The days flowed like the gentle streams of spring, and with each passing year, Indra grew under the care of Bartho and Elina Ashwon. Though they were not his real parents, their love was as fierce as a summer storm and as tender as autumn leaves falling. Yet, everything changed after his seventh birthday.
The sky above El Dora blazed in a tapestry of crimson and ash. Flames devoured the grand towers, and the earth trembled with the cries of the fallen. Amidst the ruin, a lone figure stood, her silhouette burning against the inferno's glare. Elina Ashwon—his mother—bathed in the kingdom's destruction.
Unaware of the chaos beyond, Indra practiced his archery in the manor grounds. The taut string of his bow hummed with tension, the arrow slicing through the wind to strike the heart of a distant target. Yet, his face twisted in boredom.
"So dull… If only I could do something else. But in this world, a weapon is survival."
His father, Bartho Ashwon, was a legend among nobles—a swordsman so feared that even a single opening meant certain death. Naturally, Bartho dreamed of his son inheriting his mantle. But the sword…
Indra's hands trembled at the memory—the cold steel, the weight of a life taken. His first kill, at the tender age of six, still haunted him. He had wielded a sword in his past life, and with it, carved a path of blood. That past clung to him like a shadow, and so, he rejected the blade.
Instead, he chose the bow—a choice that sparked his father's ire.
"You think you can surpass me with that twig?" Bartho had challenged, his voice like thunder. "Then prove it. One month. Show me your skill, or abandon your foolishness."
Indra couldn't deny a flicker of excitement. He didn't like to boast, but archery came easily to him. In his previous world, he had been skilled with firearms, and that mastery transferred seamlessly. Within a week, he was striking targets blindfolded.
But the duel was still twenty-three days away. And so, curiosity pulled him where rules forbade him—the noble library. Slipping in while his father was away and Lisbeth busied herself with chores, he sought the greatest treasure of all: knowledge.
The tome he found was ancient, its leather cover cracked with time. "The History of the Empire of Caneriya"—a tale of power, conflict, and survival.
The Empire was shaped like a star, five kingdoms standing at its points, each ruled by a race gifted—and cursed—by nature's whims.
The First Kingdom belonged to Humans, known not for strength or magic but for their ingenuity and cunning. They were called the wisest of all races, for knowledge was their weapon. Yet, they were the weakest in raw power. Unlike the elves, humans could not harness mana directly from their bodies.
In this world, mana was the essence of creation—the energy that defied the laws of nature. Unlike the world Indra knew, here, energy was born from nothingness, such as flames conjured from bare hands or water summoned from the air.
The Elves, blessed with bodies overflowing with mana, could directly convert it into elemental magic. They became the embodiment of nature's power, bending earth, wind, fire, and water to their will without the need for incantations or mediums. It was instinct—like breathing. Their elderly, with centuries of mastery, could channel their mana beyond their bodies, unleashing devastation with a mere thought.
But for Humans, it was different. Their bodies were like cracked vessels—unable to store or release mana effectively. They needed a medium to channel it. Staffs, weapons, artifacts—these became conduits through which their mana flowed. Yet, even with tools, human magic was weaker, slower, and prone to failure.
But nature always found a way.
When the Elves threatened humanity's extinction, nature gave birth to the rarest bond of all—Spirits. These ethereal beings, born from the world's elements, could fuse with a human, becoming an extension of their soul. Through Spirit Integration, humans could bypass their physical limits, casting magic without tools. It was said that a Spirit User could rival even the mightiest of elves, for their power was not borrowed but shared.
Indra's eyes lingered on those words. So, even humans had their answer to power…
The Second Kingdom was home to the Elves, whose towering forests pulsed with ancient magic. Elves wielded mana as easily as breathing, bending the elements to their will. Their elders, with centuries of mastery, could turn thought into flame or ice with but a whisper. For other races, magic was chaos, but for elves, it was life.
But power breeds ambition. The Elves sought dominion over the Third Kingdom—the Dwarfs. The dwarfs, smallest in stature but towering in craft, possessed almost no mana. Yet, nature balanced the scales. With their unmatched mastery of metallurgy and engineering, they forged miracles in steel.
Eight hundred feet high, two hundred feet thick—an unbreakable fortress said to withstand even a god's wrath. Legends whispered that a single human built the wall, though the truth was lost to time.
When the Elves marched to crush the Dwarfs, their arrogance was shattered. The Wall of Achilles endured their might, and their armies broke like waves upon a cliff. To this day, no soul knows what lies beyond the wall, for the Dwarfs guard their secrets as fiercely as their forges.
Indra smirked. "People say the dwarfs are plotting something. But seriously? If they wanted war, they wouldn't wait centuries."
The Third Kingdom, however, was not the Elves' only folly.
Their greed turned next to the Fourth Kingdom—a realm of night and terror ruled by Vampires.
The vampires, enigmatic and cold, preferred isolation. Yet they were predators—deadly and swift. Unlike the Elves' vast arsenal of spells, vampires wielded only one magic: lagneia . With it, they could track, manipulate, and kill without ever drawing a blade. But their true strength was their balance—wise as humans, magical as elves, and stronger than any beast.
Yet, the Fourth Kingdom did not belong to them alone.
The Werewolves shared the land, their instincts and raw power unmatched. When the Elves invaded, they never reached the vampires. Instead, they met a single nightmare: Garda, King of the Werewolves.
Alone, Garda razed the elven army. The survivors named that massacre The Day of Fear. And from his throne, Vampire King Pain von Deathstench merely sipped his wine, amused.
Indra frowned at the text. "Wait, how did they know he was drinking wine at that exact moment? Something's off."
But the greatest mystery was the Fifth Kingdom.
No records, no maps—only whispers. Travelers who sought it found themselves inexplicably returned to their homelands, or lost in an eternal slumber. The only clue came from a lone explorer—a human who glimpsed a figure in the fog: a hooded man with golden eyes.
The Elves, thwarted by dwarfs and werewolves, turned to the weakest link—Humans. No walls, no magic, no strength. Only intellect. And intellect was not enough.
The Elven Invasion was swift and merciless. On the third day, King Sliva Chrono fell, frozen by elven magic. Thousands perished, and hope withered under thirty days of slaughter.
On the thirty-first day, the prayers of humanity reached the heavens. And nature, as always, answered.
A lone woman, fleeing the burning capital, gave birth to the heir—Diamonda Chrono. And with his birth, humanity's fate changed forever.
At the age of seven, Diamonda—blessed by the Spirit of Mana—ended the war alone. The elves, wielders of endless magic, bowed before a child.
The world would forever remember that day as The Dawn of the Diamond King.
But the cost was exile. The Elves, scorned and feared, were banished from trade, from diplomacy, from all but the shadows. Their sanctuary became the endless Forest of Jura, where their songs turned to sorrow.
Indra's eyes sparkled. "What a story! I need to know more—"
A soft hand tugged his ear.
"Lisbeth!" he yelped.
The silent maid smiled and shook her head, her meaning clear: Enough for today.
"Aw, just a little more!" he pleaded.
But her grip remained firm.
With a sigh, Indra closed the tome. "Tomorrow, then…"
As they walked away, the ancient pages whispered from their resting place. Stories of kings and monsters, of heroes and villains. And somewhere within them, the first threads of his own legend had already begun to weave.