Years passed since the Battle of Herion, that fateful day when a mortal with nothing but his willpower and bruised fists had felled a giant.
The world remembered that day as the turning point of humanity—a dawn not heralded by gods, but by man.
At the heart of it all stood Herios, the First King, whose name had become a banner, a title, a legend.
From a city born in fire and blood, Herion had grown into a sprawling kingdom.
Where once crude shelters had stood, now rose walls of sturdy stone and brick.
Farms stretched beyond the horizon, rivers were tamed with aqueducts, and roads linked distant lands.
The new banner of Herios—a silver fist against a crimson sun—flew from every tower and fortress under his rule.
Tribes that once fought over scraps and territory were united under his vision. Herios did not conquer merely with blades. He came with words, with order, with justice. He offered law and purpose to the wandering and the war-torn.
