Astra was a world of many races. Elves tended their ancient forests, dwarves mined deep within their mountains, and beastfolk roamed wild lands where few outsiders dared to step. They lived, traded, and guarded their own borders, rarely involving themselves in matters beyond survival.
But not all races were content with neutrality.
For centuries, two powers dominated the continent: humans and demons.
Both had vast lands, fertile territories, and—most importantly—numbers. Humans bred quickly, building sprawling empires across plains and rivers. Demons, diverse in forms and abilities, thrived in their harsh lands, bound by strength and a hierarchy that kept their kind united against outsiders.
It was inevitable they would clash.
What began as border skirmishes turned into open war. Fortresses rose along contested valleys, trade routes turned into battlegrounds, and generations of soldiers knew nothing but fighting. For decades the war raged, yet neither side could truly overwhelm the other.
The humans pushed into demon lands, but were forced back. The demons counterattacked, only to find human walls too strong to break. Back and forth it went, leaving the land between them scarred and soaked in blood.
This was the state of Astra—a stalemate war that neither humans nor demons could accept.
The other races watched from afar. Elves muttered that both sides were blind to the balance of nature. Dwarves scoffed, claiming wars between humans and demons were distractions from true craft. But neutrality did not mean ignorance. Every race knew: when the balance between the two great powers broke, it would decide the future of the continent.
And finally, the humans made their move.
*****
In the capital of the largest human empire, the mood was tense. The emperor had called for something that had not been attempted for centuries, something recorded only in fragments of ancient texts: a summoning ritual.
It was said that long ago, beings from a "higher world" had walked Astra. They were stronger than mortals, quicker to learn, sharper in mind and body. Heroes who bent the world to their will.
If they could be summoned again, perhaps humanity could end the stalemate.
So the empires united. Mana stones, priceless and rare, were gathered in absurd quantities, enough to fund entire wars. The greatest mages from every kingdom were summoned to the capital, scholars from across the land brought together to guide the ritual. Even the proudest lords set aside their grudges, for they believed this was the only chance to break demon resistance once and for all.
The palace's grand hall was remade into a colossal summoning chamber. Its marble floor was carved with intricate circles, runes upon runes layered in precise patterns. Crystals glowed faintly, feeding on the mountain of mana stones stored beneath the floor.
Knights lined the walls, steel glinting under torchlight. Priests whispered blessings. Nobles and officials sat in the balconies above, watching with pale faces. Everyone knew—the success of this ritual could decide the war.
The emperor himself stood at the far end of the hall, silent, his expression grim. He had sacrificed more wealth and lives for this gamble than he ever wished to. Now he waited, as countless eyes turned to the mages.
"Begin the ritual."
The command was quiet, but it carried across the hall.
*****
Dozens of mages raised their staffs and began to chant. Their voices overlapped, deep and steady, as mana thickened in the air. The summoning circle flared with light, its runes blazing one by one.
The temperature dropped. A low hum echoed through the chamber, vibrating in the bones of everyone present. Crystals cracked under the strain, spilling raw mana into the circle.
The chanting grew harsher. Mages bit their tongues, blood mixing with their words to fuel the ancient spell. Their bodies shook as the strain built, yet none dared to falter.
The light expanded, reaching the vaulted ceiling, casting the chamber in blinding brilliance. Knights squinted. Nobles shielded their eyes. The emperor never moved.
Then—shadows appeared inside the circle.
At first faint, like smoke trapped in glass. Then clearer, shapes of human figures writhing, their voices echoing faintly in panic. Screams. Shouts. The sounds of another world bleeding into Astra.
The circle pulsed, pulling harder, tearing open the barrier between worlds.
****
At that very moment, far away—on Earth—a classroom shook.
Students leapt from their seats as strange symbols lit the floor. Glowing lines crawled across their bodies, burning into their skin. Panic spread.
"What's happening!?"
"It's glowing—!"
"Help!"
One by one, they began to vanish. Their voices echoed, fading into nothing as their forms dissolved like smoke in the wind. Desks rattled, books slammed shut, and in moments, the classroom stood empty.
*****
Back in Astra, the ritual reached its peak.
The screaming figures solidified, collapsing onto the marble floor. Boys and girls, dressed in strange clothes, gasped for breath as the magic released them. They clutched their heads, their limbs trembling as they struggled to understand where they were.
The knights tensed, weapons ready. The nobles leaned forward in shock. The emperor's eyes narrowed.
The summoning had worked.
They had called beings from another world.
And among them, unnoticed in the chaos, one black-haired boy raised his head. His name was Ray.
He didn't know it yet, but his fate would not follow the same path as those around him.