Deep beneath the soil of ground, far below the roots of ancient trees and forgotten ruins, lay the kingdom of Voltarion: an underground empire carved from obsidian mountains and aglow with rivers of blue mana. Crystal lanterns floated like trapped stars, lighting grand spires shaped by magic rather than hands. Beautiful, eternal, cold… just like its king.
Volvatos De Voltric, the Vampire King, stood on the highest balcony of his palace tower. Draped in a mantle of dark velvet, his silver eyes reflected the faint shimmering of mana streams far below. His hair, darker than the abyss itself, moved slightly, as warm underground winds drifted up from the great caverns. He looked like he had been carved from an old legend — elegant, intimidating, timeless.
Yet tonight, his face was far from the calm nobility expected of a king.
Tonight, he looked bored.
A kingdom that once carved its glory in wars and treaties now lay in peaceful silence. Alliances with elves of the Lunar Woods, dwarves of the Stoneforge Mountains, and even the unpredictable orc tribes, kept Voltarion safe for centuries. Peace had become a blanket so thick that even excitement had died beneath it.
To a mortal king, peace was a blessing.
To an immortal one, that had been a cage.
He lifted a crystalline goblet filled with crimson mana, not blood, but the energy extracted from enchanted crystals. His people no longer hunted like their forefathers had. Progress made life easier, and at the same time, it was mundane.
"Three hundred years without a single challenge," he murmured, voice echoing faintly in the chamber. "Even the surface dwellers must be more interesting."
He had ruled for so long even his emotions had begun to fade. Anger rarely stirred. Joy was merely a memory. Curiosity almost never came. He had once been feared, then respected, and now… taken for granted. As though a king who never aged would never change.
There was a sudden tremor that made the balcony railing shake.
The mana river below flickered.
Volvatos's eyes had narrowed. Mana rarely reacted, unless disturbed — and the only things that could cause it were immense magical surges or intruders.
Moments later, a cloaked figure ran into the balcony hall.
"My lord!" the messenger panted, falling to one knee. "We felt a weird fluctuation from above. A surge of celestial-type magic… something's fallen from the air into the north forest."
"Fell?" Volvatos repeated quietly. "Magic does not simply fall."
"It appears to be… a person."
A person. From the sky.
For the first time in decades, the king felt something stir inside him-not fear, not anger, but a spark of interest.
"Prepare my escort," he ordered. "We travel to the surface."
The messenger hesitated. "Your Majesty, you haven't been above ground for—"
Volvatos stepped past him; his boots echoed sharply. "Then it is long overdue."
As he went down the obsidian steps, the mana lights around him flickered as if in response to his surging energy.
Above the ground, there was a forest, a sky, a world he had not touched for centuries. Somewhere out there in that sky, he knew a mystical presence awaited-a person who fell just like a star..