Kaelen sat on the cracked stone step, watching the Core.
It didn't look like much — a slab of black rock, split down the middle, its inner light dim, pulsing like a tired heart. Vines had grown over one side. A child had carved their name into the other.
But every night, it held the Shield.
Every night, it kept the darkness out.
And every night, Chief Boran sat before it, silent, hand resting on its surface, as if listening.
Tonight, he didn't sit alone.
"You wanted to know what it is," he said, not looking at Kaelen. "Not just a rock. Not just a light. You've been staring at it since you could walk."
Kaelen said nothing. He never did.
Boran exhaled, old bones creaking as he lowered himself beside him. The wind had gone still. Even the crickets — those that hadn't already vanished into the cracks — had stopped singing.
"Then listen," he said. "And listen well. Because once you know, you can't unhear it. And the world… it changes around those who remember."
"Long ago," Boran began, voice low, like gravel shifting in a tomb, "the world was not like this. It was not broken. It was not afraid.
It was alive.
The Forger, the first and last god, dreamed Menoria into being — not from nothing, but from silence and will. He shaped the lands, the seas, the sky — not with hands, but with thought. And when it was done, He stepped back. Let it breathe on its own.
To guide it, He made the Nine-Path Dragons — each a force of balance. Earth. Fire. Water. Wind. Thunder. Light. Darkness. Ether. And the firstborn, the Void Dragon, who ruled the edge where the world still dreams itself into being.
For a time, it worked.
But silence is fragile.
From beyond the Void, Nyxaroth came — not a god, not a man, but a hunger wrapped in lies. It did not attack. It did not burn. It whispered.
It reached the Shaitanits, the tricksters born of the Void Dragon, and turned them. Not with force. With truths twisted just enough to break faith.
'Why serve balance that ignores you?'
'Why uphold a peace that calls you evil?'
And the Shaitanits, who once tested souls to make them stronger, became sowers of chaos. Corruptors. Kings of the unseen.
War came.
The dragons fought. The sky split. The earth screamed.
One by one, the dragons fell.
The Fire Dragon burned in cold flame.
The Water Dragon drowned in a sea of solidified nightmares.
The Light Dragon was blinded, chained in a cage of darkness that fed on hope.
And the Void Dragon, seeing the end, did not die.
It gave its power — all of it — to the world.
It created the Cleansing Cores — living stones, born from Menoria's will, to hold back the rot. Not weapons. Not thrones. But hearts of order.
Whoever claims one becomes the Heart of the Land — Chief, then Markus, Duke, King, Emperor, as the Shield grows. The land obeys. The System awakens. And for a time, life returns.
But the war did not end with the dragons.
The Forger and Nyxaroth clashed beyond reality — not in fire, but in dreams. Their war still rages, silent, endless. Neither can win. Neither can lose.
And Menoria… was left behind.
Now, the Cores are all that stand between us and the dark.
They are rare.
They are weak.
And they fade — when the claimer grows old.
When the land forgets.
When the corruption seeps in.
This one…"
Boran placed a trembling hand on the stone.
"It was strong once. Level III. Shield stretched three miles. We had a Shrine — a tower of white stone where the Flame-Singers lit the sky.
But I failed it.
I didn't grow.
I didn't fight.
I didn't expand.
And now…"
He looked at Kaelen.
"The System no longer speaks to me. No missions. No title. Just… silence.
But you… you're different.
You don't cast a shadow.
You don't flinch at the dark.
And sometimes, when you look at the Core… it pulses.
Like it knows you.
Like it's waiting."
He leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper.
"I don't know what you are. But whatever it is — the world will demand a price.
And when it comes… don't hesitate."
Kaelen didn't sleep that night.
He stood at the edge of the village, staring into the mist beyond the Shield.
Something was wrong.
Not in the air.
Not in the sky.
But in the silence.
Too deep.
Too still.
Then, movement.
A figure stepped from the fog.
It wore the face of Mira, the midwife.
Her clothes were torn. Her eyes wide. She raised a hand, trembling.
"Help me," she said. "It followed me… I ran… but it's close…"
No alarm sounded.
No System warning.
Purity didn't drop.
But Kaelen saw it.
The way her shadow didn't move with her.
The way her breath didn't fog the air.
The way her voice echoed — just slightly — like it was speaking from inside a well.
It wasn't Mira.
It was wearing her.
Before he could move, the thing smiled — too wide — and its skin split.
From within, something emerged — long limbs, black eyes, a mouth with too many teeth.
A Skin-Eater.
It moved fast.
Harn was the first to die — his throat torn before he could shout.
Then the Edge-Watchers.
Then the Flame-Singers.
The Core pulsed — weak, desperate — trying to seal the breach.
But the creature didn't attack the Shield.
It went straight for Boran.
It didn't kill him with claws.
It placed a hand on his chest — black veins spreading — and severed his bond to the Core.
Boran screamed — not in pain, but in loss.
And the Core… it shattered.
The Shield collapsed like glass.
Darkness poured in.
The village burned.
Kaelen ran.
Behind him, the last thing he saw was the black stone — the one the Submitte had dropped — rising an inch off the ground, pulsing once, as if calling.
But he didn't look back.
He ran.
And deep within his chest, something stirred.
Not his heart.
Something older.
Something forged.