In the dim, rotting ruins of the palace hall, a lone figure sits upon a cracked throne of stone. Shadows cling to the jagged edges, swallowing what little light filters through the shattered ceiling. The figure is cloaked in black, their hood concealing everything but the faint ember glow of a sword hovering beside them—a blade wreathed in silent flame, its tip aimed toward the ground.
The seat beneath them bears scars of ages past: dried blood etched deep into the stone armrests, claw marks raked across the base. Around them lie fragments of colored glass and fallen murals. One mural, half-destroyed, shows the faint outline of a red dragon bowing before a once-grand yet now headless figure. At the throne's feet, a pool of blood gleams under a narrow shaft of light, still and viscous.
With a slow exhale, the hooded stranger grips the right arm of the throne and rises. The motion sheds dust and age. The hood falls back, revealing two pairs of glowing crimson eyes—four hollow, lifeless orbs that burn against the darkness. A faint grin curls their lips.
They take the floating sword in hand and drag its fiery edge along the stone floor. The blade's hum grows into a roar, sending fragments of rubble trembling into the air. The pool of blood ripples outward, spattering the walls like rain.
"Welcome to my chaos of a story," the figure murmurs, voice echoing with unsettling mirth. "If you were hoping for tales of joy, beauty, and simple happy endings… you've taken a wrong turn."
They lift the sword and point it directly at you.
"This is your last warning to turn back."
A pause. The grin widens.
"Well then. I suppose you're staying."
With a flourish, the blade is cast aside, embedding itself in the stone. The doors creak open before them—and the hall beyond is carnage. Piles of bodies lie burned, torn, half-devoured. Smoke and decay taint the air.
"Fa'la'aack!" they curse—the words in the old tongue of dragons, Varack. ("What the fuck.")
The figure sighs and steps forward. "Now… where do I even start?"
Their tone shifts—colder now, distant, as if reciting a memory. The room flickers, and the first vision begins.
Background
The world flickered like an old, dying reel.
Flashback 1
"Let's start here," the figure said — his voice neither man nor shadow, but something in between. Fingers, long and pale, dragged across a curtain of darkness, and the scene materialized in trembling frames.
A girl sat on a bed, her body a map of shining fractures. Yellow light leaked through her cracking skin, each fissure pulsing with pain. She hugged herself, as though her own glow might burn her alive.
From the corner of the room, a man watched — silent, breathing slow. His hair was a cloud of white storm, his eyes mismatched: one burning gold, the other frozen blue. He did not move. He only observed.
"Hmm," the figure mused, a smirk in their voice. "Too far. She's not ready yet."
With a slick snap of his fingers, the light collapsed, devoured by black.
Another flicker. Another memory.
"How about... here?"The figure tilted his head as new shapes rippled into form — a woman, caught in the grip of a monstrous hand, her throat caged. She gasped as her captor tilted her chin upward, forcing her gaze toward the unseen. Her head fell back against a broad chest of stone-cold flesh. He whispered something into her ear, but the sound was lost beneath the hum of power vibrating through the air.
"Mmm, one of my favorite moments," the figure chuckled. "Let's move on, shall we? Time waits for no one... not even me."
The darkness swirled, gathering into mist and memory.
"Now… here we go."
The past unfolded like an ancient map on fire. Long ago, before time learned to breathe, four clans ruled the hidden realms.
They were not born equal.They were not meant to survive together.But they did.
The narrator spoke, and the realms trembled to his voice:
"The Spirits — dreamers of the dead. The Waterlings — children of the deep. The Astrolings — the burning ones, split between light and darkness. The Espalings — green-hearted keepers of nature's breath."
Each clan thrived within its own fractured world: Fantas, Keano, Diko, and Hysip — reflections of death, ocean, energy, and growth. They never crossed; to do so meant death. Blood was sacred, and purity meant survival.
And beyond them all were the Dragons.
Born of deception, time, and the elements, they called Aiga home — a cradle of all life, bound by stone and fire. There were three great colonies:
Rieg, the Red Dragons — war incarnate. Massive, unrelenting, devourers of entire cities. They could absorb any power but their own, weaponizing the essence of others.
Oicheia, the Blue Dragons — masters of elements, fierce and dominant in human form, tamers of air, water, earth, and flame.
Yaros, the White Dragons — near-mythical. Healers, seers, and keepers of time itself. Gentle, but fatal when provoked.
And yet, love — that fragile rebellion — ignored every law.
An Astroling cloaked in dark matter met a Spirit maiden of light. Their hearts burned across dimensions until a forbidden child was born. Castel.
The first hybrid. The first sin given flesh.
Ahh... yes," the figure whispered, lingering on that image — a crying newborn wrapped in shadow and blue light.
He was my grandfather. The first king. His birth unstrung the order of creation. The dragons, threatened by his power, sought to claim him. Thus began the War of Serpents, a conflict that burned three years and erased thousands of names from history.
In the end, the clans united — Spirits, Waterlings, Astrolings, Espalings — and drove the dragons into the void. Castel's parents sealed them there with blood and sacrifice.
He became the first king of the unified realm — Aiga, where all bloodlines were forced to coexist under one rule. And yet, his decree remained sharp as iron:
"Let there be no more hybrids. There can be only one."
The figure leaned back, the reel of history slowing to a soft glow.Their smile— something cruel, knowing, almost fond. "Now that you understand where it all began," he whispered, eyes burning gold."Let's see where it ends."
The world fractured again.