Year 1121. The throne stands empty. It has for four hundred years. No king. No order. The gods have turned away, their silence heavier than any curse. The sun has not touched the kingdom in centuries. Shadows rule here. Darkness is no longer feared—it is simply life. For generations, they've lived without day.
Crime has become the rhythm of survival. Hope, a story told to children who grow old too fast. And then—he was born.
Beneath the blood moon came a boy with silver hair. The messiah, they called him. The child of prophecy. The heavens trembled. The earth held its breath. The people, starved of miracles, clung to the whisper that he was the one.
At dawn, the sun rose.
For the first time in generations, light fell upon the land. And the people wept out of joy. The sun had become a myth, a word spoken with disbelief. Now, it scorched the sky like a forgotten god returning.
Its light reached the dragon, frozen in eternal stillness near the northern gate. Slowly, its prison began to melt. One by one, the eight gates of the kingdom creaked open, as if stirred from a long, haunted sleep.
And then, on the ninety-first day, they brought the boy to the throne. The people gathered in silence, eyes wide with the ache of hope. He sat where no one had sat in centuries. And in the stillness of that coronation, just as the crown was raised above his head—he died.