The river was wide and slow, moving like silver beneath the morning sun. On its banks stood walls of mud and stone, stacked high and thick. Flags waved in the breeze — long cloth dyed red with symbols of flame.
This was Ar'thaal, a city born from Eon's teachings.
But now, it was a city preparing for war.
At the center of Ar'thaal stood a tall tower made of limestone. From its top, a man watched the horizon. His hair was tied in braids, his chest marked with white paint. His skin was rough, but his eyes were calm.
That man was Eon.
Years had passed since he had first taught fire and words. He had traveled many lands. He had crossed deserts, walked through jungles, and watched tribes rise into cities. In every place, he left behind wisdom — how to shape tools, how to build shelters, how to plant seeds.
Some remembered him as a teacher.
Others called him a spirit.
But in Ar'thaal, they called him King.
He had not asked for it.
But they needed someone.
And he was always there when the world needed him.
Now, the drums of war beat in the distance.
A rival tribe — the Tarkaan, painted in black ash — had crossed the western hills. They rode chariots pulled by horned beasts and carried blades of stone and bone. They burned villages and stole children.
Eon had sent messengers.
He had sent gifts.
He had offered peace.
But the Tarkaan laughed.
They wanted land.
They wanted power.
They wanted to see Ar'thaal burn.
And so… Eon stood in his tower, watching.
He did not want war.
But he would not let his people be slaughtered.
Below him, warriors trained. Shields clashed. Spears were sharpened. Women wove armor from bark and leather. Children carried water to the soldiers. The whole city moved like one body — strong, focused.
Eon walked down from the tower and entered the central square. The people bowed as he passed. They did not cheer. They respected him too deeply for that. He had no crown. No throne. But they followed him.
A general approached — a broad-shouldered man with a scar over his eye.
"My king," he said, "the Tarkaan will reach the river by nightfall."
Eon nodded.
"We are ready," the general added.
"No," Eon said softly.
"...No?"
"We are not ready to fight," Eon replied. "We are ready to protect."
The general frowned, confused. "What is the difference?"
Eon looked up at the sky. "One kills because of hate. The other fights because of love."
As night fell, the sky turned red.
Fires burned on the western hills.
The Tarkaan had arrived.
Their war cries echoed across the valley.
Eon stood at the riverbank, facing them. He wore no armor, only a cloak made of red cloth. A staff of dark wood rested in his hand — carved with symbols of the sun, moon, and flame.
Behind him stood the warriors of Ar'thaal.
Spears ready.
Hearts strong.
The Tarkaan leader rode forward. His skin was marked with black paint. Skulls hung from his belt. He raised a cruel axe.
"You are the Fire-King!" he shouted. "We came to burn your fire down!"
Eon stepped forward. "Then look into it," he said calmly. "And know that it will not break."
The battle began with a roar.
Tarkaan warriors charged across the shallow river. Ar'thaal's archers fired from the walls. Spears flew. Shields broke.
Eon did not move at first.
He watched.
He listened.
He let the people of Ar'thaal show what they had become.
Brave.
Unified.
Unbreakable.
When the front lines pushed too close, Eon finally stepped forward.
He raised his staff.
And the earth answered.
The ground beneath the enemy rippled. A burst of heat rose from the river. Steam hissed into the air. The Tarkaan slipped, stumbled, screamed.
Some turned to flee.
Others stood frozen.
Eon walked into the mist, untouched.
Everywhere he stepped, the stone glowed red.
One warrior rushed him.
Eon turned, grabbed the man's weapon, and crushed it in his bare hand. He pushed the man back without killing him.
"I do not wish for death," he said. "But I will not let you destroy."
Another warrior attacked from the side.
Eon spun his staff, creating a wave of force that knocked the attacker back into the river.
The enemy faltered.
Their fear grew.
The fire in Eon's eyes burned brighter.
Then he shouted — not in anger, but with the full weight of memory.
He shouted with the voice of someone who had lived a thousand lives.
His voice echoed like thunder across the field.
"Enough!"
Silence.
Even the wounded stopped moaning.
The Tarkaan leader dropped his axe.
He fell to his knees.
"Who are you?" he whispered.
Eon looked at him with calm eyes. "I am life that refuses to die. I am the fire that teaches, not destroys. You seek to take, but I came to give. Go now… and change your path."
The Tarkaan did not fight again.
They left.
Days later, peace returned to Ar'thaal.
Eon stood by the river, watching the waters flow. The people sang songs about the battle. Children drew his face in the dirt. Mothers told stories of the "Flame King" who made the earth speak.
But Eon felt no pride.
Only silence.
The world would need him again.
Sooner than they thought.
One night, as he walked beyond the fields, he looked up at the stars.
There, in the sky, it blinked again.
The Rift.
Still open.
Still watching.
And deep in the forest, another dungeon was forming.
He could feel it.
Even in that ancient time.
Even in peace.
The war beyond the stars had not yet begun.
But it was coming.
And he would be ready.
Again.