Five hundred and fifty years ago, demons clawed their way into the world—mindless, ravenous beasts born from some unseen fracture in the earth's heart. They tore through villages, devoured armies, and left countries scarred with their fury. Humanity teetered on the edge of oblivion, kingdoms crumbling one by one until only a handful stood defiant. Among them was Saint Valens, a central bastion nestled near the continent's core, its stone walls rising from plains that stretched toward Eiselbeck in the west and the Sundered Sea to the south. It was here, five centuries past, that desperation birthed a miracle—or a curse, depending on who told the tale. The kingdom's greatest soldiers, facing annihilation, were fused with the blood of the very same demons that challenged their existence, their bodies remade into something more than human. Stronger, faster, unyielding, they became the Veltharions, white-haired warriors whose very existence turned the tide.
Even though most demon species became extinct, the war never truly ended. Demons still prowled, their nests festering in shadowed forests, icy wastes, and sun-scorched deserts. Saint Valens endured, its streets now a blend of grit and grandeur—high towers of weathered stone looming over sprawling markets where traders hawked wares under the clang of forges. Beyond its walls, the world sprawled in a patchwork of 17 regions, each marked by its own trials. To the west, Verdin's rolling hills hid Ravager packs in their valleys. Northward, Dordrien's rugged peaks stood silent under gray skies. Eastward, Czerenik and the vast Karvad—its forests thick and plains endless—guarded the continent's edge, while Zar's southeastern cliffs met the dark Obsidian Sea. In the southwest, Zang Duc and Leon clung to life against the Infinite Desert's northern sands, and far northwest, Kyal's jagged coasts mirrored the isles of ancient lore. Yodenheim's frozen reaches and the Wastes of Eternal Ice crowned the north, untamed and merciless, while the Acid Meliorem's corrosive southern pits swallowed all who ventured too far.
Within Saint Valens, the Veltharion Clan took root, their bloodline formalized 350 years ago into a force unmatched. From birth, they were trained children with white hair and eyes too sharp, raised in courtyards carved from the city's rocky foundation. These grounds were brutal arenas, their walls etched with claw marks from demons long slain, the air thick with dust and the ring of steel. The clan's top warriors lead 12 legions composed by regular humans, each 502 strong, were scattered across the regions—Grand Masters in red cloaks commanding from Verdin to Kyal, their Velta seconds leading beige-clad soldiers with bolt-action rifles into the fray. Above them all stood Gavren Veltharion, the Leader for 25 years, his silver hair swept back, gray beard framing a face stern with the weight of lost brothers. His single sword, notched and crimson-veined, hung at his hip, a relic of battles that forged his reign.
The courtyard hummed with purpose on this day, the sky a flat slate above Saint Valens. Initiates—children barely past their third year—moved in uneven lines, their off-white tunics stained with sweat and dirt. Steel training blades, dull and scratched, flashed in small hands as instructors barked commands. The rhythm was relentless: thrust, parry, step, repeat. Some stumbled, their grips weak, their laughter breaking the din as they fell. Others pressed on, faces set, driven by the promise of the white cloaks and silver tops worn by the Velta who paced the edges, watching with hooded eyes. Beyond them, the faint silhouette of a red cloak flickered on the ramparts—a Grand Master, perhaps Lysara of Legion VI, her presence a rare specter over the training grounds.
Among the Initiates, one boy stood apart. Kael Veltharion was four years old, his frame slight but unbowed, his white hair—a sacred mark of his blood—cropped short and clinging to his brow with sweat. His face, sharp even at this age, bore the angular lines of a warrior yet to grow, his brown eyes narrowed with a focus that silenced the chaos around him. In his hands, two small steel swords—basic, unadorned—moved with a precision beyond his years. Each swing was deliberate, each step calculated, as if he had already seen thousands of battles. The other children faltered or played; Kael did neither. His gaze flicked to the ramparts, to the red cloak, and his lips pressed into a thin line. "Grand Master". The words burned in his mind, a vow unspoken, as his blades cut the air again.
A few minutes later, the clamor of steel dulled as the Velta overseeing the day's training stepped forward. His name was Voren, a wiry figure in his late teens, his full-length white cloak swaying over a silver sleeveless top, the hood pulled back to reveal white hair tied into a tight knot. His face was lean, etched with faint scars across his cheek, and his gray eyes scanned the Initiates with a mix of sternness and curiosity. The sword at his hip gleamed faintly. He raised a gloved hand, silencing the courtyard's din, and his voice cut through the air—sharp, authoritative, but not loud.
"Enough blades for now," Voren said, his tone clipped. "Line up. We're splitting you into two groups. Hand-to-hand, no weapons. Show us what you've got before we start breaking you down and building you back up."
The Initiates shuffled, some exchanging nervous glances, others tugging at their sweat-soaked off-white tunics. At four years old, most were still clumsy limbs too long for their bodies, coordination a distant dream. The courtyard stretched wide, its rocky floor uneven with patches of packed dirt worn smooth by generations of boots. The walls loomed high, their claw-scarred surfaces a grim reminder of why these children were here, while the distant hum of Saint Valens' forges pulsed beyond. Voren barked orders, splitting the group with a swift gesture. Their steel training blades were collected by other Veltas, the next step after finishing their training as initiates.
The tournament began with a little ceremony. Voren paired the children off, calling names from a mental roster, his arms crossed as he watched. The first matches were chaotic—flailing arms, awkward shoves, and a few tears as small fists met smaller faces. Most didn't know how to fight properly; they swung wildly, tripped over their own feet, or froze when struck. A boy with a mop of white hair lunged at his opponent, only to stumble into the dirt, scraping his knee and sniffling as he scrambled up. Another girl, her tunic too big, tried to push her partner but ended up tumbling backward, landing with a yelp. Laughter rippled through the onlookers—other Initiates waiting their turn, their nerves loosening into giggles—though Voren's expression didn't shift. He nodded to two other Velta pacing the edges, their white cloaks marking them as his aides, and they murmured notes to each other, assessing.
Kael Veltharion stood in the left group, his brown eyes fixed on the matches, his small frame still as stone. Unlike the others, he carried no hint of uncertainty. Since he could walk, he'd trained alone—hours in the shadowed corners of his family's quarters, mimicking forms he'd glimpsed from older Veltharions, driving his fists against sacks of grain until his knuckles bled. His obsession burned bright: Grand Master, the red cloak, the command of a legion. This tournament was no game to him; it was a step. His white hair clung to his brow, damp with sweat from the earlier drills, and his sharp features tightened as Voren called his name.
"Kael, left group, first pair," Voren said, pointing to a boy across from him—Jorin, a stocky child with a round face and a nervous grin. Jorin shuffled forward, fists half-raised, unsure. Kael stepped into position, his stance low, arms bent, eyes locked on his opponent. The other Initiates quieted, sensing something different.
Voren gave the signal—a sharp whistle—and Jorin lunged, arms swinging in a clumsy arc. Kael moved like water, sidestepping with a grace no four-year-old should have, his small fist snapping out to catch Jorin's wrist. He twisted, pulling the boy off-balance, then drove his shoulder into Jorin's chest. The stocky child hit the ground with a thud, dust puffing around him, his breath escaping in a startled gasp. It was over in seconds. Jorin blinked up, dazed, as Kael stepped back, expression unchanged, hands already poised for the next fight.
The Velta aides exchanged glances, one scribbling furiously on a scrap of parchment. Voren's brow lifted slightly, the faintest crack in his stern mask. "Next," he called, and another boy—taller, with a lanky build—faced Kael. The pattern repeated: a wild swing dodged, a precise strike to the ribs, a trip that sent the taller child sprawling. Then a girl, quicker than the boys, who tried to grapple—Kael slipped free, hooked her ankle, and dropped her with a controlled shove. Match after match, he dismantled them—five opponents in his group, then crossing to the right group as Voren merged the winners. Each fell with ease, their untrained flailing no match for his relentless practice.
The courtyard grew hushed, the giggles fading into wide-eyed stares. Initiates whispered, their voices a low buzz—"He's not even breathing hard," one muttered. The Velta aides leaned closer, their murmurs sharp with interest. Voren uncrossed his arms, stepping forward to watch Kael's final bout—a wiry boy who lasted ten seconds before Kael's elbow found his stomach, sending him wheezing to his knees. The whistle blew again, and Kael stood alone, dust clinging to his tunic, his white hair stark against the gray sky. His gaze flicked upward, not to Voren, but to the ramparts.
There, Lysara Veltharion, Grand Master of Legion VI, commander of Saint Valens' defense, stood motionless. At 32, she was younger than most of her Council peers, her red cloak with its silver hem rippling faintly in the breeze, her silver top glinting under the overcast light. Her white hair, cropped short and streaked with silver, framed a face already hardened by war—steel-gray eyes sharp, a fresh scar tracing her jaw from an Apex demon she'd slaid years prior. She'd climbed to her rank with a resolve that echoed in her stance, her single normal-sized sword sheathed at her hip. She'd been a shadow on the wall all morning, observing the Initiates as part of her duty to Saint Valens, but now her focus locked on Kael. His last move—a fluid dodge and strike—mirrored the precision she'd mastered in her rise. Her head tilted slightly, a rare flicker of interest crossing her stern features.
Voren approached Kael, his boots crunching on the rocky ground. "You've got something, boy," he said, voice low, almost a growl. "More than most." The other Velta nodded, one clapping a hand on the other's shoulder as if to say, This one's marked. The Initiates stared, some with awe, others with envy, their scattered applause breaking the silence. Above, Lysara turned, her red cloak vanishing behind the stone as she descended—perhaps to note Kael's name for Gavren or to weigh his potential herself. Kael felt her eyes linger, and his own narrowed, the weight of his goal pressing harder. He wiped a smear of dirt from his cheek, fists clenching, already replaying each move in his mind, searching for flaws to burn away.
Four years had passed since that first tournament, and the courtyard in Saint Valens bore the weight of time in its deeper ruts and fresher scars. The claw-marked walls stood as ever, weathered sentinels framing a space now dusted with the faint grit of spring winds. The city beyond hummed louder—forges clanging, voices rising from the markets—but within these stones, the air crackled with a sharper tension. The five Initiates from that initial ceremony, once stumbling four-year-olds, returned as children of seven and eight, their bodies leaner, taller, hardened by relentless training. Their off-white tunics hung better now, tailored to fit growing frames, though still stained with sweat and dirt from morning drills. The gray sky overhead hung low, a muted canopy casting the rocky ground in dull light, but the energy among the gathered was anything but dim.