On a secluded, mysterious, remote island, the walls of an ancient castle groaned and quaked vehemently.
The floors creaked, walls sifted dust, and mice scurried along the depths of the everlasting shadows.
12 men, draped in white robes and wielding obsidian claymores, solemnly entered a dimly lit room. Their robes were embedded with a symbol of a golden crown with a black longsword piercing through it. The robes covered most of their bodies, so only the men's faces were exposed to the dusty air.
As they entered the room, they lined up in an orderly fashion. There were three rows of four men, each standing parallel to the man in front of them. Their faces were grim with anguish as they clutched their swords one at a time. Their knuckles whitened as they gritted their teeth.
Just ahead, located on the wall, was a portrait of a man whose face was cut off by the shadow.
The men's irises shrank as they gazed upon the image. Some stumbled back while others gasped. The men hesitantly lifted their heads and focused on the eyes of the portrait.
A compressing, immense pressure suffocated every corner of the room. The backs of all the men tensed as they plummeted, forced into a prostration position.
Droplets of cold sweat dotted the ground; no man present could withstand the monstrous ambiance that had encapsulated the trembling room.
The man closest to the portrait, one who donned a broken crown, showed signs of struggling to part his lips. His jaw clenched and released, twitching uncontrollably.
It wasn't until a pool of blood had formed directly underneath his head that sound escaped his quivering lips. The mouth he once struggled to part had been tainted with crimson liquid.
The man heaved an exhale, revealing his blood-soaked tongue.
With all the power and will he could muster, he began his invocation. "Conqueror of Aglana, forgive us, for we have let the wretched hunters execute your blessed children." His tone was riddled with fear and guilt.
Tears streamed down the rest of the men's faces, but they could not wipe them. The men remained prostrating toward the shadow-covered portrait.
The broken-crowned man continued, "You have privileged us, providing your unworthy servants with the very power you dictate. We thank you graciously, O' Archon of Authority."
The sound of blood splattering on the ground enveloped the somber room. Each robed man had bit his tongue and staggered to get up. The only way to resist the sheer dominance of the portrait's gaze is through self-harm.
The broken-crowned man, who had soft black hair and dilating hazel eyes, unsheathed his fervently buzzing claymore and announced imperiously. "Men! By the Archon's will, we shall scour the enemies! Protect his children! Recement the glory of the prominent Day Dynasty!"
The men affirmed enthusiastically in unison, "Ay! We shall avenge our fallen brethren!" Each one began unsheathing their weapons and gripping the handles harder. A coil of dark, foggy magic had begun to surround their blades, twisting and convulsing like a serpent squeezing its prey.
The sound of their buzzing claymores had begun to emanate from the restrained and enclosed space. Gilead, the man who tailored the broken crown, turned his body to face the men. "Call to action. Seize the Chronicles." A compact, simple order.
With a stern denotation, he continued. "The Imperialists all over Aglana will aid in awakening the Archon's Descendants. Our duty is to rid the world of hunters, ensuring that no one will harm 'His' children."
It was not until a faint presence made its way through the ancient, crumbling castle. The men's ears pricked up, and cold sweat slid down the sides of their temples.
One of the men, who had ginger hair and green eyes, spoke out. "Vizier Gilead, I sense... someone."
Gilead nodded affirmatively; he had already noticed a foreign presence. He swung his claymore and held it directly in front of his body. It would be a matter of seconds before the men engaged in combat.
Gilead massaged his temples. "Men. Get ready."
The men nodded, their eyes darting to where the attack would come from. Gilead's pupils constricted and his mouth went agape. "Beneath!" He pointed the edge of the large sword toward the foundation beneath their feet.
It was too late.
The floor that lay underneath the robed men shook violently before caving. The men braced themselves and descended. However, they were not dropped to the level under the previous one, no.
They fell into a never-ending abyss.
A white fog surfaced and surrounded the men who were spiraling into an empty void. Gilead, and the rest of the men, clutched their throats. This pale mist had left it muted.
The fog that surrounded them as they descended began to spin. Then, a section spread and separated from the outer portions. It wrapped around each falling man, including Gilead.
Coiling around their bodies, the unknown mist constricted, rendering the men choke violently. Gilead, whose face was turning a faint hue of red, struggled to move the sword he held on to. I must repel this foreign attack! His neck deepened in color and the sides of his eyes turned maroon.
Alas, Gilead and some of the other men broke free of the mist that squeezed their arms; they could finally fight back now.
Yet, the area went silent. They remained falling into the endless pit, but it was now quiet; only the noise of the wind resisting their fall could be heard.
That was until they all collectively heard a simple, calm, yet gut-shattering snap. Whoosh.
They appeared in front of the colossal castle; a flag that bore the Imperial Day Dynasty emblem fluttered in the wind.
Behind them, they could sense a figure slowly approaching. Gilead and the men jerked their heads before shifting their bodies and facing the figure, who was shrouded in ethereal white fog. His hand was extended outwards, and his wrist was swaying side to side, up and down.
Gilead shuddered, his eyes were tinted with a shade of black as his face darkened. He hissed under his breath,
"Icas..."