People often ask — where do we truly learn the most? Some say from books, others from knowledge itself. Some claim experience is the greatest teacher. Yet, there are those who whisper that the greatest lessons lie not in words or wisdom, but in the echoes of history — in the stories of our people.
Through their triumphs, we see hope. Through their mistakes, we find guidance. For every downfall they suffered became a lesson carved into the stones of time — a warning to those who would come after. What once led to their ruin could become our salvation, if only we choose to learn... and change what they could not.Today I will tell you such a story — one hewn from the archives of what must never be done. It is a tale that names those to avoid, those not to anger, those who should be struck down if fate allows, and those from whom mercy must be begged. Listen well: within these pages are the warnings carved by blood and regret, and the choices that separate ruin from survival.
This story begins centuries ago, in an age when the world itself bowed before a single banner — the Empire of Begonia. It was they who conquered the warring kingdoms and bound the shattered lands into one, forging a realm that stretched from the frozen mountains of the north to the restless seas of the south, and from the burning deserts of the east to the endless plains of the west.
Under their rule, peace had flourished. The people called the Empire their salvation, for Begonia's strength had brought order where chaos once reigned. But peace, as always, is fragile — a candle trembling in the wind.
For when the seventeenth Emperor ascended the throne, the light of Begonia began to fade. He was no ruler of honor nor guardian of justice. He was a tyrant — one drunk on power, whose greed burned hotter than any flame, and whose shadow would soon consume the very empire his forefathers built.
With the aid of his loyal sword, Thalan Kaelmont, Emperor Magnar Begonia spread terror across the realm. Nobles who once schemed behind velvet curtains now groveled at his feet, and commoners trembled at the sound of his name. Every soul within the Begonia Empire soon learned the meaning of submission — for Magnar's rule was not to be questioned, only feared.
Even the barbarians of the frozen north, who had lived untouched for generations, felt the fire of his ambition. His decree echoed across mountain and sea:
"Bend the knee beneath my banner, or be buried beneath the soil. Every grain, every stone, every breath on this land belongs to me — Magnar Begonia, ruler of this world."
He was a towering man of six feet and two inches, shoulders broad as a warhorse's flank, his golden hair falling like sunlight over eyes of venomous green. There was beauty in him — the cruel kind, the kind that makes men obey and women pray.
At his side stood Thalan Kaelmont, Duke of the North — his most trusted hand and deadliest blade. With hair red as flame and eyes like fresh-spilled blood, Thalan was the embodiment of loyalty without conscience. He was the strike that followed Magnar's word, the silence that came after rebellion. Cold, precise, and merciless — the Emperor's will made flesh.
Together they ruled not as men, but as gods of war — one commanding the storm, the other delivering it.
In just two years, Magnar Begonia and his crimson sword, Thalan Kaelmont, crushed the barbarians beneath their banner. The northern tribes, once feared for their savagery, now bent the knee and called the Emperor their lord. Yet victory only fed Magnar's hunger.
When his armies crossed the northern mountains — through peaks once thought to mark the end of the world — they discovered how small their empire truly was. Beyond those frozen ridges lay a realm vast and untamed, stretching farther than any map had dared to dream.
It was a land governed not by a single sword, but by a coalition of might.
When Emperor Magnar Begonia first heard whispers of kingdoms beyond the northern mountains, he sent forth his finest spies — assassins and scholars both — to uncover what lay beyond the snow. Weeks turned to months, and one by one, his scouts returned, bringing with them stories of a realm united not by one crown, but by seven.
They called themselves the Alliance of Swords, a union forged in balance — each kingdom bound by power, by blood, and by purpose.
The first report spoke of Ironvale, a nation of Aura Knights, warriors who could shatter stone and bend steel through sheer will. They wielded aura as both blade and shield, their strength as unrelenting as their discipline.
Then there was Kaalvethra, the Spiritbound Kingdom — where men and women communed with the unseen, walking with spirits and channeling mana drawn from rivers, stars, and air. Their faith was their weapon, their prayers their armor.
Velmora followed — a land of warriors who treated the body as the first sword. Through harsh training and mana infusion, they turned muscle into iron, flesh into armor. Their discipline bordered on madness, yet it birthed perfection.
From the east came news of Helvorn, a kingdom of mages. Their towers kissed the clouds, and their cities glowed with arcane energy. It was said even their children spoke the language of mana before words of men.
Then the spies spoke of Ashenfort, whose soldiers were shadows and whose scholars were poisoners. They mastered what they called the Mystic Arts, refining their bodies through elixirs and secret techniques. To fight them was to fight death itself.
Orravale was stranger still — a kingdom where magic and invention walked hand in hand. Rifles powered by mana crystals, steel wings that flew upon wind, and machines that obeyed thought. They called it progress, and none could deny its power.
And lastly, Varenthia, the most feared and least understood — a kingdom of dreamweavers, illusionists who could twist the mind and reshape reality itself. In Varenthia, truth was a choice, and nightmares obeyed their masters.
Seven kingdoms, seven swords — each equal in strength, each different in purpose.
The Emperor listened to every report, his silence growing colder with each name.
When the banners of Begonia faced the standards of the Alliance of Swords, the world itself seemed to hold its breath. For the first time in centuries, two powers of equal might stood opposed — one united by fear, the other by honor.
From the first clash, it was clear: there would be no swift victory.
Where Begonia's legions marched with steel and fire, the Alliance countered with discipline and unity. When Ironvale's fleets struck the northern coasts, Begonia's warships met them with cannons that split the sea. When Kaalvethra's sages conjured storms to halt their advance, the Emperor's battle priests turned their flames into walls of light.
Each victory was answered by another. Each triumph was mirrored by defeat.
For every fortress the Empire took, it lost another. For every hero who rose, another fell.
The war stretched on for five long years — not as a dance of strategy, but as a test of will. Kingdoms bled, empires burned, and still neither side bowed.
The land itself grew tired before the armies did. Crops turned to ash, rivers ran dark, and the skies carried only smoke. Yet even in exhaustion, both sides stood — unbroken, unyielding, unmatched.
And so, in the fifth winter, as the snow fell upon the corpses of a thousand forgotten soldiers, the rulers of Begonia and the Alliance gathered beneath the shattered spire of the border fortress. There, beneath the whisper of falling snow, they signed the Treaty of Fallen Steel — an oath not of friendship, but of endurance.
No one had won.
No one had lost.
The world had simply… survived.
And so, after five long years of blood and ruin, the war finally ended.
The snow fell quietly that winter, covering the dead and the living alike, and beneath its pale silence, the Treaty of Fallen Steel was signed.
But peace, as it often does, came with a price.
The Empire of Begonia was not merely asked to retreat — it was reprimanded. For its ambition, it was to pay reparations in gold, grain, and steel to the Alliance of Swords for ten winters. What Magnar had sought to claim by conquest, he now had to surrender through tribute.
And still, the Alliance demanded more than coin. They demanded blood.
To ensure the peace would last, the rulers of the seven kingdoms and the Emperor of Begonia agreed upon a union of marriage — a bond of power and diplomacy.
The Princess of Kaalvethra, daughter of the Spiritbound King, would wed Emperor Magnar Begonia himself — the union of aura and spirit, fire and soul.
In return, two of Magnar's royal sisters would be given in marriage — one to Ironvale, and the other to Kaalvethra. Through them, the Alliance would tie the Emperor's bloodline to their own, ensuring loyalty through lineage.
But it did not end there.
The Princess of Ironvale, the lady of the Aura Knights, was promised to Thalan Kaelmont, the Duke of the North — the Emperor's sword and shadow. The union would be one of steel and silence, sealing Begonia's northern loyalty through marriage.
Lastly, the Alliance dictated one final term — one that stung the Emperor's pride more than any wound.
> The firstborn son of the Kaalvethran Princess and the Emperor of Begonia would be recognized as the First Prince of the Empire — heir to the throne itself.
It was, in truth, a quiet humiliation.
Though the Empire still stood, its pride had been bound in chains of diplomacy.
What the sword could not destroy, marriage and paper would conquer.
And as the banners of both sides lowered, the world believed peace had returned.
But beneath that peace, resentment began to grow — like fire sleeping beneath the ashes.
And so, through treaties and vows, the war finally faded into silence.
Years passed, and in the palace of Begonia, the Emperor and his new Empress, the Princess of Kaalvethra, awaited their first child.
When the bells tolled across the capital, it was not for battle, but for birth — the arrival of the Empire's First Prince, Aarion Begonia, heir to the blood of two worlds.