Once upon a time, in an age so distant even the oldest records only mention of it in fragments, the world of Vaelgard was plunged into a bloody war.
Among the nine races that dwelt upon Vaelgard's sprawling continents, humanity was by far the weakest.
Their bones were frail, their lifespans fleeting, their magic thin as mist.
In the end, they were driven to the brink of extinction, their cities reduced to ruins, their children slaughtered or scattered to the winds.
Desperation, however, always births audacity.
With no other option left to them, humanity were forced unearth a forbidden art, an ancient spell discovered in the crumbling vaults of lost civilizations.
Dimensional trans location.
With it, they brought forth a champion from beyond the stars.
His name was Ranzo.
Possessing steel strange to Vaelgard's eyes and bearing weapons forged in a distant world, Ranzo rose like a tempest against the armies that threatened to snuff out the last embers of mankind.
He carved a path through their foes, elves with ageless eyes, scaled draconians, towering giants, cunning beastkin, until at last humanity stood secure once more.
But victory came at a terrible cost...
As Ranzo gazed across blood-soaked fields littered with the corpses of old and young alike, something inside him cracked. He had become a reaper, harvesting lives by the thousands. The screams haunted him... the weeping of mothers and the vacant stares of the dying clung to his soul.
So he resolved upon a final, singular ambition: to end all war. To bring forth a peace so complete it would eclipse the memory of sorrow.
In his quest, Ranzo turned his hand against every throne... Evey banner.
He conquered the dominions of all nine races, crushing them beneath his iron will until at last he stood alone, King of the World.
For a time, peace came to Vaelgard.
Markets were opened without fear of raiders. Children could laugh and play out in the streets again.
Yet Ranzo, who had seen the rot in mortal hearts, knew this age of tranquility balanced on a knife's edge. When death inevitably claimed him, who would keep the world from tearing itself apart once more?
He refused to deceive himself with dreams of immortality, knowing that eternity only invited madness. Nor would he entrust the world to his own blood, princes born to privilege, blind to the wounds still festering beneath the surface. A dynasty bred only decay; the sons of conquerors rarely matched their sires.
Thus was born the King Project.
Ranzo decreed that no heir of his would inherit the Absolute Crown by mere right of birth.
Instead, from every race under the sun, candidates would be gathered, youths of talent, ambition, and cunning, brought to grand academies scattered across his empire.
There they would train, strive, and clash. Through rigorous trials, political intrigue, and open duels where they might legally hunt each other's heads, the true worth of each would be laid bare.
Only one would emerge, forged by pain, suffering and tempered by triumph, worthy to don the Absolute Crown, an artifact bound by soul oath to ensure that none could defy the decrees of the crowned king.
This crown would judge for itself who fulfilled its ancient requirements, and only then allow itself to be worn.
And so Ranzo, weary of slaughter yet driven by resolve, set the world upon this path.
In his final years, he watched as the first generation of candidates entered the crucible he had prepared, whispering a silent prayer that this brutal forge would yield rulers strong enough to preserve the fragile peace he had won with oceans of blood.
…
…
Year 7345 of the New World Calendar
Sunlight poured like molten gold upon the cobblestone streets of Avelmont as a procession wound its way through the bustling heart of the city.
At its head rode a man clad in golden armor, the plates designed to resemble the regal mane of a lion.
Upon his helm shone a crest of emerald and ivory, catching every beam of light. His blond hair spilled from beneath the crown of steel, and his deep green eyes sparkled with pride.
He sat astride a majestic white steed, which tossed its mane and pranced beneath him as if equally aware of the moment's grandeur.
On either side of him rode twin knights, who lifted their visors to reveal matching, stern blue eyes. Behind them trailed a woman with red hair and red eyes, a bishop draped in ivory and crimson vestments, her hands folded over her staff as she smiled softly at the crowd. A tall elf mage, also blond and purple-eyed, rode next, her cloak a swirl of indigo runes, waving as well.
Their retinue stretched on, rows of foot soldiers bearing the proud crest of the guild Aetherion, each man armored in polished steel emblazoned with the same roaring lion motif. Yet among these marched one figure who did not belong to the usual ranks of footmen.
Astride his own pale horse, less ostentatious than the golden knight's charger, but also regal, was a young silver-haired, blue-eyed man garbed in unassuming black, a single white coat draped over his shoulders. Silver revolvers gleamed at his hips, very detailed snake engravings in their craftsmanship yet unmistakably deadly. His hair ruffled slightly in the warm summer breeze, and his eyes softened as he looked upon the gathered crowds.
Children leaned over balconies and darted between barrels to catch a glimpse. Merchants paused in tallying their goods; farmers still dusted with soil held up eager hands. A cheer rose up, rolling down the street like thunder.
"Long live Guild Aetherion!"
"Congratulations on your claim to the throne!"
"May the Absolute Crown favor you!"
And from the crowd, bright childish voices rang out, chasing after the black-clad rider with all the hope and innocence of youth.