"Once upon a time, in the Alliance of Vhalyria, there was a man who, through his harem — four hundred and seventy-six women, each chosen like a gem to be set in a king's crown — rose to the imperial throne.
His name was Iuliar Ceshen, and his rule was absolute, his word law, his bed a temple, his harem a nation within the nation.
Ceshen proclaimed himself the "living mirror of God," flesh reflecting the divine face.
But the gods do not take kindly to imitation.
And so the One who dwells beyond the Dark Heavens — the Only, the First — sent forth his spirits of wrath, creatures born from the sin of those who dare defy the Sacred Order: the demòra, devourers of souls.
On a night as black as the abyss, the demòra descended upon Ceshen's Empire like a wind of fire.
One by one, the women of his harem were swept away: burned, torn apart, dissolved into silence.
Then it was Ceshen's turn. His heart was the last to stop beating — but the first to make the heavens weep.
By morning, the throne was empty, and his palace profaned by eternal emptiness.
And it was then that the One understood His mistake. In killing, He had made Himself mortal. In acting with rage, He had stained Himself like a man.
And so He proclaimed a new law:
No more blood in the Harem Game.
No more death.
Whoever dared commit that ancient sin again would be cast into the Infernal Abyss, into the jaws of the demòra — without prayer, without redemption."
It was at that very moment that the man in white robes, wearing a tall golden headdress shaped like a tower — a man with a voice firm and solemn, who smelled of incense and ancient power — raised his arms toward the murky sky above the city that had once been the heart of a shattered empire: Valetar, the Ancient.
Once glorious, now veiled in dust and silence. Broken columns, faceless statues, temples hollowed and blackened.
But the Sacred Podium of Alharad, at the center of the Square of Oaths, remained intact.
From there, the Pontiff of the Unified Faith — spiritual leader of millions, guardian of the Divine Word, bearer of the sacred symbol: the flaming eye engraved upon an open hand — addressed the crowd: thousands of faces, of bodies poised, each one hungry for glory, for lust, or for vengeance.
With a voice as deep as an abyss and as clear as steel, he blessed the beginning of the Harem Game.
He blessed desire.
He blessed flesh.
He blessed the lie.
Then he stepped aside.
From the edge of the platform, a man dressed in crimson velvet, with a sharp and theatrical smile, took the stage.
"Thank you, Your Holiness," he said with a bow so dramatic it bordered on obscene, then turned to the crowd with eyes gleaming with hunger and irony.
"Houses of Vhalyria! Ancient dynasties, young predators, heirs starving for glory and pleasure... The long-awaited moment has come. The Harem Game begins!"
At the sound of the announcement, the crowd of young nobles poured out of the Square of Oaths like a crashing wave.
They were countless, the sons of Vhalyria's great houses, gathered from every corner of the world to compete for glory, alliances, and power.
Some had just turned twenty, facing their first Game with hearts full of ambition and names yet untested.
Others, nearing thirty, were entering their final Game, aware this was their last chance to save or elevate their bloodline.
There were those who possessed no harem yet, who arrived unmarked, eyes set firmly on the future.
And there were those who had played before, bearing the signs of their conquests: embroidered banners, multiple rings on their right hand, and a weary air — worn by too many Games, too many bodies, too many bargains.
The Harem Game was held five times a year, once for each of the Five Continents of Vhalyria:
Arhon, cradle of the Empire and stage of its downfall.
Xianth, the sleeping dragon of the East.
Zubarra, the black heart of the sacred deserts.
Nahlvir, the new land of a thousand frontiers.
Solkhan, the continent of golden veins and lost cities.
On that day, the Game returned to Valetar, lost capital of an ancient empire, now reduced to a monument of the past: stone and dust, broken columns, blind statues — yet still brimming with a silent, living presence.
As the young men scattered through the ruined streets, the women awaited them.
They were not victims.
They were heirs, daughters, promises.
Each came with a dowry, a lineage, a future to trade.
For the men, capturing one meant claiming her dowry: land, wealth, alliances, influence.
For the women, being captured meant entering a new house, forging a political bond, securing the continuation of their bloodline.
For some — rare and naïve — it also meant seeking love.
But love was a luxury.
And everyone knew it.
One truth hovered over every Game, carved in blood like a sacred creed:
Women without dowries were shunned as bearers of misfortune — wives who would birth only misery.
And men from ruined houses were seen as living plagues — harbingers of doom, doomed to fall… and to drag down anyone they chose.
In that final condition stood Aurelian Var Ceshen.
The last direct descendant of Emperor Iuliar Ceshen — the man who dared proclaim himself equal to God, and who, for that blasphemy, paid the price with death and the destruction of his harem.
That day, one thousand four hundred and fifty-three years ago, God unleashed the demons upon the earth and ended the Empire.
The Emperor's sons — hundreds — scattered across the world, carrying his name through the centuries.
But as generations passed, the blood thinned, the lines fractured, and today…
Only one still bore that name, pure and cursed.
Aurelian.
No powerful house sought alliance with him.
No well-dowered woman would accept the burden of his crest: the two-headed serpent devouring its own tail — symbol of eternal rebirth, but also of cyclical damnation.
And yet, he was there.
Present.
Standing.
Eyes fixed on the ruined statue of Emperor Ceshen, still looming mutilated over Valetar: headless, weather-worn, shamed by rain and time, yet standing as a warning.
When the bells of the Podium of Alharad rang the signal to begin, and the ranks charged forth like predators, Aurelian remained still for a moment.
He closed his eyes.
He inhaled.
And he spoke.
Low voice, but firm — like a vow carved into flesh:
"You created the Game. I will master it.
And Valetar... will be ours again."