In that distant place, where the castle reigned over the destroyed planet, the supervisor sat on a chair made of ancient stone, atop the castle, observing the infinite cosmos that died and was reborn in the abyss of eternal gloom.

He was stroking a small creature with six limbs and a single eye on its front, accompanied by tough scales and a mouth full of sharp teeth.

"This is the only rest I have after millions of years of writing," he said to himself.

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For him, millions of years were akin to hours—hours that seemed eternal but recurred endlessly in the texts he wrote, chronicling every detail organized within existence. Texts about conquests, apocalypses, and rebirths—every event that prompted a story to be inscribed in the vast space of the castle.

Suddenly, the sound of a shadow approaching from afar was heard, shrill and cold, chilling the bones of anyone unaccustomed to it.

But the supervisor did not feel that sensation in his body. He set down the creature he was stroking, which began to emit an aura of blue light, floating upward and vanishing into the far reaches of the sky.

"You again? I suppose you're here to learn new things about that planet," said the supervisor, rising from his seat.

The shadow stopped in front of him, towering over him in size, until it resumed the humanoid figure it had shown before in the library.

"This time, it's about a conflict—the war of the seven bleeding moons," said Bhatzeid, still shrouded by traces of shadow covering his humanoid form.

"Ah, if that's the case, then we'll have to go deeper into the library, where I’ve written books about the greatest atrocities and conflicts ever fought in existence," the supervisor affirmed, beginning to walk.

Bhatzeid followed him as before, until they reached the library, where the supervisor ventured deeper, as if they had walked miles and miles along the way.

They stopped upon reaching a dark section, distorted by the passage of time. The bookshelves were worn, and small creatures fed on the pages.

"This is the part I least like to visit, but it’s necessary to write about everything that has happened, even the darkest and most violent events, to remember and strive to prevent them from happening again."

Then, the supervisor grabbed a gigantic book, encased in a bubble of purple plasma adorned with star-shaped runic symbols.

The supervisor raised his hand, and a chair materialized behind him, creating an identical one for Bhatzeid, who sat down and let his shadows spread throughout the space.

"Alright, page hexasesimacuadruquntuplebilloseptima."

The stories and conflicts of Aldheran were as numerous as the grains of sand in its vast deserts, all due to the warrior instinct and the supreme importance of shamonak in its culture. This brutal and ruthless martial art had become the ultimate key to resolving any dispute: one fight, one winner—that was all it took to settle conflicts and determine fates.

But what happened to the weak? Those whose bones would shatter upon merely brushing the combat arena, those beings doomed to social invisibility. For Aldheran society, such people were nothing more than disposable cogs, destined to serve as farmers or laborers for the elite in the cities.

In those times, racial supremacy was an unbreakable dogma. Absolute privilege was given to those born with gray skin, whose biology was deemed intrinsically superior to the yhamak with pink skin. The grays were legendary: stronger, more resilient, capable of fighting with broken bones and still emerging victorious. They had faced the planet’s most terrifying beasts and lived to tell the tale.

All of this oppressive system awaited its breaking point. And it arrived in the form of an unexpected figure, a hurricane of defiance named Exiliamus.

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He was a slender yet toned yhamak, standing one meter eighty-seven, draped in a white hooded robe. His appearance was deceptive: he seemed frail, but his eyes radiated a fire that defied all prejudice.

In the middle of a public square, Exiliamus set up an improvised arena with a bold sign:

"Any shamonak fighter—gray, pink, tall, short, heavy, or light—who dares to challenge me and win, you are welcome."

At first, he was mocked. His gaunt appearance provoked laughter among the spectators. But he remained unfazed, arms crossed, gaze fixed on an indefinite point, waiting.

The provocation did not take long to elicit a response. Five shamonak fighters, giants over two meters tall, appeared, laughing uproariously. One of them, confident, jumped into the challenge.

"Did you wake up wanting to die?" he growled, assuming a combat stance. "A weakling like you will be dust when I’m done with you."

The giant lunged at Exiliamus, who dodged with supernatural agility. When the fighter turned to counterattack, an inexplicable pain shot through him, bringing him to his knees with a blood-curdling scream.

His companions attacked, convinced that Exiliamus had used some trickery. But when the city guards arrived, the scene froze them in their tracks.

Exiliamus sat atop a pile of bodies. The fighters lay with strange wounds: precise punctures, as if made by a spear, in their chests, legs, necks, biceps, and heads. A surgical massacre.

He rose, walking toward the guards, who trembled with swords raised. Instead of attacking, he extended his arms, fists clenched in a gesture of surrender.

"Arrest me," he ordered. "Take me before the Grand Council."

After hours of paperwork and exhaustive verifications, Exiliamus was brought before the Grand Council, accused of murder and disturbing the peace. However, the main reason for his appearance was that the five Shamonak fighters he had defeated were considered the best of their time, each with over twenty victories to their name.

Chained and stripped of his robe, the elders of the Grand Council scrutinized him. He was a gray yhamak, but his appearance defied expectations; typically, gray yhamak developed robust and muscular physiques.

"Who are you?" they asked sternly.

"Don’t you gather information before addressing anyone brought to this place? Idiots," Exiliamus replied with a tone of contempt.

The Grand Council exhaled in indignation at his provocative response, though his defiant attitude piqued their curiosity.

"Why did you challenge and eliminate five of our best Shamonak fighters?" they pressed.

"Those five were the best? If that’s true, I don’t want to imagine the weakest, because that’s where I come from. Can’t you see? I’m thin, I have little muscle, I’m short, and yet I defeated those five titans on my own. That must be humiliating for you."

"You have an air of arrogance for a murderer," they rebuked. "What is your goal? A twisted game or some form of protest?"

"Exactly," Exiliamus responded. "The last word perfectly describes my actions: a protest. I am raising my voice in the only way you would understand—through combat. A method that empowers the weak, unlike Shamonak, which only glorifies the strong."

"Then do you think you can defeat the greatest Shamonak fighter we have?" they challenged.

"I’ll make him cry, beg, and grovel for mercy," declared Exiliamus with a smile. "I will make the strong bow before the weak, so they know what it feels like to be crushed."

The brief meeting concluded, and Exiliamus was taken to the prison cells. The guards observed his rigorous training: he struck the air with unusual techniques, using his fingers as if they were spears, knives, or sharp instruments.

The day of the final battle arrived. The arena rose majestically in the heart of the city, a legendary space where all kinds of confrontations took place—from battles against beasts to fights between prisoners.

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Exiliamus was led, chained, to the arena, where his opponent awaited him: Terminatus, The Cannibal, a formidable yhamak standing at 2.3 meters tall, with muscles as solid as stone and skin of an ashen gray that proclaimed his supremacy in combat.

“The Cannibal,” so named for his ferocity in battle, where his opponents took too long to recover—or never returned to fight at all.

The guards escorting Exiliamus unshackled him, retreating quickly from the combat scene with fear. Exiliamus, unnervingly calm, slid his hands into the pockets of his disheveled pants, gazing at Terminatus with an icy stare.

Terminatus looked down on him as though he were nothing more than an insignificant ant. His breathing began to quicken, revealing a feverish excitement to destroy his foe. His impatience was palpable, his muscles taut like cords on the verge of snapping.

The bells echoed through the arena, signaling the start of the fight. Terminatus lunged at Exiliamus, intent on crushing him in a single, merciless blow. But Exiliamus displayed the agility he was already known for, dodging the attack with an almost imperceptible sidestep.

In a whirlwind movement, Terminatus felt a sharp pain in his ribs. Looking down, he saw a deep wound, as though a spear had pierced his body. Blood began to pour out, staining his gray skin a vivid crimson.

With his hands clasped behind his back and initially looking away, Exiliamus slowly turned his head, locking eyes with Terminatus. He raised his right hand, his fingers smeared with blood, and flashed a sadistic smile that sent shivers through the spectators.

The battle dragged on endlessly. Hours passed, from dawn to dusk, in a deadly dance of strikes and strategies. At last, a triumphant cry pierced the air of the arena.

Exiliamus had won. With one arm raised in victory, he gazed at Terminatus, who lay sprawled on the ground, covered in piercing wounds. One particular injury to the neck had been decisive in ending the fight.

But Exiliamus had not emerged unscathed. The blows he had endured had shattered his body; every muscle screamed in agony. His life force seemed to wane, but his will was stronger than his physical suffering.

With his final breath, he raised his arm once more, pointing toward the mountains beyond the city. His voice, though weak, resonated with an intensity that transcended his physical state:

"If someone as weak as I could defeat one of the strongest, what fate awaits the other Shamonak fighters? Behind the mountain, we are waiting—the practitioners of Nilux, the natural predator of Shamonak. All the weak, all those who were scorned by this absurd sport: come beyond the mountain. There, we will teach you our martial art so that Shamonak fades into oblivion."

With these words, Exiliamus collapsed to the ground. His final breath was accompanied by a triumphant smile.

Those words of Exiliamus had burned into the minds of the weak yhamak of the planet. At first, weeks and even months passed after the battle between Exiliamus and Terminatus—a confrontation that still resonated in the collective memory.

From humble farmers and servants of wealthy households to the poorest of the poor, everyone had heard his message. Some had witnessed it directly in the arena, others through the accounts of the more privileged citizens. But the core of his proclamation—that the weak could overcome the strong—resonated within each of them as a promise of redemption.

A massive migration then shook society. Those from the lowest classes packed their few belongings and headed toward the mountains beyond the city. Some, fearful of the unknown dangers, chose to stay behind.

The Grand Council watched with growing concern. The impact on the empire’s economy and social structure was devastating. The system, already fragile, was held together only by the daily Shamonak battles.

An unexpected revelation came during the preparation of Exiliamus’s burial. While washing his body, they discovered that his gray skin was not natural but rather a layer of paint. His true tone was pink, like any other common yhamak, revealing that his identity had been a complete strategy.

Months later, just as it seemed the migration was beginning to stabilize, a shocking event shook the city. A group of four gray yhamak, with hair as white as the stars, stormed in, wreaking havoc. Twelve guards and three low-level Shamonak fighters fell to their attacks. The identification of the bodies confirmed the worst fears: the wounds were identical to those inflicted by Exiliamus.

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This incident sparked a massive conflict. The city deployed giant machines that launched projectiles at the mountain, hoping to bury the practitioners under a cascade of stones. Instead, they provoked their fury.

A large number of Nilux practitioners emerged from the mountains. With deadly agility and cutting strikes, they slipped through the ranks of guards and Shamonak fighters, causing over five thousand soldier casualties and eliminating five hundred mid-level fighters.

Khumulak, the king at the time and father of Princess Aolani, felt desperation coursing through his veins. Those once considered weak were now rising against the traditions of Yhamataw.

In the midst of the chaos, three Shamonak fighters presented themselves before him:

Tawnylon Gilmesh

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Armesto Advhentium

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Zarakel Oscuridae

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Their plan was to capitalize on the planetary event of the Seven Blood Moons, a cycle during which the sky turned a deep crimson due to auroral halos.

Khumulak knew the three well. Tawnylon was a direct descendant of Yhamataw, with a lineage of conquests. Armesto was a strategist, adept at quickly adapting and discovering the weaknesses of his enemies. Zarakel was a warrior who knew exactly where to strike for maximum impact.

Tawnylon requested a high-powered pyrotechnic projectile, visible from great distances.

“When you see it in the air,” he explained, “it will be the signal. Prepare carts to retrieve the bodies of the Nilux practitioners.”

With the confidence befitting legendary warriors, the three set out on their journey. A grand festival sent them off, with abundant food and dances that bordered on mystical.

The following day, the Seven Blood Moons began. The first moon transformed into a deep red, casting an eerie glow over the city. The inhabitants prayed to Azhamat, imploring for the war to end and for the protection of their three warriors.

On the second day, deafening explosions rocked the horizon beyond the mountain. As sudden as they had come, they ceased, leaving the citizens in absolute intrigue.

By the third day, an apocalyptic earthquake shook the city, so violent that it rattled the very foundations of the royal palace. The tremor originated from the mountain, where a massive rockslide completely blocked the only access route.

On the fourth day, blood-curdling and infernal screams emanated from the mountain. These were not isolated cries but hundreds of voices entwined in a brutal symphony that chilled the blood of all who heard it. A symphony of agony that seemed to rend the air itself.

The fifth day brought dramatic change. The rock sealing the pathway began to move erratically and violently. A pyrotechnic projectile—the very one Tawnylon had requested—illuminated the sky with an artificial brilliance.

The rock shifted more intensely with each passing moment. After an hour of frenzied movement, it shattered into thousands of fragments. A cloud of dust momentarily obscured what lay beyond.

Soldiers and Shamonak fighters waited at the site, anticipating a possible attack from the Nilux practitioners. However, they were enveloped in shock when the dust cleared, revealing Tawnylon, Armesto, and Zarakel.

The three warriors emerged like battle specters. Covered in blood, with wounds cutting through their bodies, they advanced with unyielding determination. Their presence was more menacing than any army.

Tawnylon, imposing in his height, approached the commanding officer. Leaning forward, he looked directly into his eyes with an intensity that could pierce souls.

“Did you bring the carriages we requested?” he asked.

“Yes, we prepared twenty of the large ones,” replied the officer, his voice containing a barely perceptible tremor.

“Perfect,” declared Tawnylon. “The path beyond the mountain is clear. The Nilux practitioners have been eliminated.”

The three warriors left the site, leaving the soldiers to handle the carriages.

As they ventured into the path, a landscape of death surrounded them. The bodies of Nilux practitioners lay everywhere, their grayish skin smeared with dried blood and wounds. Some corpses were battered, others so torn apart they were unrecognizable.

When they arrived at the Nilux practitioners' refuge, the officer immediately understood the strategy they had executed. Everything was destroyed. The shelters had been reduced to rubble. Blood was spread like a macabre canvas, narrating a story of total annihilation.

The massacre had been complete and calculated.

The city plunged into a feast of celebration during the final two days of the Blood Moons. Abundance of food and drink overflowed every corner, and Armesto and Zarakel surrendered themselves to the pleasures of victory, savoring every moment of the festivities.

Meanwhile, Tawnylon was absent from the celebration. He stood at the mountain's peak, gazing at the horizon where the last remnants of the Blood Moons slowly faded, lost in the shadows of dusk.

The investigators had the opportunity to examine the bodies of the Nilux practitioners, discovering surprisingly peculiar characteristics. The bones in their fingers were incredibly reinforced, so dense that it took massive hammers to break them even slightly.

Their grayish skin turned out to be mere paint, as was their hair. The investigators interpreted this as a deliberate mockery of the system that privileged gray-skinned yhamak, a message of defiance against established social hierarchies.

When the Blood Moons came to an end, King Khumulak summoned the three warriors to reward them. He offered to grant them one wish, anything within his power.

Zarakel was the first to make his request. With an enigmatic smile bordering on sardonic, he declared:

“I want seven hundred red pamtan, a splendid house, and ten red-skinned women for myself alone.”

Armesto, with his characteristic slow stride and arms crossed, presented his request:

“I wish for a law to be enacted that prohibits discrimination against the pink-skinned yhamak. Look at what segregation has brought: a war that nearly destroyed our traditions.”

Finally, Tawnylon, his white skin glowing like milk under the sunlight, approached the king with deliberate steps. He locked his piercing blue eyes onto the monarch's and, without hesitation, pronounced his wish:

“I want to marry your daughter.”