It was a gray morning when Edgar first entered the royal library, his face drawn with the weight of thoughts he couldn't shake. The sun had not yet risen, and the great hall of books stood in silent anticipation of his arrival. He had always felt drawn to the vast collection of knowledge contained within these walls, but today there was a sense of urgency in his step.
He had spent years learning about the history of Gog and Magog, the legacy of his father, King Vargan, and his people's dark past. But something within him felt... incomplete. There were too many questions, too many unsaid things. He could no longer ignore the pull of the ancient tomes and manuscripts that lined the towering shelves.
For a week, he did nothing but read. Every hour, every day, Edgar buried himself in the musty pages, his eyes flickering from one book to the next. He read about the blood-soaked history of Gog and Magog, the rise and fall of kings, the wars that had devastated entire generations, and the brief, fragile peace that had followed the union of his parents. But it was a dusty old book, hidden in the back of the library, that changed everything.
The Hidden History.
The title was scrawled in faded gold letters on the spine, so old and worn that the book seemed to pulse with mystery. When Edgar opened it, the world seemed to fall away. The words inside were cryptic, written in a language that seemed both ancient and familiar, as though they had been waiting for him. As he flipped through the pages, the truth unfolded before his eyes in a shocking revelation:
The Hidden History revealed the existence of a long-forgotten race, one that predated all others—the last humans. According to the text, the world was not simply a place of chaos and war, but a stage for a story that had been unfolding for millennia. This story was guided by the Ruler, a powerful being who had asked Allah himself to create this world, not as a creation of peace and harmony, but as a crucible—a place where only one would survive, and that one would be granted paradise.
The Ruler had chosen this world, its wars, its bloodshed, to play out his vision. The battle between the Gogs and Magogshad always been a key part of the story—two great bloodlines, destined to collide, destined to create a being with the power to rewrite the world's destiny. That being was Edgar Magog.
Edgar's eyes widened as he read the final pages. The more he read, the more he understood that the wars, the alliances, the hatred between his people, his family, had all been orchestrated by forces beyond his comprehension. He had not been born simply to rule; he had been born to end everything.
His entire life, his very existence, was part of a game—a game that was not his own. His role was to destroy the world, to bring an end to all humanity, and in doing so, he would be the last man standing. That was his purpose. He would be the Ruler's heir.
He sat in the library for hours, unable to move. The weight of what he had discovered crushed him. His body trembled as he let out a low, bitter laugh, a sound that quickly turned into an uncontrollable mix of laughter and tears. His chest tightened as sobs broke free, and yet, somehow, he couldn't stop laughing. The absurdity of it all—the sheer madness of what he had just read—was too much for him to process.
Was he supposed to embrace this destiny? Should he accept that his entire life had been scripted, that his every choice, every moment, had been part of a much darker story? How could he, the supposed symbol of hope and peace, now understand the truth of his existence?
The Interruption
It was then that the door to the library creaked open, and a familiar voice broke through his madness.
"Edgar?"
Edgar looked up, his eyes wild, bloodshot from days of sleepless reading. Standing in the doorway was Korrin, the eldest son of King Azrael, and only two months younger than Edgar himself. Korrin had always been a steady, calm presence, in stark contrast to Edgar's often unpredictable nature. But now, seeing Edgar in this state, his expression twisted into confusion and concern.
"Why are you laughing like that?" Korrin asked cautiously, his voice soft but filled with worry. He stepped further into the room, eyeing Edgar with growing unease. "Edgar, what's going on? You're crying, and yet… you're laughing. What is it?"
Edgar couldn't answer right away. The truth was too much, too overwhelming. But he slowly rose from his seat, the book still clutched in his hands, its pages worn and fragile. He looked at Korrin with an expression that was both empty and full, a hollow smile that barely touched his eyes.
"You don't understand, Korrin. None of us do. This world, this life… it's all a game. A story written by the Ruler. And I—I'm part of it. My purpose... is to destroy everything. There can be only one. Only I can rule."
Korrin's face paled, the weight of Edgar's words sinking in. "What… what are you talking about?" His voice shook now, the concern turning into disbelief. "You've lost your mind, haven't you?"
Edgar's laugh died in his throat. He looked at Korrin, his eyes filled with pain and confusion. "I don't know what to do anymore," he whispered. "I… I can't just sit here and pretend that I'm not the end of everything."
Korrin stepped back, his face clouded with fear and uncertainty. "Edgar, you're not—you're not the end. You're the hope. You're the one, the example to bring peace between Gog and Magog, between our people. You can't be this…" He gestured helplessly at Edgar's manic state.
But Edgar didn't hear him anymore. He felt as though he were being consumed by the truth, the heavy, suffocating truth that had been forced upon him. He was the end.
"No, Korrin," Edgar said softly. "I have to do this. I have to finish what was started."
Without warning, Edgar turned toward his sword, which lay in its scabbard by the window. He drew it with trembling hands, the blade gleaming in the dim light. Korrin's eyes widened in horror.
"Edgar! Stop!" Korrin shouted, taking a step back. "You don't need to do this. Please, come back with me. Whatever you've found, it's not worth throwing everything away!"
But Edgar didn't listen. He stepped forward with sudden, terrifying resolve. Korrin reached out to stop him, but before he could react, Edgar lunged forward and stabbed him in the side with a swift, brutal motion.
Korrin gasped, falling to the ground in pain. But the wound, while deep, did not kill him. He breathed heavily, looking up at Edgar, who stood above him with wide, terrified eyes.
"You—what have you done?" Korrin gasped, his voice weak.
Edgar's expression was unreadable. "I'm sorry," he whispered, voice cracking. "I don't know what else to do. I have to be the last one."
Korrin's eyes flickered, understanding slowly dawning. "You've lost yourself, Edgar. This isn't you. Please… come back. You're still the heir of peace. Don't let them turn you into this."
Edgar shook his head, the madness returning in full force. He turned and fled from the room, leaving Korrin bleeding on the floor.
The Aftermath
The tension in the palace was unbearable. The heavy air was thick with dread, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows across the stone walls.
News of the attack had spread like wildfire, the echoes of Korrin's cries still ringing in the ears of those who had witnessed it.
The royal hall was in uproar, but it was nothing compared to the chaos that was unfolding outside its walls.
General Torak, a towering figure and loyal commander of the Magog army, stormed into the council room, his armor clanging with each hurried step.
His dark eyes flicked King Vargan, who stood in the center, the tension between them palpable.
Behind him, several other generals—men hardened by years of war—followed, their faces filled with confusion and unease.
"I demand to know what happened!" General Torak's voice thundered as he glared at Vargan.
"My prince was attacked—our heir to the throne was nearly killed. What is this madness? And why is the boy not here to answer for his crimes?"
Vargan's face was drawn, his age showing in the deep lines that now marred his once-imposing visage. His eyes, normally stern and calm, were clouded with a mixture of guilt and disbelief. He stood still, his posture rigid, as though the weight of the kingdom was crushing him from within.
"He is gone," Vargan murmured, his voice barely audible."
"Edgar has fled the palace. We don't know where he's gone. He—he didn't act like himself. He wasn't the boy I raised."
The generals exchanged uneasy glances.
General Morga, a sharp-eyed, no-nonsense woman, stepped forward.
Her dark hair was tied back in a tight braid, her expression unflinching despite the horrors she'd just witnessed. "King Vargan, you must understand. This is more than a simple crime of passion. Although we All know Edgar but This attack on Korrin—it reeks of madness. What could have driven Edgar to such an act? What changed him?"
Vargan opened his mouth to respond, but his words faltered. How could he explain? How could he put into words what had transpired in the royal library? The truth was too much, even for him.
Before he could speak, the door to the room flew open with a crash.
King Azrael entered in a storm of fury, his long cloak trailing behind him like the shadow of impending doom. His eyes, red with rage, locked onto Vargan with a seething hatred.
"Where is my son?!" Azrael shouted, his voice low and dangerous, a growl that made the room freeze. His face was twisted with a kind of fury that had not been seen in years, the weight of centuries of war now giving way to an almost primal wrath.
General Torak stepped back, startled by Azrael's explosive entrance.
The old king was trembling, but not with age. It was an anger, a wrath that had been simmering for too long. He strode across the room toward Vargan, his hands clenched into fists, his face contorted into a snarl.
"What did you do?" Azrael hissed, his words sharp as knives. "My son was attacked, and you stand there like a coward, silent while my blood bleeds in the halls of your palace. Do you think this is a game, Vargan? Do you think you can simply bury it and pretend it never happened? My son—Korrin—nearly died because of Edgar!"
Vargan winced at Azrael's words, but he did not back down. He stood firm, his voice steady despite the storm inside him. "Azrael, I swear by The All-Mighty Allah, I did not know this would happen. Edgar is—he's lost, he's… changed. I don't know why he did this, but I will find him. I will bring him back and he will be yours."
Azrael's eyes were fire, his chest heaving as he fought to control the chaos inside him. He turned to face his generals, his words now a dangerous, almost manic rasp. "Get every soldier on high alert. We will hunt him down. If Edgar dares defy me, I will bring him to his knees. He will answer for what he's done."
Torak stepped forward, his jaw tight. "King Azrael, we will find him. But we must be cautious. If he is in a state of madness, then we may not be able to control him. We need to move carefully."
Azrael's rage flared even higher. "Carefully? He attacks my heir, and you want to be careful? We have no time for caution. We march at once. I'll personally see to it that Edgar is brought back. No one leaves the palace until we find him. No one."
Vargan's hand shot out, grasping Azrael's arm with surprising force. "No. Azrael, wait. Let me handle this, he is my son, let me be the one."
Azrael whipped around, eyes wild with fury. "You think you can stop me? You think I'll wait? You may be king of Magog, but this is not just your kingdom, and I'll burn it to the ground if it means I get my revenge back."
Vargan's voice grew quieter, but there was an iron edge to it.
"You're not thinking straight. If we hunt him down blindly, if we treat him like an enemy—" His voice cracked with emotion. "—we risk losing him forever. We risk losing everything."
For a long moment, the two kings stood locked in a stare, both of them caught in the fury of the moment, both of them grieving the loss of the son they had once known.
General Morga took a deep breath and addressed the room.
"There is another option, Your Majesty." She spoke calmly, but her voice was firm, as though she had weighed the cost of her words. "If Edgar has fled, then we cannot simply chase him with force. The boy is troubled, but he is still the heir of Magog. If we show him we are willing to listen—to understand him—there may still be a way to bring him back."
Azrael turned to her, his rage still evident, but with a flicker of doubt in his eyes. "And if he refuses? What then?"
Morga met his gaze evenly. "Then we do what we must. But first, we must try to save him from himself."
The Search Begins
Outside the palace, the mood had shifted into full-scale military mobilization. Soldiers, generals, and scouts poured out of the gates, their horses thundering over the fields as they fanned out in every direction.
The once-calm kingdom was now a battleground, as the very land seemed to echo the turmoil of its rulers.
As night fell, the whispers of Edgar's flight spread through the kingdom like wildfire. The people, who had once adored him as a symbol of peace, were now uncertain of his fate. Was he truly lost? Or had he been corrupted by forces beyond their comprehension?
The next few days would be filled with uncertainty, and as the armies of Gog and Magog scoured the land, the two kings—Azrael and Vargan—would stand on the precipice of an uncertain future.
One king, desperate to take revenge for his son and restore pride and order.
The other, torn between love for his son and the cold, hard truth of what Edgar had become.
Edgar ran through the night with the speed of a hunted animal, the cold wind whipping at his face, stinging his pale skin. His breath came in ragged gasps, and his mind was a chaotic blur of thoughts—too many thoughts for a single soul to bear. The world he had known, the family he had once believed in, had collapsed around him. The truth that had been thrust upon him like a curse had broken something inside him.
Edgar Magog was not just the son of Vargan, the King of Magog, nor was he merely the cousin to Korrin, the heir of Azrael's kingdom. He was far more than that—something far darker, far more dangerous. He was the key to a destiny not of his making, and yet, he could not escape it.
The storm raged around him, the cold of the mountains biting into his flesh as he stumbled through the snow, his breath clouding in the air. Each step felt heavier than the last. But it wasn't just the weight of the snow or the cold—it was the weight of everything. The truth, the revelation from the dark book—the hidden history. He could feel the walls closing in on him, and there was no one left to turn to.
Kill them all. That whisper echoed in his mind. The voice that had guided him to this moment. The devil. The force that had always lingered in the dark corners of his thoughts, waiting for the right moment to take hold.
He had read it all—The Hidden History. He had learned the awful truth of his bloodline, of the twisted prophecy that was bound to him. A race. A race to be the last human standing. The ruler who would bring about the end of all things, the one who would rule the world in a new age. And at the center of it all was Edgar Magog—born from the union of two ancient, cursed bloodlines.
The truth was that he wasn't just a boy. He was a superhuman. And the voice had told him—if Gog and Magog united, the child born of such a union would be a new type of being, someone far beyond the frailties of ordinary men. But that meant only one thing: if a superhuman like him existed, there could be no others. The world was not big enough for both other Superhumans like korrin and his people.
His mind reeled. He had to be the last one. He had to rule. There was no other choice.
"I will be the last one," he whispered aloud through gritted teeth, his voice trembling with a strange mix of fury and fear. "I will end it all."