In the annals of Nekonian history, a tale of strife and unity is etched in the collective memory of their people. Long ago, their homeworld was a battleground, torn asunder by the conflicts of three factions: the purebreds, the mixed breeds, and the Smilodon breeds. Each group vied for supremacy, their differences threatening to unravel the very fabric of their society.
But fate had other plans for the Nekonians. As their civil war raged on, an unexpected threat emerged from the stars. The Inus, a doglike race as different from the feline Nekonians as night from day, descended upon their world with conquest in their hearts. In the face of this alien invasion, the warring Nekonian factions found themselves united by a common enemy.
It was during this darkest hour that legend was born. Three Nekonian warriors, their names now lost to time, rose above the chaos. They led their kin against the invaders with a ferocity that defied explanation, becoming the first of what would be known as the Tiger Nekonians. Their power was incredible, their prowess unmatched, and even as they fell in battle, they ignited a spark that would burn bright for centuries to come.
Whispers spread across the stars, tales of "The Tiger Nekonian that appeared once every thousand years" and "a Nekonian who overcomes the wall which no warrior, no matter how gifted, can overcome." These stories, passed down through generations, became more than mere folklore—they became hope, a promise of salvation in times of great need.
Little did the Nekonians know that their legend had reached far beyond the confines of their world. In the depths of Hell itself, Lucifer, the fallen angel and second most powerful being in existence, had caught wind of the tale. Trapped in an eternal conflict with the forces of Heaven, the Prince of Darkness saw an opportunity in the Nekonian legend.
Little did the Nekonians know that their legend had reached far beyond the confines of their world. In the depths of Hell itself, Lucifer, the fallen angel and second most powerful being in existence, had caught wind of the tale. Trapped in an eternal conflict with the forces of Heaven, the Prince of Darkness saw an opportunity in the Nekonian legend.
Lucifer's mind, ever calculating, began to scheme. If he could somehow harness the power of this legendary warrior, he might finally tip the scales in his favor. The balance of the cosmic war could shift, and victory over Heaven might at last be within his grasp.
As Lucifer plotted in the shadows, the Nekonians continued to tell their tale, unaware of the dark interest their legend had piqued. The story of the Tiger Nekonians, born of strife and unity, had become a double-edged sword – a beacon of hope for their people, and a temptation for the forces of evil that lurked beyond their world.
As the Nekonian race emerged from the crucible of their near-extinction, they found themselves on the verdant world of Gesshirui. Unbeknownst to them, their every move was observed by forces beyond their comprehension, their struggles and triumphs noted in the ledgers of cosmic powers.
The Nekonians, their spirits hardened by the loss of their original home, saw Gesshirui not as a sanctuary but as a prize to be claimed. Over the course of decades, they waged a relentless campaign against the native Gesshiruis. The war was brutal and protracted, but the Nekonians' determination proved insurmountable. In time, the last bastions of Gesshirui resistance crumbled, and the victors claimed not only the planet but also the advanced technology of the vanquished.
As the dust settled, the Nekonians renamed their new home. Gesshirui became Neko, a name that echoed their own identity and marked the beginning of a new era. The three royal houses that had led them to victory now turned their attention to governance, their reign proving as adept at nation-building as it had been at conquest
Under the triumvirate rule of the three royal houses—each representing one of the ancient factions that had once threatened to tear their society apart—the Nekonian civilization flourished. Their ambition, however, was not sated by a single world. Their gaze soon fell upon a nearby planet: Daksa.
The invasion of Daksa was swift and merciless. The Nekonians, their military might honed by generations of conflict, swept across the alien landscape like a tide of fur and steel. But unlike Gesshirui, Daksa was not to become a new home. Instead, it was transformed into something far more sinister: a training ground for young Nekonians, a place where the arts of war could be practiced without restraint.
The native inhabitants of Daksa found themselves trapped in a nightmarish existence. Deliberately kept weak and subjugated, they became little more than living targets, their planet a cosmic arena where Nekonian youth could sharpen their claws and test their mettle. Yet, in a twisted act of calculated mercy, the conquerors never fully eradicated the Daksan population. They were preserved, a renewable resource in the Nekonians' endless preparation for future conflicts.
Daksa became known throughout Nekonian society as the "Planetary Punching Bag," a cruel jest that belied the very real suffering of its people. For the Nekonians, it was a point of pride—a symbol of their dominance and a forge where the next generation of warriors would be tempered.
The sands of time continued to flow, and with each passing year, the grip of the three royal houses on their hard-won empire began to slip. What had once been a united front against external threats now crumbled from within, eaten away by the corrosive force of paranoia.
The universe, it seemed, had taken notice of the Nekonians' brutal expansion. Whispers of alliances formed in shadowy corners of distant worlds, promises made between former enemies to stand against the feline conquerors. Each day brought new reports of resistance, of territories slipping from their control, and the royals felt the icy fingers of fear tightening around their hearts.
In their desperation to maintain power, they committed an act that would forever alter the course of their history. Among their own people, a child was born—a young Nekonian named Saber. Even in infancy, the babe exhibited a power that both awed and terrified those who witnessed it. The royals, their minds clouded by suspicion and dread, saw in this child not a blessing, but a threat.
Saber was of Smilodon lineage, a fact that only heightened the royals' anxiety. The ancient fears of faction and bloodline, thought long buried, resurfaced with a vengeance. They could not—would not—allow a Smilodon to ascend to power, to upset the delicate balance they had struck between the three breeds.
And so, in the dead of night, a decision was made. The child Saber, barely old enough to open its eyes to the world, was torn from the arms of its family and cast into exile. The deed was done swiftly, cloaked in secrecy, but its repercussions would echo through the years to come.
Creodont, Saber's father, was a Nekonian of fierce loyalty and even fiercer love. When he discovered the fate of his child, his anguish turned quickly to rage. In the face of royal decree and the threat of execution, Creodont made a choice that would set him on a path of no return.
He fled the planet, slipping past security measures and evading pursuit ships, his heart set on a single purpose: to find Saber. As his ship pierced the atmosphere of Neko for the last time, Creodont's eyes blazed with determination and his voice rang out with a vow that sent chills down the spines of those who heard it.
"Mark my words," he growled, his words carried on solar winds to the ears of the trembling royals, "I will find my child. And when I do, I shall return. Your thrones will crumble, your power will turn to dust in your hands. For the love of a father knows no bounds, and my vengeance will be terrible to behold."
As Creodont's ship disappeared into the starry void. In the shadows, Lucifer watched with interest. The exiled child, Saber, held the potential to become the warrior of legend, the one who could tip the balance in the eternal war between Heaven and Hell. As Creodont searched for his son, Lucifer's plans began to take shape.
In the sprawling palace that towered over the capital of Neko, there was a single bright spot in the increasingly gloomy lives of the three royals. His name was Blade, though he had not always been known by that moniker. Once, he had been Ocicat, a street urchin with no name or future to speak of. But fate, it seemed, had greater plans for the young Nekonian.
The royals had spotted something in the waif that others had missed—a spark of potential that burned brighter than any they had seen before. They took him in, gave him a new name, and with it, a new destiny. Blade, as he came to be known, proved to be a prodigy beyond their wildest expectations.
At the tender age of ten, Blade had already surpassed every teacher and mentor placed before him. His natural abilities were staggering, his capacity for learning seemingly limitless. He absorbed knowledge like a sponge, mastered skills with an ease that left his instructors slack-jawed in amazement. For the royals, increasingly beset by threats both internal and external, Blade became a symbol of hope—a reminder of the greatness their race could achieve.
But greatness, as they would soon learn, was a double-edged sword.
Blade's exceptional talents bred in him an arrogance that grew with each passing day. As he conquered challenge after challenge, his hunger for validation only intensified. The young prodigy began to chafe against the confines of his gilded cage, longing for something more, something greater.
"I've bested every opponent on this world," Blade declared one day, his tail lashing with barely contained frustration. "I need a real conquest, a true test of my abilities. Let me venture beyond Neko, let me prove myself among the stars!"
The royals exchanged worried glances, their earlier pride giving way to concern. They knew all too well the dangers that lurked beyond their planet's atmosphere, the growing coalition of forces arrayed against their people. To let Blade leave now, when he was still so young and impetuous, seemed an unacceptable risk.
"No," they said, their voices united in rare agreement. "The galaxy's eyes are upon us, Blade. We cannot risk losing you to our enemies."
But as they spoke the words, they could see the defiance blazing in Blade's eyes. They had given him everything—a name, a home, power beyond measure—but they had also instilled in him an insatiable desire for glory. As Blade stormed from the royal chamber, his claws leaving faint scratches on the polished floor, the royals were left to wonder if, in nurturing this prodigy, they had inadvertently sown the seeds of their own downfall.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
For Blade, young as he was, had tasted power. And like all who acquire such a taste, he would not be satisfied until he had devoured every morsel the universe had to offer. The royals' refusal was not an end to his ambitions
The halls of the royal palace echoed with Blade's increasingly heated protests for weeks. His frustration grew palpable, a tangible force that set the guards on edge and left the air crackling with tension. But the royals remained steadfast, their fear for their prodigy's safety outweighing any desire to see his powers unleashed upon the galaxy.
Blade, however, was not one to be constrained by the will of others, no matter how powerful they might be. In the dead of night, a plan began to form in his young mind—a daring escape that would prove his worth once and for all.
He turned to his only true confidants: the siblings Birman and Burmilla. Birman, at eleven, was the eldest of the trio, his frame already beginning to show the promise of the royal guard he aspired to become. Burmilla, though only ten like Blade, possessed a natural affinity for piloting that belied her years. Together, they formed a formidable team, bound by friendship and a shared thirst for adventure.
With heavy hearts, Birman and Burmilla bid farewell to their younger sibling, leaving behind a note that spoke of destiny and the call of the stars. Then, under the cover of darkness, they slipped away from Neko, their stolen ship cutting a silent path through the inky void of space.
Their destination: Nesuto, a planet renowned for its warlike inhabitants. It was a bold choice, one that spoke volumes of Blade's ambition and perhaps his naivety. After weeks of tense travel, they arrived, descending upon the capital city like avenging spirits.
The battle that ensued was nothing short of epic. Wave after wave of Nesuto warriors crashed against the trio of young Nekonians. Blade's natural prowess shone bright, his movements a blur of deadly grace. Birman stood as an immovable bulwark, his defensive skills keeping the group alive against impossible odds. Burmilla's piloting skills allowed them to strike and retreat with surgical precision.
Yet for all their talent, they found themselves overwhelmed. The sheer numbers of the Nesuto forces pushed them back time and again. But with each skirmish, each narrow escape, the young Nekonians felt a change coming over them. Their bodies adapted, their minds sharpened, their teamwork becoming something almost supernatural in its synchronicity.
For Blade, the transformation went deeper still. The constant dance between life and death awakened something primal within him. A savage joy took hold, a bloodlust that both terrified and exhilarated him. As his excitement grew, so too did his power, reaching heights that even he had never dreamed possible.
In a final, cataclysmic battle, the tide turned. Blade, his eyes glowing with an inner fire, tore through the Nesuto defenses like they were made of paper. Birman and Burmilla, caught up in their friend's frenzy, fought with a ferocity that belied their young age.
When the dust settled, the capital city of Nesuto lay in ruins. Bodies littered the streets, testament to the terrible power of the three young Nekonians. And there, carved into the very stone of the fallen city, stood the royal crest of Neko—a declaration of conquest that would send shockwaves across the galaxy.
As Blade stood atop a mountain of fallen foes, his chest heaving and his fur matted with blood, a chilling smile played across his face. He had found his true calling in the heat of battle, and the universe would tremble at his newfound might.
The journey back to Neko was filled with a mixture of pride and anticipation. Blade, Birman, and Burmilla had tasted victory, and they were eager to bask in the adulation they felt they deserved. Their ship's hold was laden with grim trophies—severed wings and helmets from their fallen foes—tangible proof of their conquest.
As they approached their homeworld, the young Nekonians' hearts swelled with excitement. They imagined the grand reception that surely awaited them: cheering crowds, proud mentors, and the approving nods of the three royals. Blade, in particular, was certain that his audacious act would finally earn him the recognition he craved.
But as their ship broke through Neko's atmosphere, an eerie silence greeted them. The bustling cities they had left behind were now nothing more than hollow shells. Streets that should have been teeming with life were empty, save for the occasional piece of debris carried by the wind.
Disbelief turned to horror as they landed and stepped out onto the desolate landscape. The once-proud Nekonian civilization had vanished, leaving behind a ghost planet. Buildings stood as silent sentinels, their windows dark and lifeless. The air was thick with an oppressive stillness that seemed to mock their earlier expectations of glory.
Burmilla was the first to break the shocked silence, her anguished cry piercing the air as she stumbled down the gangway. "Mother! Father!" she wailed, her eyes wild with desperation as she scanned the ruins for any sign of life. Birman was close behind, his earlier bravado replaced by raw, unfiltered grief. Tears streamed down his face as he called out for their younger brother, his voice growing hoarse with each unanswered shout.
Blade, however, stood frozen, his mind struggling to comprehend the scale of the catastrophe before him. The trophies of war, once symbols of their triumph, now felt like lead weights in his hands. His people, his mentors, the three royals who had raised him—all had vanished without a trace.
As the reality of their situation sank in, a cold dread began to creep through Blade's veins. The glory he had sought so desperately now seemed hollow and meaningless in the face of this unprecedented loss. For the first time in his young life, the prodigy felt truly powerless.
The three young Nekonians, who had left their world as ambitious conquerors, now stood as perhaps the last of their kind. The empty planet of Neko stretched out before them, a stark reminder of the price of their hubris and the uncertain future that awaited them.
In that moment, as Birman and Burmilla's sobs echoed across the desolate landscape, Blade felt the full weight of his actions crash down upon him. His quest for personal glory had blinded him to the dangers facing his home. While he had been off playing at war, real conflict had found Neko, and he hadn't been there to defend it.
The young prince's legs finally gave way, and he sank to his knees in the dust of his ruined world. As he stared out at the wasteland that had once been his kingdom, a single, chilling thought cut through the shock and grief.
What terrible force could have brought such swift and total destruction to the mighty Nekonian empire? And more importantly, where had it gone, and would it return to finish what it had started?
The answer to these questions, Blade realized with growing dread, might determine not just their fate, but that of the entire galaxy. Their real battle, it seemed, was only just beginning.
The desolation of Neko had ignited a fire in Blade's heart, a burning rage that threatened to consume him entirely. His dreams of glory, of ascending to the throne, lay shattered among the ruins of his homeworld. This was more than a setback—it was a personal affront, an unforgivable insult to him and his people.
With a snarl that was equal parts pain and fury, Blade turned to Burmilla. "Take us to planet Rune," he demanded, his voice a low growl. "This was no accident. Someone attacked us, and I'll bet my last claw, a Nekonian scout is next on their list."
The journey to Rune was tense, the air in the ship thick with anticipation and dread. When they arrived, the scene that greeted them was one of utter devastation. Amidst the smoking ruins and desolate landscape stood a lone figure—Shiba, an Inu warrior.
Blade's eyes narrowed as he took in the carnage. The level of destruction, the deliberate targeting of civilians—it all reeked of a calculated move, a ploy to paint the Nekonians as villains while casting the attacker as a hero. In that moment, Blade knew with bone-deep certainty that this was the one responsible for Neko's fall.
Without a word, he launched himself at Shiba, his body a blur of motion. Burmilla and Birman fell in behind him, their movements perfectly synchronized after their time together.
Birman took point, his guard training evident in every precise strike. Burmilla darted in and out, a constant distraction meant to keep their opponent off-balance. And Blade... Blade was raw power incarnate, each blow fueled by the rage burning in his heart.
Yet for all their coordination, for all their skill and fury, they might as well have been attacking a mountain. Shiba stood unmoved, allowing their attacks to land without so much as flinching. When he finally deigned to speak, his voice dripped with condescension. "You trying to defeat me is like a mouse trying to defeat a cat."
In the blink of an eye, Shiba went on the offensive. His movements were so fast they defied comprehension. Burmilla felt the impact of his punch long after her body had been sent hurtling to the ground. Birman fared no better, his body tossed about like a rag doll, each impact accompanied by the sickening crack of breaking bones.
Blade, driven by sheer determination, lasted the longest. But even he could not withstand Shiba's onslaught indefinitely. His body, once a testament to Nekonian perfection, was now a canvas of cuts and bruises. Yet still he fought on, his eyes burning with defiance even as his strength began to fail.
As the young Nekonian struggled to remain standing, the true magnitude of the challenge before him became painfully clear. This was no mere battle for glory or validation. It was a fight for survival, for justice, and for the very future of his race. And as the relentless Shiba bore down upon him once more, Blade realized that
Blade's indomitable spirit refused to yield, even as his body teetered on the brink of collapse. With a primal growl, he sank his teeth into his own arm, using the pain to anchor his broken limb in place. His fist, trembling with effort, raised to fire off one last volley of energy beams.
Shiba's laughter cut through the air, a sound devoid of mirth and filled with cruel satisfaction. With casual disdain, he placed his boot on Blade's chest, pinning the young Nekonian to the ground. Birman and Burmilla, their bodies broken and spirits crushed, could only watch in helpless horror as their leader, their friend, faced what seemed to be certain death.
In Shiba's mind, this was the culmination of his grand plan. With the extinction of these last Nekonians, he would purge the universe of their "impurity." More importantly, he would ensure that the legend of the Tiger Nekonian—a prophecy that had long haunted his thoughts—would never come to pass.
But fate, it seemed, had other plans.
Just as Shiba prepared to deliver the final blow, reality itself seemed to tear open. A portal, crackling with eldritch energy, materialized mere feet away. Before anyone could react, a horde of demons poured forth from the rift, their twisted forms a stark contrast to the barren landscape of Rune.
With inhuman speed and precision, the demons snatched up the three young Nekonians. Blade felt himself lifted from beneath Shiba's boot, his world spinning as he was pulled through the portal. The last thing he saw was Shiba's face contorted in rage and disbelief.
As quickly as it had appeared, the portal snapped shut, leaving Shiba alone on the battlefield. His scream of frustration echoed across the empty plains as he crushed the skull of a straggling demon, his victory cruelly snatched from his grasp.
A scream of pure frustration tore from Shiba's throat, echoing across the desolate landscape. In a fit of rage, he seized one of the slower demons that had not made it back through the portal, crushing its skull between his hands as if it were made of paper. But even this act of violence brought him no satisfaction.
His victory, so close he could almost taste it, had been snatched away in an instant. Worse still, the Nekonians were now in the clutches of a force far more sinister, far more dangerous than even Shiba himself.
As the dust settled and an eerie silence fell over the battlefield, Shiba stood alone, his fists clenched at his sides. He had failed in his mission to eradicate the Nekonian threat once and for all. And in doing so, he may have inadvertently set in motion events that would shake the very foundations of the universe.
For the young Nekonians, their ordeal was far from over. Snatched from the jaws of death, they now found themselves in the hands of an evil beyond their comprehension. Their journey, it seemed, was about to take a turn into the darkest depths of existence—a realm where even the mighty Shiba feared to tread.