The battlefield, once a sprawling expanse of untamed conflict, lay now under a different sky. The ground that had drunk deeply of blood, the air thick with the memories of war, was quiet in a way it had never known before. It was as though the earth itself had grown weary of the endless conflict, exhausted by the weight of history, by the centuries of suffering borne upon its broken back.

And in the twilight of this ruined world, two kings stood alone.

King Azrael of Gog, tall and severe, his form wrapped in rusted iron, his face a mask of indifference born of a thousand years of endless slaughter, regarded his counterpart, King Vargan of Magog.

Vargan, worn and aged, his dark crown perched atop a head that had borne the weight of countless battles, stood, his arms at his side, his sword sheathed. Both men had been warriors since the dawn of their kingdoms, each king a titan of their peoples, their names spoken in fear and awe across the known world.

And yet now, facing each other on the last stage of their conflict, neither could bring themselves to strike.

Azrael: "A thousand years, Vargan. A thousand years of slaughter... of endless suffering. We are both but ghosts now, aren't we?"

Vargan: "Ghosts, yes. But only because we failed to end it. I never wanted this. But it's too late now to unmake the past, Azrael."

The words hung heavy in the air, echoing in the vast emptiness that stretched out before them.

The battlefield was a hollow shell, where once great armies had clashed—now reduced to the ruins of civilization and the bones of men long forgotten.

The very soil beneath their feet seemed to quiver with the weight of all that had been spilled upon it: blood, hate, and the dying cries of those who had marched for them.

Azrael: "We were born to this. You and I. Born to be enemies."

Vargan: "Born, yes. But we chose this path, Azrael. We chose it. We allowed the hate to take root in our hearts. We were men once, or so we tell ourselves. Men who were foolish enough to think victory was the answer."

Azrael's eyes darkened, his gaze piercing through the very air, as though searching for the remnants of his former self, the man who had once dreamed of power.

His voice broke the silence again, a low, rumbling growl that vibrated through the bones of the earth.

Azrael: "If we stopped, what would become of us? Would the world forgive us? Or would they come for us, Vargan? They would never allow us peace."

Vargan's eyes flickered, a shadow passing over them, and for a moment, Azrael could see the regret in his old rival's face—the regret of a man who had seen too much bloodshed, too much destruction to ever hope for redemption.

But Vargan, for all his bitterness, still held a semblance of something Azrael had long since buried: a desire to see the world live without war.

Vargan: "Perhaps they wouldn't. Perhaps they'll always fear us. But I've had enough of this endless death. There are no more victories left, only ruin."

Azrael's grip on the hilt of his sword tightened, but he made no move to draw it.

The weight of the conversation was heavier than any weapon, heavier even than the armies they had once led.

And for the first time in centuries, Azrael's resolve wavered.

The ground beneath them trembled, but not from the clash of steel—rather, it was as if the earth itself was holding its breath, waiting.

Azrael: "And what of our people? Will they forgive us for this madness? For the blood we spilled?"

Vargan: "Forgiveness... is for those who have a future. And I see no future in this endless war. Our people—our people, Azrael, have become beasts, shadows of what they once were. We can't save them by killing each other. The only future we have now is one of peace. Or none at all. Those before us did not make the decisions that i wish for us to make"

The silence that followed felt like an eternity.

There was no wind, no sound save for the distant caw of ravens circling overhead—bodies upon bodies, flesh upon flesh, and the past closing in on them, smothering them.

Yet, in this stifling quiet, Azrael seemed to lose some of his implacable coldness.

His expression softened, though only for a moment, as if he, too, were seeing the futility of it all.

Azrael: "Then what do you propose?"

Vargan: "An end to it all. An alliance. We unite our clans, build a kingdom from the ashes. We become more than just our hatred."

Azrael's brow furrowed.

His eyes flickered to the horizon, where the red sky bled into the darkness.

The idea of peace, of unity, seemed foreign to him, as distant as the sun in a world long deprived of light.

Azrael: "And what of our kin? What of our blood? You think they will accept this?"

Vargan smiled, a grim twist of his lips. His gaze was steady, unwavering.

Vargan: "I think they'll have to. For we are the last of our kind. If we do not unite, we will both die in the shadows, our names forgotten. But if we do... if we unite... our children will remember us as the ones who broke the cycle."

Azrael took a long, slow breath.

His eyes were distant, haunted by memories of wars fought, of battles won and lost, of lives snuffed out in the blink of an eye.

But somewhere beneath that cold exterior, a flicker of hope began to kindle.

Azrael: "I never thought I'd hear such words from you. Vargan. But perhaps... perhaps you're right."

For a long while, neither spoke.

The promise of peace—fragile, uncertain—hung in the air like a whisper.

And then, Azrael, with a finality that seemed to resonate with the earth itself, spoke.

Azrael: "Then let it be done. We unite. And when this war is over, we will see if our people can learn to live beside each other, as we should have all along."

Vargan: "Agreed."

The Union of Gog and Magog

The union of Gog and Magog was forged not in trust, nor in love, but in the cold, bitter necessity of survival.

The marriage of King Azrael to Princess Kaela, the sister of King Vargan, and the marriage of King Vargan to Princess Elyra, Azrael's sister, was not the union of two hearts, but of two kingdoms, bound by centuries of bloodshed.

Yet, in that union, something was born—something new, something terrifying.

The First Child: Edgar Magog

After a year, the first child of the union, Edgar Magog, was a living testament to the chaos that had birthed him.

His very existence seemed to ripple with the darkness of his bloodline.

His eyes, black as the abyss, stared into the world with a gaze that seemed to pierce through time itself.

His hair, pale as the bones of the dead, framed a face that was both childlike and ancient, as though he carried within him the weight of a thousand wars.

When Edgar was born, it was as if the world itself held its breath.

The earth trembled beneath the weight of his arrival, and the winds that once carried the sounds of battle now whispered only of fear.

His presence alone was enough to send ripples of dread through the neighboring kingdoms.

Was he the savior of the broken world, the one who would break the endless cycle of war? Or was he a harbinger of doom, a king who would conquer the earth with the same unrelenting force that had defined the lives of his ancestors?

The prophecy was clear: Edgar Magog, born of two cursed bloodlines, would either break the world or remake it in his own image.

And as the nations around Gog and Magog looked upon him, they did not know whether to fear or revere the child who had come to rewrite the fate of all.

Ah, I see what you're asking for now! You're looking for the scene where Edgar, before he retreats to his room and meets the devil, demonstrates his kind and virtuous nature to everyone around him. This would help set up the contrast between his outward persona as the benevolent heir and the darker truth revealed later. Let me expand on that part and integrate it into the story:

16 Years Later.

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm, golden glow over the capital of the united kingdoms of Gog and Magog.

The streets, once ravaged by the endless wars, now hummed with the sounds of life—children playing, merchants hawking their wares, and farmers bringing in the harvest from the fields that had been restored.

It was a world born from bloodshed but nurtured by peace. And at the heart of it all stood Edgar Magog, looking down upon the land from with in the castle.

Edgar walked through the crowded market square, his pale hair glimmering in the afternoon light like strands of moonlight.

His dark eyes scanned the faces of the people, their expressions brightening as they recognized the king's son.

His presence was like a balm to them, soothing the pain of centuries-old wounds.

He paused in front of a fruit stall, where an elderly woman with silver hair and gnarled hands greeted him with a shy, respectful smile.

"Good day, my prince," she said softly, bowing her head. "You are kind to visit the market."

Edgar smiled warmly, his gaze tender as he met her eyes.

"I'm no different from you, dear lady," he said, his voice calm and reassuring.

"How are your children? Are they well?"

The old woman's eyes filled with tears, a mix of gratitude and sorrow.

"They've grown strong, thanks to the peace you've helped bring, my prince. We don't know how to thank you."

Edgar placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"You need not thank me. The peace is not mine alone, it belongs to all of us. Together, we have rebuilt this land. Together, we have found a future."

The woman's eyes glistened with emotion, and she clasped his hand in hers.

"You're a good boy, Prince Edgar. May Allah bless you."

Edgar nodded, his heart swelling with the affection he received from his people.

He understood their admiration, their reverence for him as the prince of the nation, born of an ancient and powerful union.

But there was something more in their eyes—something deeper.

It was hope. Hope that perhaps, at last, the endless cycle of war had truly ended.

Later that afternoon, Edgar found himself in the palace garden, the scent of blooming flowers filling the air.

His sister Kaela and his younger cousin, Rurik, were sitting on a stone bench, talking animatedly.

Rurik, ever the restless one, was bouncing on his feet, eager to start a training session.

Kaela, more thoughtful, watched him with a fond smile, her soft features illuminated by the fading sunlight.

"Edgar, come sit with us," Kaela called to him as he approached.

Edgar smiled, walking over to them with a graceful, effortless stride.

"What's all the excitement about?" he asked, sitting down beside his sister.

Rurik grinned, cracking his knuckles.

"I'm going to spar with the captain of the guard today. He says I'm ready to begin training for the royal guard. What do you think, cousin? Should I join the ranks?"

Edgar chuckled, placing a hand on Rurik's shoulder.

"I think you're already a warrior, Rurik. You'll do well, as long as you don't let your temper get the best of you. Strength is not just about force, but about discipline."

Rurik's grin faltered slightly, but Edgar's warm tone made him nod, a flicker of respect in his eyes.

Kaela, who was always the more gentle of the two, turned to Edgar with a soft smile. "I'm so proud of you, Edgar. You always know how to make everyone feel better. You have a way of bringing peace, even to those who need it most."

Edgar's expression softened.

"I am no different from anyone else, Kaela. I simply try to do what's right. All I want is for us to live without the shadows of the past."

Rurik, ever the cynic, raised an eyebrow.

"And you think it will last? This peace, I mean. You can't trust it. Not after everything everyone have been through."

Edgar's gaze hardened slightly, but only for a moment.

He knew Rurik's skepticism came from the wounds of their people, the distrust that ran deep in their veins.

But Edgar had learned long ago to walk a different path.

"Peace is fragile, yes. But it's worth fighting for. We have to believe in it, Rurik. If we lose that, we lose everything."

Rurik didn't respond immediately, his gaze dropping to the ground, but Edgar could see the weight of his words sinking in. Edgar Left.

That evening, as the sun set and the evening bells rang through the city, Edgar joined his father, King Vargan Magog, and his uncle, King Azrael Gog, in the royal hall for their nightly council.

The two kings sat together, side by side, their differences now distant memories, replaced by a shared vision for their unified kingdom.

Edgar entered the room with a soft but confident step, his presence commanding the attention of everyone there.

Both kings glanced up from their discussion, their expressions softening as they saw the Prince approach.

"Ah, Edgar," Vargan said with a deep voice that carried both authority and affection. "How was the day? The people are still talking about the market visit."

"It went well, Father," Edgar replied.

"I spoke with many of our people. They are hopeful, and they trust that peace will continue under our reign."

Azrael, ever the more pragmatic of the two kings, raised an eyebrow. "Hope, yes. But hope alone is not enough to keep the peace. We must remain vigilant. The alliances we've forged—these will be tested."

Edgar nodded gravely. "I know, Uncle. But it's not just about vigilance. We must also show our people that we believe in them—that they are a part of this peace. We cannot lead by fear. We must lead by example."

Vargan's gaze softened as he looked at his son.

"Wise words, Edgar. Just as your mother and I always hoped you would grow to be. It is a difficult path, but I know you will walk it well."

Edgar's chest swelled with pride. He stood taller, meeting both his father's and his uncle's eyes. "I will do my best. For all of us."

And though Azrael's expression remained stoic, there was a flicker of approval in his eyes. "Yes, Edgar," he said quietly. "I believe you will." Edgar Left the scene too, after pardoning to leave.

After the council had ended, Edgar retreated to his chambers, his thoughts still lingering on the day's events. He was proud of the peace they had built, of the way he had been able to connect with the people, his family, and his kingship. It was a peace that, even in the darkest moments of doubt, he believed could last.

But when the palace grew quiet and the weight of night settled over the land, Edgar's heart grew heavy.

There were things—truths—that still gnawed at him. A deeper calling, something he could never share with his family, or with anyone.

And as the moonlight filtered through the window, casting long shadows across the floor, Edgar's dark eyes turned toward the strange sigil in the corner of his room.

The whispers began again, soft at first, then growing louder, promising something darker. Something he had always feared, but had never truly understood.

With a heavy sigh, he stood, his pale hair falling into his eyes, and moved to the darkened corner of his room. He knelt before a strange symbol on the floor—an ancient sigil that had been inscribed into the stone beneath his feet when the palace was built.

Tonight, he would call upon the thing he had always sensed lurking in the depths of his soul, the thing that had always whispered to him in the dead of night.

The thing that had guided his every step without him ever knowing.

Edgar took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and whispered the incantation.

The room seemed to freeze in place. The air grew still, as though the very atmosphere held its breath.

Then, in the center of the sigil, the darkness began to swirl, coiling and twisting, taking shape like smoke given form.

And from that swirling darkness, a voice—low, guttural, and ancient—echoed through the room.

Devil: "Hahahahaha… I have waited for you, Edgar Magog."

Edgar did not flinch. He knew the voice well, even though he had never heard it speak aloud before. It was the same voice that had plagued his dreams, the one that had whispered dark truths when no one else could hear.

Edgar: "I knew you'd come, after all, you had been in my shadows for so many years."

The figure that materialized from the darkness was an imposing presence—dark, shadowy, with eyes like burning embers that glowed against the abyss of his form. His features were indistinct, shifting like smoke, but the power radiating from him was undeniable.

Edgar knew, in that moment, that this was no mere hallucination.

The devil was real. And he had always been with him, hidden in the recesses of his blood.

Devil: "You are not like the others, Edgar. Not like your father, not like your uncles, not like the weak humans who kneel before them. You are something more. Something... superior."

Edgar's pulse quickened. There was a bitter taste in his mouth, but not of fear. It was something else, something ancient. His heart pounded, but it wasn't the rush of terror—no, it was something deeper, something instinctual, that part of him he had never fully understood, the darkness he had tried to suppress for so long.

Edgar: "What do you want from me?"

The devil's laughter was low, rich with menace.

Devil: "Want? I don't want anything, boy. I've already taken what's mine."

The air in the room grew colder, and the shadows deepened.

The devil's voice grew darker, more insistent.

Devil: "You are born of Gog and Magog, Edgar. A union of kings. Your parents thought they could break the cycle of bloodshed by joining their forces. But they were wrong. The only way to truly end the war—the endless war—is to become something greater than men. A superior being. The blood of Gog and Magog, when united, creates you. A being unlike any other."

Edgar's eyes narrowed. He had heard rumors. Whispers that he was different, that there was something more in his veins than the blood of kings. He had often wondered, when the people praised him, when they looked to him with hope and reverence, if they truly understood what he was. But the truth was worse than he could have imagined.

Edgar: "You mean... I'm not human?"

Devil: "Not entirely. Your parents were fools. They believed they could create peace. But when Gog and Magog unite, they don't just create heirs... they create superhumans. Powerful beings who cannot be rivaled by everyone. But there's a price. The world cannot allow two superhumans to walk the earth. They fear you, Edgar. They fear what you could become. And they will not let you live."

Edgar's breath caught in his throat, and for the first time in years, doubt gripped his heart. He had been raised on the belief that peace was possible, that the endless cycle of war could be broken. But now, here, in the dark of his room, the devil told him a different truth—a truth that shook him to his very core.

Devil: "The only way to secure your place in this world... is to eliminate all others. Kill them all, Edgar. Your parents. Your family. Your people. Erase everything they've built. Only then will you be free. Only then will you be the one to shape the world in your image, without weakness, without the fear of anyone who dares oppose you. Your younger brother or sister. They have that blood too. What if they chose to take you out before you do. You will lose it all."

Edgar recoiled at the words, his mind spinning with confusion, horror, and something darker—something he couldn't quite place.

Was this what he had been destined for? Was this the truth of his existence?

Edgar: "No. I can't... I won't. I've spent my whole life trying to do good, trying to build something better. I can't just... kill everyone. They are my family. My people."

The devil's voice grew more insistent, a low, venomous growl that vibrated through the room.

Devil: "And yet you will, Edgar. Because you are not like them. You are more. And in your heart, you know the truth. If you do not, you will be the one hunted and burned by them. Your kingdom will crumble, with such truth. Your legacy will end. You will either rise above them, or you will fall with them. But remember this—the world is not kind to those who hesitate, world only respects those who do their job."

Edgar's heart raced. The room seemed to close in around him, the walls pressing in with a weight he could hardly bear. For a long moment, he stood frozen, caught between the devil's promise of power and the love he had for his family, for the people who had looked to him for hope. Then, finally, he spoke, his voice trembling, but firm.

Edgar: "I won't be your weapon. I will find another way."

The devil's laughter echoed one last time, a sound that was cold and unfeeling, as though the very air itself had turned to ice.

Devil: "We shall see, Edgar Magog. We shall see."

With that, the darkness in the room began to dissipate, and the devil's presence faded into the shadows, leaving Edgar alone in the silence of his chamber.

But even as the room grew quiet once more, Edgar's heart was anything but at peace. The truth had been revealed to him, and it was a burden that could not be undone.