The world of Vhalerynth began with a scream that split the sky.
Lightning tore across the newborn heavens, and for a single, blinding instant, creation saw itself reflected in the storm.
From that moment onward, everything that lived — gods, beasts, and mortals alike — carried within them a spark of that first thunder.
They called it Resonance.
The pulse of the world.
The language of evolution.
But the world forgot what thunder meant.
It became a tool. A weapon. A religion.
In the eastern realm of Vhaeloria, where ambition burns hotter than sunlight, strength isn't worshipped — it's required.
Those who cannot evolve are left behind, buried beneath the footsteps of the strong.
Among them was a boy named Eryndor Vale.
He had no crest, no noble blood, no mentor.
Only a dull blade, and a curiosity sharp enough to cut gods.
He wasn't born with genius — he built it, one scar at a time.
While others swung swords for glory, he studied every vibration, every hum, every glint of mana that passed through steel.
He trained not to survive, but to understand.
And every answer led him closer to one question that refused to die:
"If lightning can destroy mountains by accident, what could it do on purpose?"
The day his Resonant Core awakened, thunder answered.
It wasn't loud.
It was quiet — almost reverent.
As if the sky itself paused to listen.
Blue lightning seeped through his veins.
The air trembled.
And for the first time in centuries, the storm recognized a human not as prey…
but as kin.
They would come to call him many things — swordsman, genius, heretic, god.
But before all that, he was just a boy with a broken sword and a single idea burning behind his eyes:
"If the world hides its truth in storms… then I'll learn to wield the storm itself."
And thus began the tale of the one who was not chosen —
but born of thunder.