' The sun now rests in a bed of night,
Its golden touch fades from sight.
Seagulls dance in skies so high,
Chasing dreams beyond the sky.
Their fragile wings, so bold yet small,
Strive to rise, but soon they fall.
Clouds embrace them, soft and bright,
A fleeting joy, a moment's flight.
Below, a river sings its tune,
Carved by mountains, kissed by moon.
Flowers bloom and grasses sway,
In winds that steal their scent away.
The salmon leap, the deer take flight,
The trees stand tall, bathed in light.
A world so pure, so full of grace—
Yet shadows creep, time leaves no trace.
For past the forest, far and wide,
A darker song begins to rise.
Where rivers ran and flowers grew,
Now blood stains earth a crimson hue.
Swords that clashed now lie at rest,
The war is won, and yet… bereft.
A war they fought, a war they lost,
A war that came at endless cost. '
A royal poet witnesses a mesmerizing scene and composes a poem that captures its essence. Unbeknownst to him, this moment will be remembered either as the end or the beginning of a new journey.
Along with that the once-deafening clamour of battle is now slowly faded with the passing of time. Soldiers, their Armor bloodstained and weary, now caught their breath. The war had reached its climax. Victory was inevitable, as was the end of this massacre.
Some warriors still fought, their swords heavy in their hands, while others limped back to camp, battle-worn and exhausted. A few sat on scattered stones, resting in the midst of the carnage. Among them were civilians—the rescued survivors—being escorted away from the battlefield toward the safety of the military base. Relief flickered in their eyes, but it was shadowed by grief, agony, and fear.
These were the villagers.
Their homes were now turned into ruins.
Their loved ones lost to the flames of war.
Their wounds—both seen and unseen—would never truly heal.
Some, fortunate enough to have survived, clung to their rescuers, offering words of gratitude. Others, overwhelmed by their suffering, cursed their saviours for not arriving sooner. They walked alongside carriages filled with the remnants of their lives—scattered belongings, meagre rations—moving steadily toward the vast forest just miles away.
Beyond those trees lay a military base, a supposed sanctuary. But could there truly be peace after so much blood had been spilled?
A soldier clad in red and white Armor, his helmet gleaming under the fading light, rode a black horse as it trotted slowly toward the battlefield. By his bearing alone, it was clear that he was a high-ranking official, someone of great significance within the military. His Armor bore the insignia of the kingdom he served—The Nightshade. The aura around him was so imposing that an ordinary person would feel suffocated merely standing beside him.
As he passed through the escorting civilians, soldiers straightened up, saluting him with respect. To the weary, war-torn people, he seemed almost noble—an untouchable figure standing high above them, as distant as the sky is from the earth. Young and filled with pride, he paid them no heed, holding his head high, a clear display of the privilege and power that had brought him to this position.
Upon reaching the battlefield, he slowed his horse's gait, surveying the scene. Then, to assert his authority, he raised his voice—a voice forged through years of battle and discipline, echoing across the bloodstained land:
"Search the town for any injured and provide them with necessities. I want a status report on the mission—immediately!"
The soldiers, weary from the fight, snapped to attention. Their instincts kicked in as if their very souls had been jolted awake.
A soldier, his clothes drenched in blood and dust, rushed forward. His breathing was heavy, his battered Armor barely holding together, but he summoned his remaining strength to salute and report:
"Yes, my Lord! The wildfire has been contained, and our support teams are eliminating the last of the monsters. The healers are tending to the wounded, and by some miracle, we have suffered no casualties thus far. The wild beasts drawn to the battlefield have been neutralized. The situation is completely under control—"
Before he could finish, a green flare shot into the sky, illuminating the battlefield in an eerie glow. The war had already been won, but this signal marked its official end.
A wave of relief swept over the kingdom's soldiers. For a moment, silence filled the air—then, an eruption of triumphant cheers followed. They had done it. Their relentless struggle had finally borne fruit.
Thus, the War of Death Valley came to a decisive end, securing humanity's victory. With the conflict resolved, both empires were freed from the chains of war, unlocking a path toward even greater heights. A steady flow of resources would fuel their progress, paving the way for the rise of sky-tier and even heaven-tier powerhouses, ushering in an era of unparalleled strength and prosperity.
Time flowed once more, and night reclaimed its dominion. Darkness stretched across the land, and the moon, veiled in shadows, signalled the beginning of an eclipse.
Deep within the forest, along the path leading to the military camp, walked an elder—a war hero whose single strike had decided the battle. Accompanying him was his disciple, a young warrior still honing his strength. Their presence alone was enough to make the weak scatter or hide, as if powerful predators like Lion and His young Cub roamed the night.
"Master, now all that remains is to wait for news of Princess Marcy. We aided the Blackwood Empire in this mission—they can't turn their backs on their promise now," the disciple, Garrick, spoke with certainty.
A low chuckle escaped the elder's lips. "You're right, Garrick. If not for the Holy Church's restrictions, I would have razed the entire Blackwood capital to the ground."
As they pushed through the thick undergrowth, the elder suddenly halted. His instincts flared—though he was a lion among men, caution was always necessary. Without hesitation, he reached out telepathically.
"Stop, Garrick. There's someone ahead."
In the distance, a faint glow flickered—the light of a campfire. A lone figure sat before it, stirring something in a pot, his back turned to the approaching warriors. Yet, something was deeply unsettling.
Why would anyone camp here, deep in the forest, during an eclipse—when monsters were most active and a great battle had just taken place? The elder considered the possibilities. Either this person is strong enough to survive alone, an opportunist looting supplies, or an assassin waiting for an exhausted soldier.
"Let's go and see who he is."
They moved cautiously, but as they neared, Garrick's senses tingled with unease. He frowned, whispering, "Master… even with my abilities, I can't sense his presence."
The elder smirked. "You lack experience, Garrick. Some people are skilled at masking their presence to avoid monsters and hunters. He must be an expert… and I'm curious to see what kind of expert was born here, one who can even evade my perception."
Though the elder remained calm, tension gripped Garrick's mind. Each step closer sent a creeping dread through his veins. Something about this figure felt… wrong.
The elder's expression darkened. "Check his status window, Garrick. I have a bad feeling. He's sitting right in front of us, yet it's as if he doesn't exist."
Obeying, Garrick pulled out a cloaking item from his garments and activated its power to scan the man. A moment later, his breath hitched, his body going rigid. His voice, barely more than a whisper, trembled with disbelief.
"M-My Lord… h-he's normal. He hasn't awakened. His energy level is zero. He's just… an ordinary human."
The elder's eyes narrowed and he tries to prank his disciple who is already scared- "Are you certain?"
Garrick swallowed hard, his face draining of colour. "I… checked twice. He's just… normal."
Yet the oppressive weight in the air told him otherwise. A terrible, unbearable sense of dread clawed at his chests. The dim eclipse and thick forest concealed much, preventing them from fully discerning the man's features.
The elder exhaled a chuckle, breaking the silence. "You must be quite the expert to hide your presence from even me. Tell me, which kingdom do you hail from?" His voice was calm but laced with curiosity.
Sighing, he added, "As you may know, a battle just took place not far from here. I suggest you come with us. It's safer than sleeping alone in the forest—we're heading to the military camp."
For the first time, the lone figure responded. His voice was deep and steady, carrying a weight far beyond that of an ordinary man.
"Yeah, I was thinking of heading that way… but you're too late."
The moment he spoke, Garrick felt a wave of relief. At the very least, the man was human.
"Looks like I was worried for nothing…" he muttered to himself.
Yet, somewhere deep within him, a lingering unease refused to fade.
At that moment, a gentle wind swept through the forest, rustling the leaves in a rhythmic dance. Wisps of clouds drifted apart like morning mist, unveiling the moon in its full, resplendent glory. Its silver light, once hidden by the eclipse, now bathed the world as if the darkness had never existed. Had a couple been present to witness this breath-taking display of nature's beauty, it would have remained etched in their hearts forever.
But for the two men standing there, what lay before them was a sight beyond imagination—one they wished they had never seen.
A towering figure sat across the fire, his massive frame exuding an overwhelming presence. His body, sculpted like that of a barbarian warlord, was lean yet powerful, every muscle sharply defined. His pale skin contrasted starkly against the chaotic tattoos that sprawled across his arms, chest, and even his bald head. A jagged, thick scar stretched across his face, further distorting his already fearsome appearance. His tattered, blackened rags barely clung to his frame, whispering tales of countless battles fought and survived.
In his massive hands, he clutched a severed human leg. Another leg crackled over the fire, its flesh slowly roasting. Behind him, a lifeless body hung from a tree, swaying slightly with the breeze.
Garrick's breath hitched in his throat. His stomach churned. "A… cannibal…?"
But the elder wasn't listening. His gaze was locked onto something else—something that made his blood run cold.
A golden anklet, glinting in the firelight.
His heart pounded violently as his eyes travelled upward, tracing the mutilated corpse hanging from the tree. When he finally saw the face—or what was left of it—his entire body stiffened.
"M-M... Ma... Ma... Marcy...!!!"
At first, he thought it was an illusion. She should be far away in the capital. How… how could she be here?
A strangled cry clawed at his throat, but no sound came out.
Her face was unrecognizable, beaten beyond recognition. Her body was covered in deep lacerations, her limbs twisted and broken. The missing legs—now being feasted upon—sent waves of rage and despair crashing through him.
He wanted to deny it, to reject the horror before him. But the truth stood there, undeniable. It tore at his very being, shattering something deep inside.
"No… No… Marcy!"
He wanted to scream, to weep, to unleash his grief in a torrent of fury. But outwardly, he remained still. His expression was a mask of cold steel. A warrior's instinct drilled into him over decades of battle told him—the first to react without assessing the enemy dies first.
Any ordinary man would have collapsed in sorrow or charged at the monster in blind rage. But he… he held his ground. If anyone else had seen him now, they would have understood—this was no longer a saintly figure, but a man who had just lost the one he had sworn to protect.
The elder exhaled, steadying himself. He has a monstrous build, but I've slain worse. The brute sat at roughly eight feet tall, his muscles at their peak—whereas the elder's had faded with time. Yet, even so, the elder stood towering at eleven feet.
His voice was measured as he finally spoke. "Are you a demon worshiper?"
Such cultists were infamous for their depravity, committing atrocities that defied human nature. He needed to confirm before taking his next step.
He took a step closer, peering through the tattered hood covering the man's face. The lower half was visible, but his eyes remained shrouded in darkness.
Then, the man smiled.
No—grinned.
A grotesque, unnervingly wide smile stretched across his face, an exaggerated, unnatural intensity warping his features. His teeth—perfectly aligned yet unnervingly sharp—formed a sinister, predatory grin.
His head tilted sharply to the side, the motion jerky, inhuman. And then—his eyes.
Three elongated, eerie irises, arranged in an unnatural pattern—like something not of this world. Each eye held three concentric irises, swirling with a cosmic, nebula-like glow. The largest iris in the centre was flanked by two smaller ones, and their pupils, if aligned, would form a dark, perfect circle.
It was unnatural - Unholy.
The brute's grin widened further, his expression a maddening blend of insanity and amusement.
"It's not what you think," he said, voice deep and disturbingly casual. He tilted his head slightly, as if pretending the horror before them wasn't real. "I was just waiting for you… to join the one behind me."
His voice dropped into a whisper, mocking, theatrical.
"She cried so much. 'My father will kill you! or my Prince will kill you! ' he let out a breathy chuckle, "'Please, help me!' She yapped and yapped, just like you."
His grin widened, his voice growing feverish.
"I was enjoying it. Enjoying. Enjoying—"
Suddenly, he shouted, voice sharp like a blade slicing through the night.
"I WAS FUCKING ENJOYING HER SCREAMS!"
Then, just as abruptly, his tone shifted—quieter now, almost like a child sobbing over a broken toy.
"But… she broke." His fingers twitched. "She stopped… stopped… stooooopped…?" His breath hitched, his head tilting erratically. "What should I do…?"
His entire body trembled, his smile twitching, twisting into something far worse than madness.
And then, with an eerie, singsong rhythm, he whispered—
"BUT."
"SHE."
"WAS."
"AMAZING!!"
The air around them crackled with fury.
The elder's breathing grew erratic, his vision blurred with rage. Why… why… WHY?!
Grief twisted into unrestrained wrath.
A brilliant white glow erupted around him, divine energy surging as his sacred Armor materialized in an instant. His clenched fists trembled, his entire body radiating the power of a god's fury.
And then, he roared.
"GO TO HELL, YOU MOTHERF****R!!!"
A blinding explosion of light engulfed the forest. The shockwave tore through the trees, the earth, the very air itself.
And as divine retribution descended upon the monstrous scene, the world trembled beneath its might.
Last Night at Church Of Light :
The human town within the Nightshade Kingdom, precariously positioned near Death Valley, faced relentless Space Rift surges that unleashed waves of monstrous creatures. Nowhere else in the world did these rift surges occur with such terrifying frequency, leaving the town in an unending state of peril.
Nestled between the Nightshade and Blackwood Kingdoms, the valley had long been a contested battleground. Both nations sought to claim dominion over it, for within the rifts lay precious minerals, artifacts, and rare elements—substances capable of mutating and evolving living beings.
For centuries, monsters had never exhibited signs of organized behaviour. Yet, over the past month, their movements had grown disturbingly unnatural. The reconnaissance teams reported large groups of monsters gathering, looting, and systematically rampaging through the region—something unheard of before.
As the struggle dragged on without resolution, King Elowen seized the opportunity to involve the Church of Light. The Church, always seeking both influence and wealth, saw this as a chance to extend its reach while offering assistance. The Blackwood Kingdom had fiercely opposed outside intervention, but with the Church now involved, other factions might soon follow.
Now, the final decision was set to take place within the sacred halls of the Church of Light in the Holy Kingdom.
King Caius Olivier Blackwood strode toward the Meeting Hall, his black and gold cloak billowing behind him. His sharp gaze remained fixed ahead as he spoke to the captain at his side.
"Captain, do you think Elowen will remain silent, as he always does in every diplomatic meeting? The facts—and history—are on our side. Our founding ancestors were the first to discover the rifts in Death Valley. We have led countless expeditions every year to harvest the crystals within."
The captain hesitated before speaking. "My lord… may I speak freely?"
Caius arched a brow. "Go on."
The captain's voice lowered. "The Nightshade Kingdom has far greater external support than we do. I've received intel that King Elowen has declared a resource-sharing agreement with the Holy Kingdom. The Pope may be impartial, but the number of priests willing to sing his praises far outweighs those who would stand with us."
Caius scoffed, his lips curling into a smirk. "Those leeches will drain anyone if it benefits them." His steps didn't falter, nor did his confidence waver. Then, as if struck by a revelation, his gaze lifted to the sky, his smirk deepening into something far more sinister.
"Let them scheme all they want," he murmured. "They have no idea what hidden card I hold. Once it's revealed, the entire game will shift in my favour."
The clouds above shifted, the moonlight piercing through as if blessing his ambitions. "It seems the heavens are on my side."
In The Grand Meeting Hall of the Church was filled with delegates from both Nightshade and Blackwood. The ongoing power struggle over Death Valley had deeply divided them, yet today, they had gathered under a single roof—to negotiate the partition of land under the guidance of the High Church Pope.
The air was thick with tension as heated discussions echoed across the chamber. But then— A sharp, resounding silence fell upon the hall.
All eyes turned toward the long pathway leading from the colossal white gates to the grand mithril table at the centre. A lone figure approached.
An elderly man, well into his eighties, walked forward with measured grace. Despite his age, his presence was overwhelming. The moment he entered, the air itself seemed to shift—his mere gaze stilled the hearts of all present, like a tranquil, undisturbed lake. All external thoughts felt meaningless before him.
This was Pope Julius, a man who had ascended to profound wisdom on the path of righteousness and divine enlightenment. Flanking him were two elderly Cardinals, their solemn expressions mirroring the sanctity of the occasion. With his flowing robes of pure white and an aura that radiated divine holiness, he seemed less like a man and more like the living incarnation of the divine.
He came to a halt at the table and, in a voice as soft as a whisper yet as commanding as thunder, he greeted the assembly.
"I thank you all for entrusting me with the task of mediating this dispute. With the blessing of the Goddess Aria, I shall do everything in my power to assist you."
The presence of Pope Julius himself at the meeting was unexpected. Caius, who had entered with confidence, now felt a flicker of unease. The Pope's authority was undeniable—his very presence carried the weight of divine judgment.
Yet, Caius was not without his own gambit. The card he had prepared was no less formidable than the Pope himself.
A moment of reverent silence followed before King Caius Olivier Blackwood stepped forward.
"Greetings, Pope Julius. Your presence surpasses even the grandest of tales. If I may, I would like to invite someone can play a crucial role in our upcoming expedition."
The Pope's lips curled into a faint smile as he lifted his gaze toward the heavens.
"The Church does not restrict entry anyone and anytime. You may reveal yourself, Sir Hero Kang Solomon."
A deafening shatter rang through the hall—a sound like the very fabric of reality breaking apart. The space before the mithril table twisted and splintered, forming a dark, gaping rift in the air.
Before them, a rift in the void split open. From its depths, a towering figure emerged.
A towering middle-aged man of 11ft stepped forth, his form casting an imposing shadow over the chamber. His pointed ears marked him as an elf, but his presence was something else entirely—primal, unrelenting, godlike. He is like giant among those humans present here.
His long, flowing white hair cascaded past his broad shoulders, framing a face lined with battle-worn wisdom. His body, carved like an ancient war statue, pulsed with restrained power. He wore nothing but a simple white robe, yet even without Armor, he exuded an indomitable force that sent shivers down the spines of even the bravest warriors in the room.
At first glance, he had the savage build of a barbarian, but his long, silver beard, his piercing, ageless gaze, and the sheer command of his presence turned him into something greater. Something mythical.
He was no ordinary warrior. He was a legend in the flesh.
The pressure in the room intensified, as if the very world had acknowledged his arrival. Behind him, another figure followed—a 7ft tall young elven warrior, draped in combat gear, his grip firm around the handle of an immense great sword that shimmered with enchantments. His presence was strong, formidable even, but compared to the being before him, he was like a flickering candle before a raging storm.
A cold shudder ran through the human delegates.
For in that moment, everyone knew—This was no mere negotiation.
Now The true battle for Death Valley had just begun.
The moment the elf warrior emerged, a collective gasp swept through the hall. Shock. Awe. Disbelief.
This was no ordinary fighter. The men and women gathered here—kings, nobles, seasoned warriors—had grown up hearing his stories, tales of a warrior whose blade carved through legions of demons, whose presence alone could turn the tide of war. A living legend.
And yet, here he stood.
For centuries, his name had been spoken with reverence, passed down through generations, but never had they expected to see him with their own eyes.
Even the battle-hardened generals felt an instinctual urge to kneel before the sheer weight of his existence. He was more than an elf—he was a myth made flesh, a war god in mortal form.
Yet, amidst the stunned murmurs, one man remained unmoved.
Pope Julius, his divine radiance unchanged, gazed at the elf with a knowing expression. He had foreseen this. He had felt the arrival of such a presence long before this meeting.
Finally, the Pope spoke, his voice calm yet profound, filled with the weight of a thousand years of wisdom.
"I am deeply honoured to witness a war hero in my lifetime."
But before the Pope could lower his head in respect, the elf warrior raised a firm hand, stopping him.
"Sir Pope, you do not have to do this."** His voice was deep, steady, yet carried a gentleness that spoke of both wisdom and bloodshed. "I have simply done my duty for my king. Protecting others is in the very essence of us elves. By helping those in need, I feel closer to the heroes who walked before me."
His words carried the weight of centuries—a declaration from a man who had lived through an era of gods and demons. This was no ordinary elf.
He was the last surviving warrior from the legendary Great Demonic War, where heroes of old stood against the Demon Lord in a battle that determined the fate of the world. He had fought alongside the greatest champions of history, battling horrors that could make even the bravest of men tremble. And yet—he had endured.
An elf's life was long, far longer than that of humans. But time had taken all his former comrades, one by one. He alone remained.
Now, standing before the gathered rulers, he was no longer just a warrior. He was history itself.
As the supreme commander of the Elven Kingdom's military, he commanded one of the greatest armies in existence, leading forces capable of shaking the very balance of power between the realms.
Yet, he rarely interfered in the affairs of other nations.
His battles were legend, his presence in war devastation incarnate. But he had long withdrawn from conquest and bloodshed, letting history shape itself without his hand.
And yet, he had come here today.
With unwavering eyes, he looked toward King Caius Olivier Blackwood.
"I am here under the command of my lord. I usually refrain from engaging in subjugations or exploration missions, but this time, I come to support King Caius."
His words rang across the silent chamber, carrying the weight of something more than a simple favour.
"King Caius aided the elves in our time of need. Now, it is our turn to repay that debt."
His tone left no room for debate.
For the first time since the meeting had begun, even King Elowen of Nightshade furrowed his brows, realizing—
The balance of power in this war had just shifted.