The village was small, nestled deep in the heart of a misty swamp, hidden from the world. To Magnus, it was a confusing place—one he barely understood, but it was all he knew. Ever since he had stumbled into it, lost and without memory, the village had taken him in, or rather, one woman had.
Martha. She was older, her gray hair tied back in a simple bun, her face lined with years of hardship. Yet she had kind eyes, eyes that reminded Magnus of something, though he couldn't remember what. Martha had found him wandering the swamp, his clothes torn and dirt-covered, no memory of who he was or how he'd gotten there. All he knew was that he was strong. Unnaturally strong.
At first, the villagers had been curious. They eyed him with suspicion but left him alone, likely out of respect for Martha, who had taken him in as if he were her own. She told him stories, sometimes late into the night, about a son she had once lost. A boy who had looked just like Magnus, with the same bright eyes and wild hair. He had died years ago, killed in an accident during a village skirmish.
"You remind me of him," Martha would say, her voice soft and distant. "He was strong, too. Brave. But the village... they feared him in the end."
Magnus listened, never speaking much. His body was powerful, and it made him feel out of place. He could make objects float with a simple thought, could push aside huge rocks and even the crumbling remains of old structures with barely any effort. The first time it happened, Martha had been hanging laundry, and he had simply waved a hand, and the basket of wet clothes had lifted into the air, gently floating toward her.
The villagers hadn't liked that. Whispers spread. Fear grew. The other villagers started to call him "monster." At first, it was in whispers, behind his back. But soon, as his powers became more visible, more undeniable, the whispers turned to open insults. He would step outside the small house Martha kept him in, and rotten fruit or stones would be hurled at him. He'd flinch but wouldn't fight back. He'd just gather firewood or fetch water from the nearby stream, ignoring the jeers, and bring it all back to Martha's house, trying to help however he could.
"I'll protect you, Martha," he said one day as they sat by the fire. His voice was quiet but full of resolve. "You've been kind to me. I won't let anything hurt you."
Martha smiled, but there was a sadness in her eyes. "You're a good boy, Magnus. But promise me one thing. Never hurt them. The villagers... they're just scared. They don't understand you. They're not bad people—they're just afraid."
Magnus nodded, even though he didn't fully understand. "I promise."
Life went on like that for a time. Each day was a struggle, but he found joy in the small moments with Martha. Helping her around the house, gathering food, and chopping firewood. It was simple, but he was happy.
But the villagers' cruelty didn't stop. It got worse. One day, as Magnus returned from gathering water, a group of boys his age blocked his path. They didn't just throw fruit or rocks this time. They attacked him, fists swinging, kicking him to the ground. He was strong—he could have fought back, could have tossed them aside with ease. But Martha's words echoed in his mind: "Don't hurt them." So he let them beat him, his body taking blow after blow until he couldn't stand anymore.
When they were done, they spat on him and walked away, laughing and muttering insults under their breath. Magnus slowly got up, bruised but still standing. His muscles ached, and the sting of their words cut deeper than any of the punches. He dusted himself off and limped back to Martha's house, his mind swirling with confusion and anger. But he had promised her—he wouldn't fight back.
The next day, the same boys appeared. This time, they were waiting for him outside the village square, a sneer already on their leader's face. Magnus tried to avoid them, keeping his head low, but they moved to block his path again.
"Hey, monster," the leader called out, his voice mocking. "Why don't you show us some of that freak strength? Lift a house for us, maybe?"
Magnus clenched his fists at his sides, but he didn't respond. He knew what they wanted. They wanted him to react, to snap, to prove their fears right. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction.
"Aw, come on. You're not even gonna fight back?" one of the boys taunted, shoving Magnus in the chest.
Another punch landed on his side, and then a kick to his leg. The blows came faster now, harder, but Magnus didn't raise a hand. He gritted his teeth, trying to block out their voices, the pain, everything. But then, a heavy rock hit him square in the back of the head, and darkness swallowed him whole.
The last thing he heard before slipping into unconsciousness was the sound of their laughter, ringing in his ears like a cruel reminder of everything he had tried to ignore.
Magnus awoke to the smell of smoke. The air was thick with it, burning his throat and stinging his eyes. Slowly, he sat up, wincing as pain shot through his body from the earlier beating. His vision blurred, but as he wiped the blood from his eyes, he realized something terrible.
The village was on fire.
The flames crackled and roared, consuming everything in their path. Houses burned, collapsing in on themselves, while the charred bodies of villagers lay scattered around the streets. He stumbled to his feet, his mind spinning. What had happened?
"Help! Someone!" He shouted, staggering through the flames, desperate to find anyone alive. But the village was empty, the only sound the crackling of burning wood and the eerie silence that followed.
Then he saw her. Martha.
She was kneeling in the center of the village, her arms wrapped around the lifeless bodies of the villagers. Her face was streaked with tears, her eyes wide and hollow as she rocked back and forth, holding them as if she could somehow bring them back.
"Martha!" Magnus ran to her, his heart pounding. "What happened? I—"
But she didn't look at him. Her gaze remained fixed on the bodies she held, her voice barely above a whisper. "They're dead... all of them."
"Martha, I didn't—" Magnus began, but she finally looked at him, and the look in her eyes stopped him cold.
Her eyes were filled with hatred. "It was you... You did this. I knew it. I should have seen it sooner. You're just like them, just like the monster they feared. You killed them all."
Magnus staggered back, shock and confusion clouding his thoughts. "No... I didn't... I didn't do this! I promised! I promised I wouldn't hurt anyone!"
But Martha was beyond reason. She cradled the dead villagers in her arms, tears streaming down her face. "Monster. You're a monster, Magnus. You should never have existed. You should die, just like them."
Her words cut deeper than any wound he had ever taken. He fell to his knees, tears welling up in his own eyes as the weight of her words crushed him. "Martha, please... I don't know what happened. I didn't mean for this—"
"Go," she spat, her voice cold and broken. "Leave. Don't ever come back."
Magnus, his heart shattered, stood slowly, his body trembling with grief. He took one last look at Martha, who had turned her back to him, weeping over the bodies of the villagers she had loved.
Tears streamed down Magnus's face as he turned and ran, his feet carrying him away from the burning village, away from the only person who had ever shown him kindness. He ran until his legs gave out, and even then, he crawled, desperate to escape the pain, the guilt, and the fear that he was, after all, the monster they had always said he was.
And as he collapsed into the dirt, sobbing uncontrollably, Magnus couldn't help but wonder if they had been right all along.
With a surge of energy, Magnus slammed his fist into the ground, letting out a roar that echoed through the village. A massive shockwave rippled out from him, shaking the earth, shattering the earth, destroying trees, and evaporating the swamp entirely. Debris swirled in the air as the raw force of his power unleashed chaos.
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King Magnus I stood tall in the training yard, his armor gleaming in the morning light. His powerful frame towered over Ralph, who stood across from him, holding a sword that felt too big for his small hands. Ralph was sweating, breathing hard, but his determination was fierce.
"Again!" Magnus commanded.
Ralph charged at him, swinging the sword with all his might. But Magnus was quicker, effortlessly parrying the blow and knocking Ralph's sword from his hand. The boy stumbled but didn't fall.
"You have to be faster, Ralph," Magnus said. "Strength is nothing without precision."
Ralph wiped the sweat from his brow and nodded. "I'll get it," he said, his voice filled with resolve. "I won't let you down."
Magnus gave him a small smile. "Train hard. You will soon be able to serve the kingdom as my knight."
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The Elf Captain, his face hidden under a dark hood, stood by a sacred pond deep within the ancient forest of his realm. His hands hovered over the still water as he chanted in a low, guttural tone, the words of forbidden magic. The water rippled, turning black as the dark magic seeped into it. Slowly, an image appeared on the surface—Elanor, making her way through the woods toward the Kingdom of Hestoria.
He frowned, his sharp eyes narrowing as he watched her determined footsteps. "So, you've finally chosen your path," he muttered to himself. His fingers dug into the water, distorting the image as he whispered another incantation. The vision disappeared, and the captain stood up, his cloak swirling around him as he turned away from the pond. "This will be interesting."
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Drutneg trudged through the savannah of Jetnims, the dry grass swaying in the hot breeze as he made his way across the vast, open plains. The land of the giants was harsh and wild, the sun beating down relentlessly, but Drutneg welcomed the challenge. In the distance, towering rock formations stood like ancient sentinels, marking the entrance to the realm of the giants.
Sweat dripped from his brow as he approached the massive stone gate. His hand tightened around the handle of his axe, a weapon that had seen countless battles. As he neared the gate, a low rumble echoed through the savannah, the ground trembling beneath him with the footsteps of the giants.
"This is it," Drutneg muttered, gazing up at the towering figures moving behind the gates. His heart raced with the familiar thrill of adventure. "I'm not done yet."
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The Emperor of Edun stood in the center of the battlefield, his sword gleaming as the drake roared before him. The massive creature, with four wings and diamond-hard black scales, spewed molten magma from its jaws, scorching the earth. The Emperor moved with the grace of a warrior king, dodging the drake's attacks with precision, his sword flashing in the air as he slashed at the creature's side.
Nearby, hidden behind a pile of rubble, Ainsworth cowered, tears streaming down his face. He was shaking, his hands covering his ears as the battle raged on. The heat from the drake's magma stung his skin, and every roar made his heart race faster.
"I'm sorry… I'm sorry…" he whispered to himself, his voice cracking as he sobbed, unable to muster the courage to join the fight. He watched his father, the Emperor, standing tall against the beast, and felt only shame.
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Easton walked through a barren wasteland, the sky choked with dust and fire. The storm around him was relentless, swirling flames and ash tearing through the air, but Easton kept moving. His cloak whipped around him as the wind howled, his eyes narrowed against the harsh conditions.
Each step felt heavier than the last, but the pull—something deep inside him—drove him forward. His mind raced with thoughts of the fallen scouts, the vision he had seen, and the terrible danger lurking in Gethren. He could feel the abyssal magic humming beneath his skin, begging to be unleashed, but he kept it contained. Not yet, he thought. Not now.
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In the grand chamber of the Elf King, shadows danced across the polished marble floor as a deep, unsettling voice echoed through the room. The Elf King stood at the center, his eyes fixed on a swirling pool of darkness before him. The voice, ancient and demonic, whispered from the depths of the shadows.
"My loyal servant," the voice rasped, "the pieces are falling into place. The time is almost upon us."
The Elf King knelt before the pool, his hands clasped tightly. "I live to serve you, my master. Everything is proceeding as you've planned."
The shadows shifted, revealing an ancient parchment on the wall. The parchment bore the portraits of the rulers of the world: King Magnus of Magnesia, the Sultan of Arabie, the Fisher King of Fiter, the Emperor of Edun, the Lord of the Ente, the Great Thunderer of Thungrem, the Queen of Hestoria, and the ruler of Bysantim.
The Elf King's eyes flickered with a dangerous gleam as he gazed at their faces. "Soon, they will fall. One by one, their kingdoms will crumble."
The demonic voice chuckled darkly. "And when they do, you will rise as one of the chosen in the new world"
The Elf King stood, his gaze lingering on the portrait of King Magnus I. "Ah, though I have heard Magnus was training a new test subject. That man really is desperate enough to do such cruel actions to preserve his crumbling nation."
He turned away from the portraits, his laughter filling the chamber as the shadows swirled around him. The Elf King's plan was nearly complete. He then heard a knock at the door. A messenger came in bowing. "Your highness, we have found the escapee."
Smiling, the Elf King gazed through his window and yelled, "ALL OF THIS IS FOR YOU MY LORD! This girl will be the last of what I need and I shall soon deliver this world to you!"