The Twin Blade Devil had spoken.
Outside, he found a quiet restaurant and ordered food. Eleanor sat across from him, eyes darting nervously, unsure how to hold the spoon. He helped her eat, his movements surprisingly gentle for a man known for violence. She ate slowly, cautiously, as if afraid the food might vanish.
Afterward, he took her to the local church to check her magical affinity. The priests hesitated when they saw him—his reputation preceded him. But one man stepped forward, a tall figure with silver robes and calm eyes.
"Welcome, Elarion," said the High Priest. "What brings you here?"
"She's the only survivor. I want her tested."
The priest nodded and brought forth the mana stone. Eleanor placed her small hand on it, and the stone shimmered—dark green with faint hues of blue and brown. The colors danced like living flame.
The priest gasped. "This… this is rare. Very rare."
Elarion raised an eyebrow. "What does it mean?"
"She has affinity with nature, water, and earth. A tri-elemental child. And her mana levels are… extraordinary. She could be a candidate for High Priestess."
Elarion looked at Eleanor, who stared at the stone with innocent wonder. He knelt beside her. "If you stay here, you'll have food, shelter, and a chance to grow strong. What do you say?"
She hesitated, eyes filling with tears. "Will you come see me?"
He smiled. "Of course. I promise."
She nodded, and the priest took her hand gently. As they walked away, Eleanor turned and waved.
"Don't forget!"
"I won't," he said, and meant it.
Years passed. Their paths crossed again and again. Each time, Eleanor grew stronger, wiser, more radiant. She became a beacon of hope in a world often shrouded in darkness.
Then came Kellen.
Elarion found him during a journey through the northern highlands—a ten-year-old boy practicing crude mana techniques with startling precision. The boy's eyes burned with curiosity, and his aura pulsed with untamed power.
"What's your name?" Elarion asked.
"Kellen."
"You want to learn?"
"Yes. I want to be strong. Like you."
Elarion chuckled. "Then follow me."
He taught Kellen everything—mana theory, elemental control, combat discipline. Though Elarion rarely used mana himself, preferring the raw power of chi and blade, his knowledge was vast. He was one of the few in Avalonia who could wield both mana and weapon simultaneously, a feat requiring immense focus and physical mastery.
"Master," Kellen once asked, "how do you balance both?"
Elarion tapped his chest. "Chi strengthens the body. Mana sharpens the blade. But the mind… the mind must be still."
Kellen trained relentlessly, his admiration for Elarion growing with each passing day. He studied, researched, and eventually earned a place at the Grand Magus Academy—an institution supported by Avalonia's three great powers. He graduated swiftly, became an instructor, and continued to visit his master.
"Your theories are getting too complex for me," Elarion joked once.
Kellen smiled. "Then I'll simplify them. For you."
Despite his brilliance, Kellen never lost his reverence for Elarion. To him, his master was not just a warrior, but a guide, a father figure, a legend.
Then came Soren.
A battle maniac with a noble lineage, Soren was unlike anyone Elarion had met. They clashed often, their spars shaking the earth. Though Elarion usually won, Soren was no less dangerous. His swordplay was wild, unpredictable, and laced with mana that burned like fire.
"You fight like a storm," Elarion once said.
"And you fight like death," Soren replied with a grin.
Their friendship became famous. The Twin Blade Devil and the Sword Maniac—two names etched all over the continent's. When Elarion introduced Eleanor and Kellen to Soren, he embraced them instantly.
"They're like my niece and nephew now," he declared.
Time passed. Soren ascended to the throne of Hesperia. But peace was short-lived.
From the neighboring continent of Shadowmere, the Demon Emperor launched a silent invasion. His forces swept across Avalonia, and the continent trembled. Churches prayed. Cities burned. The great powers rallied, but even their combined strength faltered.
Elarion, Soren, and two other warriors—Valtros, a stoic shieldmaster, and Nyra, a flame-wielding sorceress—led the final assault. They fought through waves of demon kings, their bodies battered, their spirits unyielding.
At the end, the Demon Emperor unleashed a final attack, burning his own life force to fuel it. The blast was cataclysmic.
Elarion acted without hesitation. He activated his spatial artifact, shielding his comrades. But the cursed energy pierced him. His body broke. His blades cracked. His life force began to fade.
Valtros died on the spot. Nyra was gravely wounded. Soren survived, barely.
Elarion, half-crippled and unable to fight, retreated to a nameless region. A simple hut became his sanctuary.
Soren visited after recovering. "Nyra's gone," he said, voice heavy. "Only I remain… and you."
Elarion nodded. "Then fate has chosen."
"You should've lived longer," Soren whispered.
Elarion smiled faintly. "I lived enough."
He asked about Eleanor and Kellen. Soren assured him they were thriving.
"Good," Elarion said. "Then I can rest."
Years passed. Eleanor and Kellen visited often, their presence a balm to his fading soul. But his condition worsened. The cursed energy lingered, gnawing at his life force.
And then… the end came.
Now, in this void, Elarion watched it all unfold again. The battles, the bonds, the sacrifices. He sighed, a sound that echoed through the emptiness.
I never saw Eldoria, he thought. The land of elves. Or the beast continent. So many places left untouched.
Regret flickered, but only briefly. He had lived. He had loved. He had protected.
Suddenly, the void shifted. A force pulled at him—cold, relentless. His memories began to blur, dissolve, vanish.
So this is it, he thought. The final journey.
He remained calm. There was no fear. Only acceptance.
And as the last fragments of his past slipped away, Elarion whispered into the void:
"Live long. Be happy. Always."
Then, silence.
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Author's Note:
Hmm, this is just his past. It's not the end but the beginning. To stay updated and wish to know more, pls add it to ur library. This little support is what I appreciate the most from u guys.