Asha, the Capital of Vidan
At a dreadful dusk, a vast rain had engulfed the beating heart of Vidan; the sound of war trumpets echoed from distant lands. A great massacre had begun; defenseless people drowned in blood, and the screams of children being slaughtered were not merely a human tragedy, but an echo of the collapse of cosmic order. The sorrow of that scene, like an inescapable destiny, bound itself to the depths of Oorel's mighty soul, chaining him to eternal grief. Time and again, such horrors had repeated throughout history. Even Oorel's third-rank servants could not contain the slaughter, yet they stood as shields for the defenseless, with not a trace of fear seeping into their spirits.
Oorel felt all that transpired deep within his being, yet his power was beyond what could save the people. Step by step, he walked out from the gates of his palace and knelt upon the entrance stairs. In profound silence, he whispered to himself:
Is this my destiny? Is this the strength within me, that I cannot wield it to save them? Or perhaps, because my trust in myself is boundless, fate tests me in this way and will continue to test me.
With tears flowing like pearls down his face, a bitter smile touched his lips. He lifted his head to the heavens and, with a hushed murmur—like a confession to himself—he reproached his sins and shortcomings.
Amidst the howls of the storm, a shadow appeared beside Oorel, and with a half-serious tone said:
Oorel, that sorrowful face does not suit you; I doubt it befits you at all.
Oorel, still on his knees, smiled bitterly, then rose to his feet and replied:
Welcome. Forgive me, I cannot host you properly now; as you know well, I am caught in the cleansing of Vidan's distant regions.
The man, standing almost at Oorel's side, asked sternly:
Those incomplete beings again? They've risen once more?
With a deep breath, Oorel answered, his back turned:
They are not ignorant creatures; the power they wield even surpasses that of my own children.
The man, astonished, raised his right hand beneath his chin and muttered:
Vemprax? I never thought they could surpass even your third-rank servants.
Sadly, Oorel said, "that is the truth. What makes my heart tremble is that these beings… they are growing and evolving.
The man sighed, disappointed:
I wanted to ask why you don't send your second- or first-rank servants, but well, lucky for you—I am here.
And with the next scream of the storm, he vanished.
Oorel, frustrated by the abrupt exit, muttered with an angry, sarcastic tone:
One day… I'll get back at him.
...
Meanwhile, in the far reaches of Vidan
amid the firestorm and colossal slaughter, a voice cried out:
As you see, Oorel, our god, has abandoned us and drowns in luxury within his palace! Must we pay the price of his sins and neglect?
At that moment, a deep, icy voice thundered across the skies:
You are truly vile; I often wonder how he, despite your ingratitude, still praises you and guards you.
The young man, terror in his eyes and trembling in his voice, asked:
Who… who are you?
From the depths of the shadows, a man's voice resounded, and a figure rose from the earth:
I am Negro… one of the Eternal Legion. Best you flee at once, before calamity chains you.
At his words, all scattered in panic, leaving only the sound of burning homes that howled through the storm. Negro did not move, standing still, his sharp eyes watching every corner with absolute caution.
Then, from the distance, a shrill roar surged forth, drawing nearer with every moment; it was as though hundreds marched at once. Hearing this, a bitter smile curved Negro's lips. He raised his hands, and with but a flick of his fingers, dreadful shadows emerged from the abyss of darkness. With a voice dripping in mockery and the frost of death, he declared:
Alas… your lives end here.
The Vemprax swarmed from every direction, yet none could touch him. With mere flicks of his fingers, Negro tore them down one by one, blood and shadows painting the ground. His cold, lifeless eyes betrayed no feeling, no flicker of hesitation.
Among them, the strongest arose, its roar shaking the earth and driving Negro back. Yet he advanced without delay; his steps silent as though he were a moving shadow. With a gesture, he summoned a blackened katana from the abyss of his own darkness.
With one strike, he severed the beast's arm. In agony, the creature roared from the depths of its existence:
You? Who are you, to dare challenge our king?
But before it could finish, Negro beheaded him, blood flooding his body. Within that torrent, Negro fell into deep thought and murmured:
King?