In the beginning of time, the Goddess of Life entrusted seven souls to the people of pointed ears. From the Elven race, seven of the first men were born as an indescribable gift. They were seeds of hope, beings destined to carve the trace of humanity upon the wild lands. When the pioneers reached adulthood, the seven left the warm embrace of the Elven village.
They set out toward the unknown, braving storms that battered their hair, slaying primitive creatures that ruled the darkness. It was not merely a physical journey, but also an exhausting mental struggle to find a place that could truly be called "Home." In the far east, their struggle bore its sweetest fruit.
A place named Orvethra was established, the first human settlement recorded in history. There, they settled, wove love, bore descendants, and whispered tales of their achievements to their children and grandchildren. Yet behind the laughter of Orvethra, there lingered a strange note of destiny.
The Goddess birthed them in an odd number: four men and three women. Among those pairs, there was one soul left alone. Without a partner to continue his lineage, he chose to submit to fate. He stepped beyond the peaceful gates of Orvethra, allowing himself to be consumed by the vastness of the world as a solitary adventurer.
To remember him, his companions created Script: a sequence of symbols created solely so that the story of the wanderer and their friendship would not be eroded by the wind.
Years turned into centuries, and the anomaly began to reveal its fangs. The man did not age. As the hair of his companions turned white and their bodies returned to the earth, he remained standing upright with the same face he had when he left Orvethra.
He was forced to become a silent witness to the birth and death of civilizations. One by one, his friends died, leaving wounds so deep that he swore never again to form bonds with anyone. He chose to become a shadow, watching humanity from afar, never daring to love again.
Yet peace is a fragile luxury. From the womb of human greed and hatred was born the demon race, a manifestation of negative essence that gave rise to the figure of the Demon King.
Seeing the works built by his friends threatened with destruction, the wanderer could no longer remain silent. He appeared in every village that cried out in suffering, destroying the darkness with the remnants of power from the age of the gods. His presence ignited a fire of spirit in human hearts, giving birth to a new generation of adventurers hungry for peace.
The world no longer knew him as the first human. They knew him as a myth, as a symbol of protection, as a wandering man who carried the dawn. They called him ArcKurnetsov a man without origin, who walked through the ages solely to keep an old promise long forgotten by time.
The world believed he moved because of love, but in truth, Arc moved because he had no other choice. He had seen this nauseating cycle occur thousands of times. Humans are strange beings; they build tall towers only to bring them down with war, they create love only to feed betrayal.
Every time he swung his sword to repel the demon race, he often wondered: were these demons not the true offspring of your own hearts?
He no longer felt pride when saving a city. To him, saving humans from demons was merely delaying the time until humans themselves would slaughter one another over caste, wealth, or wounded egos. When people bowed and worshiped his name, Arc only smiled faintly—not a smile of pride, but the bitter smile of a spectator who knows that this stage play will end in the same tragedy.
"You call me a bearer of peace," he thought as he stared vacantly at the distant flames. "Yet I am merely a curator preserving fragile porcelain called civilization, which for some reason always longs to destroy itself."
Bitterness grew within the folds of his immortality. He saw that the demon race was not an invading force from another world, but a cracked mirror of the human soul. Rotting greed, nurtured hatred, and blind ambition all of these were the wombs that birthed monsters. Thus, no matter how far he traveled, he knew he was waging war against the shadows of the very people he once helped build Orvethra.
He now stood on the boundary between compassion and disgust. He saw his fallen friends as the fortunate ones, for they died while hope still felt real. And he? He was forced to live to see that the "legacy" they fought for was soaked in fraternal blood.
Arc did not need praise, for praise from human mouths felt like dust in his ears. He simply kept walking, becoming a silent witness to how beautiful humans are when they dream, and how vile they become when those dreams turn into ambition.
He is the only human who remains awake, while the entire world chooses to fall asleep in the madness they call "progress." And amid that chaos, he will continue to smile a quiet smile for a world that never learns from its wounds.
Though his heart has hardened with time, Arc Kurnetsov's eyes cannot deny that this world is a canvas too magnificent to be ignored. Beyond the walls of Orvethra, now a kingdom, stretches a landscape pulsing with ancient magic.
He has crossed the Forest of Aethelgard, where colossal banyan trees possess veins that glow bluish at night a place where the Elves, his ancestral kin, still whisper to the wind and guard the secret of immortality they once shared with the first seven humans. There, beauty is something silent and sacred.
Far to the north, he once stood atop the Ironfang Mountains, watching the Dwarves forge the hearts of mountains into golden cities untouched by rust. He saw their steadfastness a race indifferent to the complexities of human emotion, believing only in the honesty of stone and metal.
He has also sailed through the mists of the Azure Isles, where Sirens and ocean dwellers dance beneath crystal-clear waters. This world is so full of color from grasslands that sway to the rhythm of the earth's breath, to towering cliffs where the Beastmen run with lightning speed, celebrating their predatory instincts with dignity.
This world is a remarkable harmony if only humans did not try to claim it all.
Arc often stops atop hills just to let the mountain wind sweep across his face. He watches flocks of dragons flying low among the clouds, their scales refracting sunlight like shattered rainbows. He sees how nature always finds a way to heal, how wildflowers grow even on the bloodiest battlefields.
Among all races, humans are the most fragile yet the most dangerous. They do not possess the long lifespans of Elves, the physical strength of Beastmen, or the calm of the Dwarves. Yet humans possess something no other race does: an unquenchable desire a desire capable of creating miracles, but more often creating fire.
Arc can only smile faintly at the contrast. On one side, he is captivated by a magical butterfly fluttering above a tranquil lake. On the other, he knows that not far from there, a group of humans may already be planning how to dominate that lake.
He is a traveler upon land that is beautiful yet poisonous. To him, every fragment of this world's beauty is both a reminder of what he protects and a reason why he feels so alien. He loves the world, yet he is weary of its inhabitants.
Thus, with his cloak billowing in winds that carry the scent of pine and the stench of blood, Arc Kurnetsov steps forward once more—crossing the boundaries of races, traversing indescribable wonders, solely to ensure that the beauty of this world is not torn apart by the greedy hands he calls his "brothers."