Somewhere in the Himalayan Mountain Range
The Himalayas—the tallest mountain range in the world—stand as a natural border between China, India, Pakistan, Nepal, and Bhutan. Its snow-covered peaks stretch endlessly, a no-man's land where few creatures call home, save for the occasional human soldiers guarding their imaginary borders.
But atop its highest peak exists a place unlike any other—a paradise unseen by human eyes. Rolling grassy fields teem with deer, rabbits, and countless other critters my sister adores. Crystal-clear ponds bloom with hypnotic lotus and lilies, their beauty capable of mesmerizing even the most intelligent beings. Gigantic koi, larger than belugas, glide gracefully beneath the water's surface, their scales shimmering like liquid gold. They adore my sister—perhaps because she feeds them something that makes them grow so large, yet even more breathtaking than any other koi in existence.
The air is thick with the fragrance of a thousand flowers, mingling with the soft melody of a harp—my sister's harp. Its tune carries a soothing, almost celestial quality, filling the sacred space with serenity.
And then there is my brother-in-law, forever in meditation. Best not to disturb him unless absolutely necessary—he can be rather... irritable when pulled from his trance.
This is their sanctuary.
"Sister, it's time. A new vessel is born."
Thalyssa's fingers momentarily pause over her harp strings.
"How long do we have, Vish?"
"A few decades, probably. We'll need to ask the old man to know for sure."
"Call the council meeting."
A deep, steady voice interrupts from nearby.
"Ah... so you've emerged from your meditation, Azrath." Vish smirks. "I still don't understand why you force yourself into such long trances when you could simply walk among humans to pass the time."
Azrath exhales slowly. "I have no interest in your incarnation business, Vish. I will not take part unless—"
"Unless it is necessary for existence itself." Vish finishes the sentence with a chuckle. "Yes, yes, you've told me that countless times already."
Azrath's gaze sharpens. "Yet you keep asking every time."
"Tch, never mind. See you at the council." Vish smirks, throwing a casual wave over his shoulder. "Try not to brood too hard before then."
Azrath exhales through his nose but says nothing.
"Bye, Thalyssa!" Vish adds, his tone light.
She chuckles. "Goodbye, brother."
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Vish turned to Ajanma. "Call for the council meeting, Ajanma."
Ajanma bowed slightly. "Yes, my lord."
He raised his right hand, revealing a crystalline orb shimmering like a miniature cosmos, filled with twinkling stars. The lights within it began to pulse, shifting from their serene glow to a deep crimson hue for a few moments before fading back to normal.
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High above China, hidden within the endless sky, floated a city of silver and gold, resting upon the clouds like a dream given form. Every building, adorned with extravagant gemstones, was a masterpiece of ancient Chinese architecture, blending elegance with celestial grandeur.
From above, two structures stood apart from the rest. The first, an enormous circular dome near the northern entrance, starkly contrasted the city's other buildings. Large enough to accommodate five thousand souls at once, it was a place of gathering unlike any other.
The second, positioned at the heart of the city, was a grand hall stretching endlessly, its magnificence crowned by a towering lighthouse. At its peak blazed a radiant orb—like a miniature sun—casting golden light over the city. Yet, the true marvel was not the tower itself, but the living Chinese dragon that perched atop it, its golden-red scales gleaming like molten fire, eyes surveying the realm below with ancient wisdom.
Inside the grand hall, a dignified man sat upon a golden throne, his celestial armor glistening beneath his flowing golden robes, embroidered with intricate dragon motifs. He listened in silence as his ministers reported on matters of the mortal world. But then, his focus shifted.
His gaze fell upon the ornate gold ring on his right hand—its intricate dragon patterns gleaming, the red gemstone eyes suddenly pulsing with a steady glow. As the ring began to vibrate, a smirk played upon his lips.
"Court is adjourned. Make preparations for the council meeting."
For a moment, confusion flickered across the faces of the ministers. Then, realization dawned, and they scrambled out of the throne room in a flurry of movement. Within minutes, the city itself seemed to awaken, humming with renewed energy.
At that same moment, across distant lands, the call went out, reaching those destined to answer.
In a remote village tucked between mountains, an old man sat behind the counter of a small grocery store, dusting off wooden shelves stacked with grains and dried herbs. His wrinkled hands paused as the air around him shimmered for just a second—so brief that no ordinary eye would notice. He sighed, setting down the cloth. His time of solitude was momentarily interrupted, but he knew it was only for a short while.
Deep within a bustling city, a gang of hooligans roamed the streets, their laughter echoing through narrow alleyways. Among them, one man—a fierce yet quiet figure—felt a sudden weight in his chest, like an invisible chain tightening around his soul. He glanced at his reflection in a cracked window, and for a fleeting moment, he did not see himself but the gaze of something far older, something that belonged to another world. Without a word, he turned and walked away, his past life left behind—at least for now.
Above the rolling rivers of a vast continent, a lone figure drifted in the sky, watching the water carve its eternal path through the land. Cloaked in mist, unseen by those below, they closed their eyes as the summons pulsed through their very being. Their wings, long hidden, shimmered for an instant before vanishing once more. But their journey was only a brief detour from the world below.
In the heart of an untouched forest, a woman rested beneath the shade of an ancient tree, her fingers running through the fur of a great beast beside her. Around her, animals gathered, their eyes reflecting a deep understanding. The whisper of the wind carried a message only she could hear. With a knowing smile, she rose to her feet, the creatures parting to let her pass—this moment was fleeting, and the forest would welcome her return.
On the edge of a distant realm, a lone musician sat upon a weathered stone, his flute's melody drifting through the air like a forgotten dream. As he played, the notes wove through the world itself, resonating with the unseen forces that now called him forth. Without hesitation, he stood, tucking the flute into his robes. His journey would take him away for a time, but the music would wait for his return.
From the most ordinary corners of civilization to the most mystical edges of existence, they all heard the call. Some had been waiting for it. Others had long tried to forget. But none could ignore it.
The council was gathering once more and they would answer the call.
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In a Distant Realm from Earth
The past few decades had been both fun and endlessly fascinating for Eryndor. Raised an orphan at the Dragon Sword Sect, he had an obsession with swords from the moment he could walk, particularly the long sword. By the age of 25, he was renowned as peerless in the way of swords, a man without equals. By 45, he had defeated every rival in the realm, and the continent was unified under his sect's rule.
At 60, Eryndor ascended as the new sect leader of Dragon Sword Sect, yet his thirst for mastery over long swords never dulled. He practiced tirelessly, day in and day out, refining his techniques to an almost obsessive degree. Then, one day, as he was lost in his training, a figure appeared out of nowhere—a man, no, a sword personified. His mere presence exuded a power that even Eryndor, the strongest being in the realm, couldn't ignore.
This man, whose gaze could pierce through to the soul, challenged Eryndor to a duel. Without hesitation, Eryndor accepted. The result was swift: a single move, and Eryndor was defeated. It was then that he realized how little he truly understood the art of the long sword, how far he still had to go. The man, seeing his humility, offered Eryndor a deal—access to power beyond anything he had ever known in exchange for eternal life.
Eryndor, confused at first, asked, "You're offering me eternal life and power beyond comprehension… just so I can pursue long swords? What's the catch?"
At first, the idea seemed insane. Why would anyone choose to live forever, seeing everything and everyone they loved age and fade while they remained unchanged? But for Eryndor, the answer was simple. He had only two true loves in his life: the long sword and the Dragon Sword Sect. If immortality could allow him to perfect his craft and protect his sect forever, then it was worth the price.
He accepted the deal.
Now, at the age of 170, Eryndor still appeared as he had at 45—a striking figure, the embodiment of youthful wisdom. He had delegated his position as sect leader, but his authority remained, thanks to his immense strength and influence. To the new disciples, he was known as the "Ancestor," the one they aspired to become. Many believed that his extraordinary powers were the result of his unwavering dedication to the sword, which, in part, was true—but Eryndor never felt the need to correct them. It only motivated them more, and that was enough.
But today, as he trained, something strange happened. A tingling sensation blossomed in his chest, a faint but insistent feeling like a calling. A summons. He paused in his practice, perplexed. He didn't know how to respond. Lord Sword had never spoken of such a thing. What was it? What was this pull that tugged at him so suddenly?
"Hey, Eryndor, ready to go?" The voice came from his left. Eryndor turned, recognizing the man standing there with a grin plastered across his face. It was Draven, the one whom Lord Sword had introduced to him after the deal. Draven held authority over short swords, much like Eryndor did over long swords, and like him, had received the gift of immortality. What started as sparring partners had turned into something deeper—a friendship of sorts.
"You know something about this calling, Draven?" Eryndor asked, suddenly feeling uneasy. Despite the decades they had spent together, they had never really discussed anything other than swords or the worlds they came from. They'd avoided conversations about the deal, about Lord Sword, about immortality. Now, for the first time, a feeling of unease settled in Eryndor's chest. Maybe it was time to finally consider something outside the blade.
Draven smirked. "Of course I do. I've been to the council meeting once before. It was when someone pissed off Lord Azrath."
"Who's Lord Azrath? And what council meeting?" Eryndor asked, his curiosity piqued. This was the first he'd heard of any council or Lord Azrath.
Draven chuckled. "Come on, I'll explain on the way. Lord Sword wanted me to brief you before we get there."
Eryndor furrowed his brow. "Why didn't he tell me about this before?"
Draven gave him a cheeky grin. "He's busy. He wanted me to tell you, but you've never asked about anything other than swords. Or my world. Or your world. Never once asked about the deal, or Lord Sword just popping up to grant us immortality and power like it's free food." Draven's tone carried a hint of teasing, but Eryndor couldn't help but feel a sense of something... missing.
Eryndor sighed, rubbing his temple. "Alright, just explain what's happening. I don't like being summoned to something I know nothing about."