Long ago, when the world was still wild and untouched by humankind, the jungles roared with the cries of giants. Rivers and swamps exhaled mists that hid unseen spirits, while mountains trembled beneath the steps of ancient beasts.
Amid the chaos, twelve legendary beings emerged, their powers surpassing the natural order.
In storm-filled skies, Etherio, spirit of wind, sharpened whirlwinds into spinning blades that tore the heavens. In a smoking valley, Pyraxis, spirit of fire, ignited his gaze and reduced an entire forest to ashes. Samudra, spirit of water, twisted rivers into maelstroms that swallowed the land. Erano, spirit of earth, struck the ground until valleys split apart. In the darkness, Umbrynn devoured light and deepened the night. Meanwhile, Lumire, spirit of light, spread radiant beams that healed allies and blinded foes.
Upon the earth, the legendary beasts revealed their might. Agnikroth, a three-horned dragon with obsidian scales, rampaged and turned forests into seas of flame. Fenrion, the red-eyed wolf, leapt between shadows and tore enemies with his claws. Gorath, the colossal bear, shattered mountains with a single strike. Akura, the nine-tailed fox, danced across the battlefield, twisting enemies into striking one another. In the skies, Skyrend, the giant black bird, summoned thunderous storms. Mochi, the enormous cat, prowled through shadows, appearing and vanishing in an instant.
Their battle raged for years. The earth split, rivers overflowed, the sky burned. Yet no victor emerged, for their strength was always equal.
At last, they ceased and gathered together for the first time. In that meeting, the twelve beings realized a truth: their war would never end so long as they remained bound by their separate forms and natures.
From this came a monumental decision. They would merge into a single form, one that could contain their power, instinct, and intelligence. The answer was simple yet revolutionary: a two-legged creature, with two hands, standing upright. They named this form Human.
Pooling all their power, spirit, and essence, they began the union. Their bodies trembled, merging flesh, fur, scales, and pure energy. Light and shadow danced wildly, the earth shook beneath them, wind and fire fused into a surge of energy that forged the First Man.
Yet not all chose to join. Many spirits and beasts refused, remaining behind in their original forms. Thus they wandered the world, becoming legends and threats to the generations that followed.
From that first human came many descendants. Some inherited the elements and became mages. Others received raw strength or the instincts of predators. A few could even shift their very form.
This is the legend of how The First Man came to be in this world.
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Jeffrey hurriedly took clothes from the corpses of soldiers he had butchered. He cared little that the fabric was drenched in blood, what mattered was that he would no longer fight stripped bare before hundreds of watching eyes. He wasn't one of those twisted fools who enjoyed being gawked at naked.
"This is why... I hate doing this," he muttered under his breath.
He had just fastened the front of the bloodstained shirt when hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor. A squad of soldiers rushed toward him, weapons drawn, faces tight with a mix of hatred and fear.
Jeffrey stooped to seize a sword from the ground, its steel slick and sticky with blood. The moment he raised it, the soldiers spread out, forming a circle around him. Their eyes told the truth: they were terrified, yet bound by duty to advance.
Jeffrey exhaled softly through his nose.
He didn't wait for the circle to close. With sudden speed, he lunged forward and swung his blade in a brutal arc.
CLAAANG!
Steel clashed, one soldier desperately trying to parry. But the difference in strength was insurmountable. The man's weapon was ripped from his grip, clattering to the stone floor, an instant later his body was cleaved from shoulder to hip.
Blood sprayed across the walls and floor, splattering Jeffrey's face. He didn't so much as blink. The rest of the squad froze mid-step, their courage faltering, some even stumbling backward in horror at the sight.
Jeffrey twirled his wrist, the sword glistening crimson with fresh blood.
"Who's next?" His tone was flat, less a challenge than a grim certainty.
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The main streets within the fortress had become hell itself. Corpses sprawled in tangled heaps, blood pooled between the cobblestones, filling the air with the stench of iron.
At the center of it all stood a man drenched in blood from head to toe.
Jeffrey.
His gaze swept over the survivors—their faces pale, their hands trembling, eyes wide with despair. Among them were common folk, unarmed and helpless, trapped in the carnage.
He raised his hand, gripping something. In it dangled the severed head of Damian Alderich, still dripping with fresh blood. His voice cut cold through the silence, striking every heart.
"Your king is dead. There is no point in fighting. Lay down your arms and do not stand in my way. Or else... you'll share his fate."
The words hit harder than steel. Many soldiers let their weapons clatter to the ground, tears and sweat streaking their faces. Some fell to their knees, hands lifted in surrender, praying for mercy. Inside the houses, civilians clung to their families, bodies shaking as they wondered what fate awaited them.
Jeffrey released the head. It thudded heavily onto the stones and rolled, painting a red trail. Without another glance, he turned and strode away from the slaughter.
The fortress wards were already broken. He knew the Taurum army would soon march in under Lysander's command. But before that, there was one last task he had to complete.
He advanced toward the castle at the heart of the city. Along the way, remnants of resistance still lunged—loyal soldiers driven by stubborn faith or vengeance. Jeffrey cut them down without pause, his blade rising and falling as he pressed onward, his clothes once again drenched with fresh blood.
At last, he stood before the castle doors. With a heavy shove, he entered.
Inside the vast, dim-lit hall, a young man awaited him. Golden hair glistened faintly in the gloom, blue eyes bright as the sky, his posture noble despite the tremor in his frame. Jeffrey recognized him at once. Tristan Alderich, the fourth prince, the last surviving heir.
Their eyes locked. Words were unnecessary. The silence itself bristled with the spark of battle.
Then Tristan raised his blade. In that instant, radiant red-feathered wings burst from his back, shining with an aura of grace and divinity that stood in stark contrast to the blood-soaked killer before him.
Jeffrey lifted his sword as well. The next moment, Tristan lunged.
CLAAANG!
The clash rang thunderous across the grand hall. In a blink, Tristan was already behind him, hovering in the air with the beat of his wings.
Jeffrey glanced down. A gash stretched across his torso, from chest to belly, spilling a flood of hot blood. The cut was deep, so deep he felt the cold air piercing through torn flesh.
Tristan turned, his face taut, eyes blazing with determination. He raised his sword once more, poised to strike again.
Jeffrey slowly twisted his head, one hand pressing against his wound. A thin, furious smile carved across his bloodied face.