*Tick. Tick. Tick.*
The sound of a tall, old clock echoed softly through the quiet hamlet of *Shamil*.
As the afternoon bell rang, a classroom full of children burst into action—shouting, laughing, and scrambling to their seats. History class was about to begin.
Down the silent corridor of the modest academy, steady footsteps approached. Moments later, an elderly man pushed open the classroom door with a warm smile on his face and a thick, well-worn history tome tucked beneath his right arm.
At the sight of the massive book, *displeasure* spread across the faces of several students.
Noticing their expressions, the old man let out a hearty chuckle. Placing the tome gently on the front desk, he spoke with amusement in his voice:
"Hohoho! Don't look so grim, my young scholars. Today's lesson won't be as dull as usual—you'll enjoy it, I promise. Now, open your books to *Chapter Twelve*, page *267*. We'll skip the first few pages; they're terribly dry."
The students smiled with relief, and soon the room was filled with the rustling of pages.
Once the class settled into silence again, the professor cleared his throat and began to speak...
"Today, we shall talk about the *Twelve Empires* and the *Great Alliances* that shape the balance of our world," the professor began, his voice calm yet commanding.
But before he could continue, a hand shot up, followed by an eager voice:
"Professor! Professor, are you also going to tell us about the *Crimson Emperor*?"
The old man sighed lightly, though a fond smile tugged at his lips.
"Ah, *Alishiya*, that story is not officially part of today's chapter—but since you've asked, I suppose I can indulge your curiosity."
He stepped forward, eyes scanning the class as the room fell into a hush.
"Very well. Let us begin with the tale of the Crimson Emperor."
He opened the large tome to a bookmarked page and continued, his tone now dipped in reverence.
"*Two hundred and seventy-eight years ago*, in the *Sun Calendar Year 1217*, as the first frost of winter settled over the land, a page of history was written not in ink—but in *betrayal and blood*.
The great *Crimson Emperor*, known to the world as *Crimson Ravencrest*, was slain... not by his enemies, but by the one closest to him—his most trusted companion.
With his fall, the mighty *Solgrave Imperium*—once a beacon of strength, prosperity, and unity—was shattered into three."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle.
"From that moment, the number of ruling empires on the continent rose from *nine to twelve*. And yet, the Solgrave Imperium was so vast, so culturally rich, economically powerful, and militarily unmatched, that even its fragments ascended swiftly into greatness.
The three newly formed kingdoms didn't just survive—they flourished. And soon, all three were recognized among the *Five Great Empires*."
He turned the page and pointed toward a hand-drawn map.
"These three are known as the *Crimson Alliance*—bound by shared blood and history, yet divided by ambition."
- *Aurellion* – An empire of elites and arcane mastery, its strength lies in its *exceptional magical academies* and *cutthroat politics*. It stands upon the heartland of the old Solgrave capital.
- *Thur'vaal* – A savage yet honorable nation of *beastkin*, fierce in body and spirit. With lands stretching across snow-covered mountains and ancient forests, they are said to carry the *blessing of ancestral bloodlines*.
- *Vaskrim* – Home to the *reptilian races*, Vaskrim thrives in the art of *stealth and assassination*. They took hold of the *humid grasslands and scorching deserts* once ruled by Solgrave's eastern generals.
"These three empires, once one, now hold a dangerous unity—threatening the balance that once kept the continent in check."
He looked up again.
"And that, my dear students, is the beginning of the tale we now live in."
After the fall of the once-mighty Solgrave Imperium, the remaining two great empires, along with other wary realms, grew fearful. The alliance forged by the three newly formed empires cast a long shadow, threatening to engulf them next. In response, these powers united, forming the Alliance of Resistance — a coalition forged to oppose the rising threat that loomed ever nearer at their gates.
Each great empire boasted a military might formidable enough to defeat two lesser kingdoms in battle. Among the Alliance of Resistance stood:
*Cael'tharas* — an elven empire counted among the five great powers. Renowned for its elegance and age-old strength, it mastered the art of long-range warfare, commanding the battlefield with precision and grace.
*Vel'sanya* — one of the lesser empires, home to fierce feline humanoids. Agile hunters and warriors, they excelled in the craft of tracking and striking with unmatched swiftness.
The balance of power teetered precariously, as these alliances prepared to clash for dominion and survival.
And suddenly, a boy's voice rang out from the back of the room.
"Professor! Professor! You said today's lesson wouldn't be boring!"
The old professor raised a single eyebrow, a hearty laugh escaping his lips.
"Hahaha, indeed, Varron! I nearly forgot the promise I made to you all. Thank you for the reminder. To keep it brief, we shall save the rest for the next lesson."
He paused thoughtfully, then continued,
"Now, where was I? Ah, yes—the remaining empires of the opposing alliance:"
*Khorvalis*
A harsh land ruled by fierce barbarians, known for their raw strength and unyielding spirit.
*Bhar-Khazid*
Also called the Dwarven Kingdom, renowned for its masterful craftsmanship and unbreakable fortresses.
*Yndari Dominion*
The domain of winged scholars, a people revered for their wisdom and arcane knowledge.
"And finally," the professor said, lowering his voice slightly, "the rest are neutral empires. Among them stands the great Salmira Vale—one of the neutral powers that keep the balance."
"Is there anyone here who can name one of the neutral empires?"
The classroom erupted as every student shouted,
"Professor! Professor!"
The old man raised a hand, quieting them.
"But it must be an empire other than our own."
Instantly, the room fell silent.
A sly smile crept across the professor's face.
"Hohoho, yes—our very own Aramoora is one of the neutral empires, mostly inhabited by humans."
He closed his book with a gentle thud and announced,
"Now, for your homework: find the names of the other neutral empires. I will ask you tomorrow."
With that, he gathered his large book and began walking toward the door.
"No more classes today."
The students erupted once more, jumping and running with excitement.
Yet outside the classroom window, a new incident was quietly unfolding—visible to all, but unnoticed by the joyful students inside.
Outside the academy, along the dirt-worn path that cut through the village of Shamil, a scene unfolded that no one inside the classroom noticed.
A middle-aged man—with a mole on his right cheek and a slight limp—was raining blows upon a young boy. The boy, barely fifteen, stood small for his age. His golden hair, dulled by dust and grime, clung to his bruised skin. A faint glimmer of silver lingered in his eyes—eyes that had seen too much for someone so young. As another punch landed, a thin line of blood traced down the corner of his lip, and he crumpled to the ground.
"You filthy orphan!" the man spat, his voice thick with venom. "You dare ask for bread? You think food grows on trees?"
With a grunt, he kicked the boy, sending him skidding a few feet across the dirt. The villagers passed by, casting glances but offering no help—just another nameless orphan, just another beating.
But the boy… stood.
He trembled as he rose, blood on his chin, defiance in his eyes. He looked directly at the man and shouted—not in anger, but in unwavering conviction.
"Yes, I'm an orphan. I don't have a name. But I've never begged. I've never stolen what wasn't mine."
His voice was raw, honest. "I pulled your cart from the city gates to this very road because your leg was hurt. I asked for two and a half loaves of bread as payment. That's all."
The man's face twisted with rage, more at the boy's pride than his words. He lunged forward, fist raised, mouth spewing curses. But the boy moved—dodging to the left with sharp instinct—and struck the man's injured leg. With a pained cry, the man fell, writhing on the ground.
"You'll regret this! I'll make you pay for humiliating me!"
Unbothered, the boy turned to the cart. He took three loaves of bread and bit into one. Chewing slowly, he said, "The half loaf is for the punch."
He walked away.
"Tell me your name, you arrogant brat!" the man bellowed after him. "Tell me what name to curse!"
The boy paused.
The setting sun bathed him in hues of crimson and gold. His silver eyes caught the dying light—burning not with fury, but with purpose.
"Arrogant? No… this is pride. The kind you'll never understand."
He glanced over his shoulder, a faint smile touching his lips.
"And as for my name… I'll earn one. A name not given… but chosen. A name worth remembering."
With that, the boy stepped into the crowd and disappeared—unseen by most, unnoticed by many… but not for long.