Zephyros: The Kingdom of Light
The capital city, Verenthia, stood as a shining testament to human ingenuity and prosperity. At its heart, the Veymar Castle, a massive fortress of gleaming white stone, symbolized centuries of human unity and strength under the Veymar bloodline. A grand statue of Alaric Veymar, the reigning king, towered before the castle gates, depicting him with a raised sword and an unyielding gaze—a protector of his people and a beacon of hope. The Veymars had ruled Zephyros for generations, their mastery over Light Magic cementing their legacy as humanity's guiding light and pushing them to the pinnacle of power.
Inside the castle, a tall and burly knight clad in golden armor strode purposefully through an extravagantly decorated hallway. The armor was impossibly heavy for an ordinary human to bear, a testament to the knight's immense strength. Two soldiers flanking a large, ornate door stiffened as he approached, saluting him before pulling the doors open.
The knight entered the king's private chambers to find Alaric Veymar, his regal white hair disheveled, sitting beside an ornate desk, a half-empty bottle of wine in his hand. The air in the room was heavy with grief.
"Your Highness," the knight began, bowing deeply. "General Orin has sent word. The creatures have been subdued with the aid of the noble houses."
Alaric's grip on the bottle tightened. With a sudden burst of rage, he hurled it at the knight. Though the knight could have dodged, he stood firm, taking the blow without flinching.
"What of my children?" Alaric's voice thundered, his pain unmistakable. "They took both my children!"
The knight bowed lower. "General Orin has also uncovered the cause of the attack and has requested an audience. He is en route to the castle now, Your Highness."
For the first time in days, life returned to Alaric's eyes. The week had been a nightmare. Creatures from the Cursed Northern Lands had inexplicably poured into the university grounds, leaving Verenthia in chaos. Though the noble houses had united under General Orin to suppress the invasion, the cost was staggering. Thousands had perished, the capital left ravaged. The only solace was that the invaders were Tier 1 Lesser Beasts and Tier 2 Minor Aberrations—monsters that, while deadly, paled compared to the horrors of higher tiers. The Cursed Northern Lands were known to harbor monsters up to Tier 7, entities so powerful they could obliterate entire cities in moments.
Dismissing the knight, Alaric prepared himself. For the first time since the tragedy, he would sit upon his throne.
The grand throne room, an awe-inspiring chamber of marble and gold, was filled with a tense silence. Alaric sat on his gilded throne, his piercing gaze fixed on the door as it swung open. General Orin, tall and wiry, with a rugged face that belied his experience, strode forward. Despite his lean build, Orin was a legend, a warrior who could single-handedly rout battalions. Bowing deeply, he addressed the king.
"Your Highness, it's a Netherswap Spell."
Alaric leaned forward. "Explain."
"They swapped the beasts from the Cursed Northern Lands with the students from the university," Orin explained grimly. "And it seems this has happened to other kingdoms as well. All major capitals have reported similar incidents."
Alaric's fists clenched. "Why the university? Why my children?"
"We haven't determined their intentions," Orin admitted. "But the Mage Tower hypothesizes that the spell was limited to Tier 1 and Tier 2 monsters because the higher-tier creatures… rejected the swap."
Alaric's eyes widened. "Rejected? Is that even possible?"
Orin hesitated. "It seems so. The exact mechanics remain unclear, but… it's as if the higher-tier entities refused to leave their domain."
Alaric's voice dropped, his words heavy with despair. "And my children?"
Orin removed his helmet, kneeling. "Your Highness, forgive me, but… I must urge you to consider an heir. The Veymar line cannot end. You are humanity's hope—"
"Enough!" Alaric roared, descending the dais. In a blur of movement, his hand shot out, gripping Orin's throat with crushing force.
"You dare suggest I abandon my children?" Alaric's voice was filled with a father's fury. Orin gasped for air but made no move to resist. He knew his king's wrath was born of anguish.
After a tense moment, Alaric released him, his shoulders heaving. "Send 200 capable soldiers into the Cursed Northern Lands," he ordered. "Bring my children back."
Orin coughed, bowing deeply. "As you command, Your Highness."
As Orin prepared to leave, he added hesitantly, "Your Highness… there's more. Items from the beasts' carcasses and random buffs were discovered among those who killed them."
Alaric's eyes narrowed. "So it's true…" He turned his gaze upward, his voice filled with both fury and despair. "Aratheon, is this your doing? Are our lives just a game to you?"
Aratheon, the God of Creation and Games, had long been the source of whispered legends. It was said he created the Cursed Northern Lands to cure his boredom, a playground for monsters and adventurers to grow and challenge even the gods themselves. For years, humanity had dismissed such tales as myth.
But now, the evidence was undeniable. The items, the buffs, the monsters—all bore his mark.
Alaric's face hardened. "If Aratheon is aiding the demons, we have no choice. Summon the other kingdoms for a meeting. If peace is over, then so be it. The demon race must be eradicated."
Orin bowed once more, but Alaric had already turned, his steps heavy with resolve.
"It's personal now," the king muttered. "I will see this through myself."
Meanwhile, In a massive, burning building in verenthia, the air was thick with acrid smoke, and the haunting screams of people echoed through the chaos. Flames consumed everything, spreading from a single figure at the center of the inferno. Amid the destruction stood a red-haired man in his forties, his expression unreadable as he gripped the charred remains of a burning human in his hand, staring coldly into its lifeless eyes.
Through the blaze, another figure approached—an older man with the same striking red hair. He walked through the fire unharmed, as though the flames themselves avoided him. This was Rhydion Morven. His steady strides carried him closer to the source of the carnage: the man holding the lifeless body.
"Luceris," Rhydion called out, his voice calm but firm. "Did you learn anything?"
Luceris let the corpse drop to the ground, its remains crumbling into ash, and turned to face Rhydion. His eyes, empty and devoid of emotion, sent a chill down Rhydion's spine. Those eyes were not the ones he remembered. Once, Luceris had been full of life, a man who carried himself with charm and confidence. Now, that man was gone, replaced by something distant and unrecognizable.
"No," Luceris replied flatly. "They chose death. But someone will break eventually. It's only a matter of time."
Rhydion's jaw tightened as he forced himself to remain composed. "Don't worry," he said softly. "The children will be fine. We'll find them."
"I don't care if they die," Luceris said without hesitation, his voice cold and detached. "If they can't protect themselves, they're better off dead. At their age, I was already on the battlefield."
Rhydion felt his heart sink at those words. He clenched his fists, a deep sadness welling within him. Was this his fault? Had his relentless obsession with hunting demons fractured his family beyond repair? He had watched Luceris change over the years, especially after his engagement to Lucy Hale was annulled. The light in Luceris's eyes had dimmed, replaced by bitterness and detachment. Even though Luceris had married twice and fathered three children, he had never truly been present for them.
Breaking free from his regret, Rhydion tried to focus on their mission. General Orin had tasked them with rooting out the vagrants who had aided demons in infiltrating the kingdom. It was a grim duty, one that Rhydion never thought he'd face—hunting down their own kind.
Luceris turned away, his gaze fixed on the flames devouring the building. His voice was quiet but resolute. "They'll talk. Sooner or later, someone always does."
Rhydion hesitated, looking at his son—so consumed by his rage and apathy that he no longer resembled the boy he once knew. Rhydion silently vowed to himself: If I can't fix the kingdom, at least I'll try to fix my family.
The flames crackled louder as Luceris walked deeper into the inferno, his figure blending into the chaos as Rhydion watched, unsure if it was already too late to save him.