Prologue
3,070 Years Ago
Under the gentle glow of moonlight and the touch of a cold, romantic breeze, the night felt like a scene torn from a dream.
Gliding through the sky was a creature of pure wonder its wings vast and vibrant, shimmering like stained glass. They shifted hues with each subtle movement, casting rainbow trails in the night air. The patterns on its wings pulsed with faint starlight, as if stitched from galaxies.
This was not an illusion.
This was a Lunavire.
A living legend.
Said to be born from the essence of moonlight itself, a Lunavire was a sacred guardian of forgotten dreams and hidden truths. Only once every three centuries would a single one appear, far above on Luna Mountain, where the moon's light never fades.
It was the kind of being whispered about in bedtime stories so rare that even the oldest sages could only speak of it through ancient scrolls and trembling awe.
And tonight… there it was. Alive. Real.
Its wings fluttered slowly, gracefully summoning gentle arcs of wind magic that spiraled beneath it, shaping into blades of air. They shimmered, then streaked downward with speed and elegance.
But then
Flash.
A thin, sharp beam of blue light erupted from below so fast it seemed to slice through time itself. It tore through the wind blades with eerie silence, cutting them as though they were never there.
The Lunavire barely had time to pause.
Slice.
The light arced through its body, clean and final cutting horizontally across its delicate form.
Wings said to rival dragon scales shattered.
A body born of moonlight severed.
For a moment, it continued to fly. Fluttering, almost peacefully. As if nothing had changed.
Until
Click.
A thin crimson line appeared across its torso.
Then slowly, beautifully, horrifyingly its body began to separate. Split in two, drifting downward like a falling petal.
A legend lost in silence.
But that wasn't the end.
Click. Click. Click.
More sounds. Everywhere. All at once.
From a higher view above the clouds the moonlight revealed a sight too awful to comprehend.
There wasn't just one Lunavire.
There were hundreds.
No thousands.
Tens of thousands.
An entire migration.
A celestial phenomenon no mortal had ever witnessed.
And every last one of them was dying.
Sliced mid-flight. Cut apart before they even realized. Wings falling like broken glass. Bodies drifting like feathers. Their blood luminescent and red showered the sky like cursed rain.
From afar, it looked like a massacre written in stardust.
A slaughter of legends.
Their weightless bodies began to drift in the breeze, wings tumbling like snowflakes. Crimson droplets shimmered as they spilled, coloring the moonlight in shades of sorrow.
A single drop fell.
Then another.
The crimson rain began to pour from the skies slow at first, like a divine omen. A single droplet struck the cheek of the man who stood alone, his broad back to the towering silhouette of the black castle behind him.
He did not blink.
He did not move.
His features were carved from stone, sharp and unwavering. But beneath the steel of his form, exhaustion had settled in his bones. His eyes deep, stormy blue burned not with fear, but with a fire only found in men who have already lost everything but refuse to give up what's left.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The blood fell heavier now, soaking his body, his wounds, the shattered earth at his feet. But he stood unmoved, letting it rain upon him like ash from a burning world.
His legs trembled. His breath came in gasps.
A vicious wound carved through his chest, running from back to front as though someone had tried to tear the soul from his body—
and failed.
And yet, he stood.
Alone.
Behind him, the Black Castle loomed not a place of kings or crowns, but now a symbol of the last stand of a man. A man who did not wear armor, nor claim to be a hero.
He stood not as a guardian knight But as a man.
The kind that legends are afraid to forget.
In his blood-soaked hands, he clutched a silver crossblade. Its edge gleamed through the gore, its hilt crowned with a glowing dark blue gem like a heartbeat refusing to die. The cross-guard sparkled with once-pure diamonds, now bathed in the blood of gods and mortals alike.
His back scarred, battered, bleeding was all that shielded the castle gates.
One man. One sword. Against the world.
This scene… would be etched into every history ever written.
A man standing at the edge of the world fighting not for fame, not for kingdom… But for her.
He raised his sword to the sky, slicing through the rain of blood casting crimson arcs like shattered rubies. The blade gleamed anew, shining once more.
"Come," he roared, voice like thunder cracking across the battlefield. "Come with all you've got! I swear on the head of my unborn son not one of you will cross this line! Not to say one step into this castle while I still breathe!"
He leveled his blade forward, pointing it toward the approaching chaos.
From his eyes, we see it: A battlefield soaked in so much blood, the earth itself had turned crimson. A wasteland of the dead, where even gods might hesitate to tread.
And still they came.
In the skies: An endless procession of magical beasts Wyverns, Griffins, Thunderbirds, Rocs an airborne storm of color and destruction, led by none other than Valtherion, the Dragon King himself. The Sovereign Flame. His scales shimmered with white crystal light, illuminating the battlefield like a second sun.
And upon his back stood a human cloaked in robes of sky-blue, wielding a staff carved from the roots of the World Tree itself. Beside him floated the Elven Queen, her presence radiant, holding a wand forged from the sacred branches of their most holy tree branches their people vowed never to break.
But they had.
Even the proud elves had defiled their own divinity for this war.
Beside them: dwarves armored in ancestral steel had forged weapons not to sell, not to trade, but to give, to share, to unite... something they had never done in all of recorded history.
A half-elf stood among them, his green hair flowing in the wind, wielding a massive black greatsword. Not just any blade a divine weapon, forged by the Dwarven Gods themselves, meant only for one destined soul.
Even the dragons proud and untouchable had bowed.
They had allowed humans, elves, beasts, and dwarves to ride upon their backs.
Why?
What could have possibly happened... That even creatures of arrogance and fire agreed to kneel beside those they once despised?
What could unite races that spent eons at each other's throats
To form a single army?
To direct it all... At one castle.
And be stopped—By one man.
Sir Rowan Stormhart.
For 27 days, the war raged.
For 27 nights, blood ran like rivers, death climbed like fog, and magic scorched the skies.
Millions had perished. Countless more lay dying.
Even the blessings of the Holy Grail could not keep up with the wounds.
And yet he stood. Still—Unmoving.
The man who bathed in blood and fire just to protect one castle.
One woman.
And the unborn child she carried.
"Sir Rowan Stormhart," came a voice from above the man standing atop the red dragon, holding the Royal Staff of Elevenire. His voice rang clear. Noble. Cold. "Step aside. The world will forgive the sins you've committed. But do not force us to bury a legend."
The man stood motionless, sword raised ready to swing without a word, his body running purely on instinct, on purpose, on exhaustion.
And then…
As if the world itself held its breath, everything stopped.
The clash of the wind, the flutter of wings, the sound of dying beasts all fell silent. Even the cries of the heavens seemed to fade, as though existence itself paused to witness what was to come.
Click. Click. Click.
The sound of heels echoed against the marble floor, sharp and steady.
And then
A child's cry. Loud. Clear. Cutting through the silence like lightning.
The man's exhausted eyes widened. Slowly, he turned back toward the castle he had fought so hard to protect.
His heart, calm for so long, suddenly began to beat with urgency.
There on the highest balcony she appeared.
A woman in a flowing black dress, her long silver hair loose and swaying gently in the wind. In her arms… she held something.
Relief flooded his face. A quiet, aching smile found its way to his lips.
The woman stepped forward, coming into full view. Below her, across the battlefield, stood the gathered forces dragons, elves, mages, beasts all staring up, tense and breathless.
She didn't hesitate.
With slow, deliberate grace, she raised the child high above her head with both hands.
Her voice was calm, soft, almost playful but somehow, it carried across the field like thunder.
"Look at me, you pests." Her voice was soft, almost mocking, yet it silenced even the dragons.
"Look well. Etch this image into the marrow of your bones."
She turned, letting the gathered host see the child's face.
"This is Maximus G. von Vie'lstine, son of my blood, born beneath a blood moon, marked by the stars and flame."
Her tone sharpened like a blade drawn from its sheath.
"By right of lineage, by strength of will, and by the silence of the gods, I declare him the next heir to the Obsidian Throne."
Gasps rippled, but she spoke louder, drowning them out.
"The future ruler of the Evernight Empire. You will kneel. You will swear. Or you will burn."
She smiled then, cruel and beautiful.
"The empire does not ask. It commands."
a sharp smile on her face as dark blood red eyes flashed with grin
Suddenly, just after her final words echoed through the battlefield, she vanished.
Woosh
Gone from the balcony, before the stunned eyes of thousands.
The man below, still gripping his sword, turned his head sharply to the side his breath caught.
"…Are you alright… love?"
His voice was low, shaky, but filled with warmth. His eyes locked onto hers.
The woman still in her black dress, silver hair dancing in the wind smiled gently.
"I'm alright," she whispered. "Thank you… for protecting me all this time."
She lifted a hand and touched his face, fingers trailing down his cheek. He closed his eyes for a moment, leaning into the warmth of her palm, smiling faintly both of them lost in that one quiet moment, ignoring the chaos around them.
But the world didn't stay quiet for long.
"EVERYONE! IT'S TIME!" a dragon roared from high above, its voice shaking the clouds. "SHE'S OUT STRIKE NOW! WIPE HER FROM THIS LAND!"
The air shook with fury. Elves, beasts, mages Millions roared back in unison, power gathering behind them.
Then
"STOP!"
A single voice, louder than even the dragon's, crashed through the air like thunder.
A man stood atop a dragon's head half-elf, half-human, his green hair wild in the wind, eyes burning with righteous fury. His aura blazed around him, deep green and overwhelming, making the air quake.
The battlefield froze.
Everyone turned to him dragons and kings, elves and mages.
His voice was filled with rage and grief. "I agreed to kill them both for the sake of the world's peace. But the child… The child stays out of this. Anyone—any one of you—if you so much as lay a hand on him… I'll cut you down myself. Even if it's the Queen of Elves. Even if it's the Dragon King or Even if it's the gods of Eldarado themselves."
A shockwave exploded from his body, the dragon beneath him trembling just to hold him aloft. The divine dwarven weapon in his hands glowed with ancient runes, reacting to his fury.
The earth shook.
The sky turned green.
And the battlefield fell into silence.
"ROWAN STORMHART!" he roared. "PUT THE CHILD ASIDE!"
Monsters and soldiers around him were blown back by the gale of mana. The sky itself trembled beneath his power.
But on the other side
The woman in black stood beside Rowan, holding their child in her arms. Her gaze never left the baby.
"Look at him…" she whispered softly, showing the child to Rowan. "Doesn't he look just like us?"
They stood there, still and silent, ignoring everything.
The baby had fair skin, soft ash-colored hair, and eyes unlike any other one deep sea-blue like his mother's, the other a shimmering crimson, blood-red and glimmering with an eerie light.
Rowan reached out slowly, wanting to touch him.
But then… he saw the blood on his hands. His fingers stopped mid-air, trembling. He lowered them.
"I'm sorry, Rowan…" the woman said softly, her voice trembling. "I didn't give him your name. Not Stormhart. I… named him Maximus G. von Vie'lstine, Valentine.
Will you… forgive me?"
Her eyes shimmered with guilt. "I didn't even ask you for a name…"
Rowan smiled faintly, pain flickering in his eyes.
"Maximus G. von Vie'lstine… It's a fitting name… For the son of a queen. The future ruler of the Evernight Empire."
But his voice cracked on that last word. Ruler.
He looked down at his son's crying face.
"I wish… I wish he could grow up happy.
Wild. Spirited.
Far away from war and sorrow."
He closed his eyes, whispering
"May the gods of Eldarado… watch over him."
The woman smiled, but sorrow filled her eyes. She didn't look away not even for a second as if trying to burn his face into her memory forever.
Then Rowan stepped forward, lifting his silver cross-shaped sword. Slowly, he slid it into its ornate sheath decorated with a glowing blue gem that pulsed like a heartbeat.
"…He needs a gift," Rowan said, a bittersweet smile on his lips.
The sword shimmered.
Before their eyes, it began to shrink, the blade and sheath twisting until it was no larger than a pendant in the shape of a tiny silver cross, with the blue gem glowing softly at its center of handle.
The woman smiled.
"Not just from you," she whispered.
With gentle hands, she took the pendant from him, closing it in her palm.
And then
WOOOOOSH
An enormous red aura erupted from her body.
It flooded the sky like a second sun. A sea of blood-red mana surged in every direction, swallowing the battlefield, sweeping over the green mana like a tide.
In just three seconds, everything was pushed back armies, dragons, beasts all thrown off balance.
But the mana didn't lash out. It concentrated focused into her clenched hand. All of it—thousands of times greater than the power from earlier Green mana.
Then… silence.
She opened her palm.
The silver necklace remained the same… except the blue gem had turned crimson. Blood-red, glowing faintly.
Without saying a word, she fastened it gently around her child's neck. The pendant rested against his cheek, pulsing silver. "My Moon Sword… is yours now, my son."
Rowan chuckled softly, brushing the baby's hair.
"We don't have much time," she said, her voice quieter now.
"…I know."
He looked at the child again, his eyes full of everything he couldn't say.
Then her red eyes flashed.
A cocoon of soft white light began forming around the child, wrapping him in warmth and protection. Her gaze never left him tears shimmering but refusing to fall.
She turned, extending her arm to the side.
A black shadow flickered into existence a woman appeared from the void, cloaked and calm.
"Take him," the queen whispered. "Protect him. Always."
The woman bowed deeply.
"Yes, Your Majesty. My bloodline will guard him with our lives."
She took the cocoon into her arms and vanished.
The queen stood still, her arms now empty.
She let out a quiet breath, her shoulders falling.
"…Let's end this," she said, her voice hollow now.
Rowan nodded.
"Yeah… Without my Moon Sword, I feel a little lighter but still strong enough to fight."
He raised his hand, and frost gathered forming into the shape of a new cross-bladed sword.
He pointed it forward, toward the army ahead.
They roared and began to charge.
And thus, the final battle began.
---
And so, the prologue ends
"And beneath a sky painted in blood and moonlight, a child vanished into legend, and war marched on without mercy."
"Thus began the rise of Maximus G. von Vie'lstine child of prophecy, heir of ruin, and the last hope of a crumbling world."
"With empty arms and heavy hearts, they turned toward the battlefield leaving behind a future they could no longer protect."
"The sword was passed. The child sealed. And the empire, for better or worse, had chosen its next shadow."
"They gave him a future… and walked into the end of theirs."
---
Author's Thought – Before You Begin
Yeah… no short prologue here.
I know. I know.
Maybe you were expecting a few lines of cryptic foreshadowing, a quick taste of danger, and then right into the "real" story. But… no. That wouldn't be enough. Not for this.
Because when it comes to magic real magic it deserves more.
More time.
More effort.
More weight.
Magic isn't just a sparkle or spell.
It's history. Emotion. Blood. Sacrifice. Wonder.
This story isn't going to be easy-going or predictable.
It's not about the chosen one getting everything handed to him or about light vs. dark in a neat little box.
No
This is a story about the cost of dreams, the weight of legacies, and the journey into something vast.
So if you're here for something simple you won't find it.
But if you're ready to wander through a world where magic has meaning..
Where swords bleed stories
Where love and war are carved into the bones of empires
Then welcome.
Let's begin.