In an age lost to time, from the deepest folds of forgotten history, emerged beings unlike anything the world had ever known. Their origins were shrouded in mystery, their purpose nothing but pure malevolence—and to confront them was nothing short of madness.
They were gaunt as withered branches, towering like palm trees, their bodies draped in tangled, coarse fur—black as pitch, as if spun from the night itself, a night that never knew the light of dawn.
Their claws were long and blade-sharp, their heads reminiscent of decayed animal skulls. Their breath carried a curse, their every footstep heralded death. Across every land, they became known by a single name:
The Wendigo... the curse of this world.
Their sorcery, steeped in blasphemy, was beyond resistance. Their powers defied reason—curses, elemental control, weather manipulation, and illusioncraft. Their thirst for blood could not be quenched; their hunger for death, insatiable. For centuries they scoured the earth, razing kingdoms, fields, and forests—annihilating all who dared oppose them: humans, elves, sweyn, animals, dragons, even flora. All life was extinguished in their wake.
Again and again, the races of the world stood united against them. Yet each time, the Wendigo returned fiercer, more relentless. It began to feel as though the world's fate had been sealed.
But then...
From the ashes of despair, a spark of hope ignited. A man—a human—marked by platinum hair and eyes like emerald flame, born with an extraordinary gift for command, forged a bond with one of the mightiest beings ever to exist:
Valhalla, the great astral dragon, sovereign of dragonkind.
This human made a pact with Valhalla and was granted a power beyond imagining. With it, he united all races under his banner and led them into one final war—a battle that would echo through history.
Legends say the rivers ran red with blood, and every step was a step over graves. Cities were engulfed in fire, and smoke veiled the sun for days on end. But in the end... the world triumphed over the Wendigo.
After countless centuries, the land was finally freed from their nightmarish reign. The Wendigo were utterly eradicated.
Yet before they vanished, they left behind one final, terrible gift...
The last surviving Wendigo cast a dreadful spell, draining the remnants of its life force and infusing it with all its savagery and dark sorcery. From this was born a new curse—a tide of abominations that clawed their way out of a hellish abyss shaped in the Wendigo's image.
These monstrosities were fiercer than the Wendigo themselves. They did not merely destroy—they corrupted. Their mere presence twisted the living into creatures like themselves. And so, they came to be known as:
The Hellborne Invaders.
Once more, the hero stood to face calamity. But this time, he did not stand alone. From every race, the finest warriors rallied to his side. Together, they drove the Invaders back to a forsaken continent, barren and remote. There, with magic granted by Valhalla, the hero raised a colossal natural barrier: a mountain range so vast and steep, its peaks pierced the clouds—beyond even a dragon's reach.
That range came to be known as: The Edge of the Abyss.
And so, the world was sealed off from the cursed continent... Norvalda.
The name of that hero was carved into the stone of history:
Knight of Heroes, Warden of the Stars, the Platinum Devil... Flougel Luxira.
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"This is incredible! I can't believe one of my ancestors was that powerful! Am I really the grandson of a true hero?!"
The voice rang out with vibrant energy, belonging to a boy no older than ten. His skin glowed with youthful health, his hair a deep blood-red, and his emerald eyes sparkled with life. His oval face radiated a captivating charm. He wore a black jacket adorned with gold embroidery, matching trousers, and polished black leather shoes.
He sat on an ornate chair that resembled a throne, swinging his feet with excitement, his voice breaking the usual calm of the Grand Library.
To his right sat a woman in her forties, with warm wheat-toned skin and a slender, refined face. Her jet-black hair was tied neatly into a bun, and she wore a flowing robe of bluish-violet, embroidered with golden lotus motifs. In her hands, she held a black leather-bound book with a dragon's head embossed in gold.
She smiled warmly and replied in a gentle voice:
"Yes, Your Highness. That is why your family is counted among the noblest in our beloved world."
The boy leaned forward eagerly:
"Are there other great figures besides my father and Grandfather Flougel?"
The governess chuckled softly.
"Of course, Your Highness. Your great-grandfather, Lord Flougel's son, was named Valerio. He founded this kingdom and the nations surrounding it."
"Amazing!" the boy exclaimed, eyes wide.
Before he could ask more, the library door opened. A young servant, clad in attire matching the governess's, stepped in and bowed deeply.
"Your Highness, the Supreme Archon and the Grand Archoness await your presence, along with the young lord."
The boy sighed dramatically.
"Goodbye, Nola. When I return from this boring ceremony, you have to tell me the story of Grandfather Valerio, okay?"
Nola smiled and offered a graceful curtsy.
"As His Highness commands."
And so, the young prince departed with the servant, crossing the grand corridors of the palace. The halls shimmered in radiant silver, adorned with golden and black motifs of phoenixes, eagles, lilies, and lotuses. The walls bore masterful oil paintings of trees, rivers, and oceans, and were lined with lavish vases that seemed part of a living artwork. Servants, dressed in formal livery, moved gracefully through the corridors, tending to flowers and furnishings.
After a short walk, the prince and servant reached the palace gardens—an explosion of color and scent. Roses, orchids, lilies, jasmine, tulips, and gloxinias bloomed in perfect harmony. Carefully trimmed trees and bushes surrounded a central fountain of white marble, flanked by four smaller ones of gray granite.
Beside one fountain stood a polished teak table with five chairs. Seated at one was a woman in her early thirties, her elegant features lit gently by the sun. Her complexion was porcelain-like, and her deep green eyes stared thoughtfully ahead. Her rich brown hair was swept into a refined chignon, and she wore a dark green gown with ivory floral embroidery, accentuated by a pearl necklace set with a golden-etched oval gem.
Next to her sat a little girl, no older than five, with soft cheeks and large green eyes that gleamed like morning dew. Her short, silky brown hair danced with the breeze as she hummed happily. Her mother watched her with calm fondness, sipping tea.
Around them stood guards in long black coats with gray trim, armored beneath in silver steel, armed with swords and spears, exuding quiet vigilance.