In the beginning, before time carried a name and before memory had hands to write, there was a dragon—Bolomere. He had been born into strength, as all his kind were, but he alone had been made invincible. And so, with nothing left to conquer, nothing left to fear, he became acquainted with something far worse than death—emptiness.
The void stretched, indifferent, before him. It neither beckoned nor refused him, for it had never known the need for companionship. As he aimlessly meandered through the void, wrought by his lonesome self, Bolomere arrived at a decision.
[In my name, I will create a vibrant world teeming with joy and life!]
And so, with the authority of the nameless and the will of the forgotten, he carved a continent from the dark. Gangnea, he called it—a land not bound by the weight of spheres, but floating, untethered, cradled by mist that guarded it from the void’s endless hunger.
He reached into the unseen and wove the first law of life—the law that breathes, that grows, that remembers.
From his hands, from his will, from the very bones of his longing, he shaped it—a seed, deep and brimming with the power of creation itself.
Wood of Authority—World Tree.
He laid it in the heart of the Gangnea Continent, watching with joy as the World Tree grew with his tender care. Its vitality spilt out and caused vibrant forests to sprout into life.
And at last, from the tree’s bounty, came those who would watch over this newborn world—beings whose ears could hear the whisper of the leaves, whose hands could cradle the light of the sun, whose lives would stretch long enough to remember the sorrow of the void and the gift that had been given.
The Wood Race of Elves.
The Elves were proud of their long lives and remained duty-bound to protect the Gangnea Continent. They caused the world to grow stably.
Bolomere watched as the world he had dreamed into began to shape itself beyond his hands. The Gangnea Continent stretched, its forests thickening, its roots growing deep, its breath mingling with the whisper of the Elves. They expanded the forests, nurtured the trees, deepened the roots, and strengthened the trunks.
A million years passed in this quiet, uninterrupted harmony—a time long enough for even a dragon to rest in the certainty of his creation.
When Bolomere woke up from his contentful slumber, addressing the Race of Elves of his desire.
[The Gangnea Continent brims with vitality, having grown too big for the Elven Race alone.]
Bolomere pulled the Metal Laws of the void and harnessed it into a thumping heart, burying it in the depths of the Gangnea Continent.
Metal of Authority—Earthen Heart!
The Earthen Heart pulsed once, then steadied, and as it did, the land around it transformed. Soil hardened into ore. Stone deepened into veins of iron. And from the dark—where no roots stretched, where the sun had never touched—something emerged. It was metal before flesh, form before life. But when it found the World Tree, when it drew its first breath of vitality, it became something more.
It became someone.
The Metal Race of Dwarves!
The Dwarven Race brought metal into the Gangnea Continent. Where the Elves had nurtured the land, the Dwarves strengthened it.
He was pleased.
So pleased that he did not stop.
He harnessed more laws, shaping new sentient races across the Gangnea Continent. With each creation, his power waned, until, at last, he forged the sixteenth race. When fire itself gave birth to something swift, something bright, something fleeting—he gazed upon his work and knew satisfaction.
The Fire Race of Humans.
The first of their kind were kind, compassionate, and empathetic toward others. They earned the favor of the Gangnea Continent. And though their lives were brief, their flames flickering fast, they possessed wisdom—wisdom that rivaled even the Elves, who had seen a million years.
And so, for the first time in eternity, Bolomere laid down his head with nothing left undone.
And he slept.
He did not know how long he would sleep, nor did he worry. The world was full, the races were many, and harmony had been carved into the very bones of the continent.
But Bolomere was old. He should have known.
He should have known that fire does not burn quietly forever. That something as restless as humanity could not exist without consequence.
Because when their numbers swelled—when they reached past what their hands could hold, when they saw what could be taken instead of what could be given—well.
That was when everything went to hell.
- An introductory note to The Song of Gangnea, From the Oldest of the Elven Kind.
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T’Hara Forest.
The air was thick with the scent of burning wood, heavy and suffocating. Smoke slithered through the towering trees, their once-pristine emerald leaves shriveling into blackened husks.
T’Hara Forest—what remained of it—stretched endlessly across the heart of the Gangnea Continent. For centuries, it had been the sanctuary of the Elven Race, its sacred expanse spanning 3.86 square kilometers, its heart beating in rhythm with the roots of the World Tree.
Now, its veins were choked with fire.
A corridor of ash, three kilometers wide at its broadest, split through the woodland like an open wound, its path carved by fire and steel. It led straight to the center, where the roots of the World Tree—ancient and vast, taller than the highest mountain—trembled beneath the weight of war.
The World Tree. Eight-point-eight kilometers of life woven into its bark, the source of the Elven Authority, the mother of all sentient races upon this land.
And at its foot, Tthranya, the jewel of Elvenkind, was dying.
“Damn Humans! How dare you…” An Elven Soldier used his authority to create a wooden ballista and launched it at the human army, skewering four. His expression spewed anger as he loaded a second ballista when a tongue of fire engulfed him, smouldering him into ash.
The humans marched, protected by a sea of flames. Most of the arrows burnt halfway through, failing to harm the human army that numbered forty times the Elves.
The Elven King sat unmoving on a throne woven from the roots of the World Tree, his skin wreathed in glowing veins of green. His body was ancient, but his wrath had never been younger.
“You are making a mistake, Humans!” On a throne of wood situated atop a protruding root of the World Tree was the Elven King. Veins danced across his face, incensed at the slaughter of his kind, “A grave one.”
He had stood at the roots of the World Tree for centuries, watching the tides of time twist and shift, guiding his people as best he could. He had seen the first human wander into elven lands, lost and awed. He had seen their empires rise, cities bloom, and their wars carve scars across the continent. And now, he saw them at his gates, fire licking at the heart of his people’s home.
The Human King stepped forward. Unlike his soldiers, his armor bore no scorch marks. He walked through the flames as if they were nothing more than a summer breeze, his crown a twisting blaze of fire that did not burn him.
“A mistake?” he mused, as if tasting the word. “No. I would call this… inevitable.”
“You have always been wise,” the Human King continued. “But wisdom does not feed the starving. My people have bled and starved and suffered, waiting for salvation that will never come. We have outgrown the land you have permitted us. We have outgrown your mercy.”
The Elven King exhaled slowly. He knew this speech. He had heard it before, spoken by a dozen human rulers over the past five hundred years.
He knew how it ended.
“The fault is yours,” he said, rising from his throne. His robes, woven from the leaves of the World Tree itself, caught the light of the flames. “I warned you—warned all of you—not to let your numbers grow beyond what your land could provide. You did not listen.”
He raised a hand.
From the charred earth, roots surged forth, twisting like serpents as they lashed towards the Human King. They struck true, sinking into flesh, burrowing deep—
And caught fire.
Flames roared from within the roots, turning them to embers before they could tighten their grip. The Human King sighed, shaking his head.
“You are strong, Elven King.” He flexed his fingers, and the air itself burned. “But your wood is weak against my fire.”
The Elven King gritted his teeth. More roots surged forward, thicker, older, laced with the authority of the World Tree itself. They did not merely grasp—they constricted, embedding themselves into the ground, feeding off the very life of the ancient land beneath them.
And still, they burned.
Pain, for the first time in centuries, lanced through the Elven King’s body. His legs, charred to the bone, struggled to regrow as fast as the flames devoured him.
It was not enough.
His fingers curled into the ash at his feet. It was soft, warm, the remnants of his people, his home, his legacy.
A thin root tendril pressed against his palm.
He exhaled sharply.
Slowly, he patted the root, his voice barely a whisper. “Forgive me, Mother.”
A deep, shuddering breath left him as he straightened. “I have failed you.”
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“Your Son couldn’t serve you well.” He hesitated for a moment and then spoke, “It breaks my pride to say this, but at this point, my pride is irrelevant.”
“I know you have the power, Mother.” He grabbed the root of the World Tree, “With our old, longevity-influenced ways, we can never overcome the Humans. So…I beseech you, only with fire can we fight fire.”
[I hear you, My Child!]
In response to the Elven King’s words, the roots of the World Tree expanded deep into the Gangnea Continent. A single tendril slithered through the abyss of the void, stretching across unfathomable distances until it touched the surface of a small, blue planet.
It pulsed.
Something shifted.
A billion souls had been loosed from their flesh upon that distant world. The tendril plunged into the cycle of death, siphoning the lost, grasping at the unmoored. The dead had nowhere to go—so it took.
Back within the ruins of Tthranya, the roots of the World Tree bore fruit.
Translucent sacks hung from its colossal shoots, each one incubating life—young Elves, gestating over two decades before emerging into the world. Their delicate forms floated within, suspended in shimmering liquid, untouched by war.
Into one of the incubating sacks, the World Tree infused a soul caught from the blue planet. The eyes of the baby Elf shot open, in shock, witnessing the scene of a screaming Elf King regenerating nonstop while he was burnt alive.
—Dinner. I was having dinner.
His mind reeled, his sight adjusting to a reality that should not exist. The inside of the sack distorted everything, but beyond the membrane, he saw—
A man burning alive.
A figure sat upon a throne of roots, unmoving as flames devoured his flesh. His veins pulsed with light, his body reforming even as it blackened, again and again and again.
The child could hear the flesh sizzle.
He tried to blink. His body didn’t respond. He had no control.
A voice, vast and ancient, unfurled within his mind.
[You have died, my Child. I now reincarnate you in this world, as my Child, an Elf!]
—Wait! Wait! WAIT! I died? What? What the hell is this?…!
His thoughts clawed for reason.
—I was… eating with my family. I was home. I—
[In this world, the Authority of every Race can be expressed numerically. It will serve you well, since appearance-wise, it resembles the status window you’re familiar with.]
—Familiar? What the hell does that mean?
Panic swelled, a wave threatening to break against the shores of his mind. He tried to move. Nothing.
Tried to scream. Nothing.
He wasn’t breathing. He wasn’t anything.
[Dark times await the Elven Race, my Child. Fight and regain our honour. Do so, and I shall return you to Earth, with one wish granted. This is your only chance to reunite with your family.]
—What? What kind of…sick joke is this?
The soul stared blankly, feeling anger surge through its being as it watched the Elven King burn.
Three days.
That was how long the Elven King burned.
He fought. He fought until nothing remained of him but char and embers. Until the human army trampled over his corpse, their torches lighting the ruins of his kingdom.
And the soul, now an elf child, watched.
The sack around him pulsed, shifting gently, as if a mother’s womb could soothe the horror in his mind.
This isn’t real, he told himself. This is just a dream. I drank too much yesterday. I’ll wake up soon.His thoughts slowed, exhaustion sinking its teeth into him.
—Yeah. Just a nightmare. I’ll wake up soon.
He closed his eyes.
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Year 19—The 34th Day of the 8th Moon
Gangnea Continent
The Elven Race had long since fallen.
Its history burned. Its survivors beheaded. Its name erased from the records of civilization, replaced by a single truth: The world now belonged to the Human Race.
The old calendars had been discarded. Year 0 marked the fall of the Elves and the dawn of human supremacy. Time itself had been rewritten in their image.
In this new world, the passage of time was no longer marked by Elven wisdom, but by the Moons of Gangnea.
The sky dictated the months—one Moon meant the first, two meant the second, and so on, reaching its peak with eight. Each cycle stretched across 42 days, the rhythm of a world that had forsaken its old gods.
Tonight, the eighth Moon loomed highest—the final month of the cycle, its pale glow casting an eerie light upon the ruins of Tthranya.
At the heart of the Gangnea Continent, beneath the roots of the World Tree, the former Elven capital was no longer a city. It was a prison.
The newborn Elves were not free.
They were bred, raised, and broken.
A new era had begun.
The air hung thick with the scent of wet wood and stagnation. A team of human soldiers ascended the wooden stairway coiled around the colossal trunk of the World Tree, their boots thudding against the steps.
One by one, they stopped beside the hanging sacks—translucent cocoons where newborn Elves incubated. Their dull glow pulsed faintly, as if resisting the inevitable.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Gloved hands struck the sacks in sequence, their hollow sounds blending into the forest’s eerie silence.
And then—
[Time to wake up, my Child. Pinaka!]
The voice echoed inside the sack, reverberating deep within its occupant’s mind.
A gasp.
The membrane ruptured.
A small, lean body tumbled onto the stairs, slick with the gelatinous substance that had sustained it for years. Olive-green hair clung to his skin, his pointed ears twitching at the sudden rush of cold air.
His mouth opened—a cry of confusion, of panic—but before he could even register what had happened, rough hands grabbed him.
“Sack it.”
The command was simple. Absolute.
Hands seized his arms. A burlap sack was thrown over him, and the world blurred into muffled darkness.
Then came light.
His struggles were ignored.
His screams, irrelevant.
“Move.”
Hands yanked him out of the tub, his slick feet stumbling against the stone floor.
A whip cracked—a sharp, searing pain that lanced across his back, sending him crashing forward.
“Run.”
Pinaka ran.
His feet hit the stone blindly, body responding on instinct, the pain forcing obedience faster than any words could. He didn’t know where he was going, only that if he stopped—he would suffer.
The corridor led to an opening.
He staggered into the light.
The sun was warm against his skin. The air smelled fresh—but nothing about this place felt free.
High mortar walls caged the land, stretching as far as his eyes could see. The sound of lashes cracked in the distance, punctuated by short, muffled cries.Pinaka’s breath came fast, his heart pounding. Something moved ahead. Another Elf.
“Teach the youngling some manners, Mahnaka. If it’s not obedient by dawn, you’ll receive my whip!” An arrogant voice boomed from the corridor as the young one stared ahead.
He was taller—maybe fifteen years old—but his face bore the marks of a lifetime spent in chains. One eye was missing, replaced by a twisted mass of scar tissue. An X-shaped scar ran down the bridge of his nose, and his right hand was incomplete—his thumb, missing.
He extended his remaining fingers in greeting.
“Welcome to hell, my newborn brother,” the Elf murmured, voice hoarse but steady. “I’m Mahnaka, the slave confined to this region.”
Pinaka’s lips parted, his mind still reeling.
“What… is this place?” His head throbbed, memories flooding back in a disorienting wave.
The World Tree. The voice.
It wasn’t a dream.
Fuck!
Mahnaka studied him, then asked, “Did the World Tree give you a name?”
Pinaka hesitated, then whispered, “Pinaka.”
The older Elf nodded, his single eye flicking down to Pinaka’s hand.
Pinaka followed his gaze.
“What—”
“Your thumb is beautiful.” Mahnaka’s voice softened—not with admiration, but with mourning.
He inhaled deeply, then forced a smirk.
“I can tell just by looking at it… you’d have been great at archery.”
His lips trembled.
“Admire it while you still can.”
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“AARGHHH!”
Pain.
All-consuming. White-hot. Unrelenting.
Strapped to a stone table, Pinaka thrashed, his gag muffling his screams.
Blood pooled beneath his right hand.
The thumb—his thumb—was gone.
A middle-aged human, clad in a filthy apron, held up the severed digit. He admired it under the dim candlelight before plopping it into a glass jar.
“A slave doesn’t need to wield a bow,” Flashing his gold-rimmed buck tooth, the balding middle-aged man chuckled and tightened the strap on Pinaka’s left hand, using force to separate the left thumb alone, “Don’t be afraid. Just think of it like having a strand of hair pulled out…”
“GAHHHH!”
“TCH!” The middle-aged man snorted, as a violent jerk from Pinaka nudged the table, making him miss his mark, “Now see what you’ve done.”
“I have to cut it again,” He said remorsefully upon staring at the half-cut left thumb, “Now, don’t move this time. Good…harness your fear and stay silent. That’s it…that’s…IT!”
Clang!
Pain blurred the edges of his consciousness.
Pinaka lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling lighter. Not in the way a person feels after rest, but in the way someone feels when something vital has been taken from them.
His thumbs.
His body trembled, but his mind?
His mind was sharp.
The butcher hummed to himself, adjusting the glass jar containing the severed thumbs. He tapped it idly, watching the pieces of flesh float inside.
“Fuck,” Pinaka thought numbly.
Fuck the World Tree. Fuck the Elves. Fuck this place.
—I could care less about the World Tree’s words.
A laugh—silent, bitter—bubbled in his chest.
—But since you cut off my thumbs…
His vision blurred. His fingers curled—as best they could.
—It’s personal now.
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Gangnea Daily – Article #1
The World Tree stands at a staggering 8.8 kilometers in height (5.468 Freedom Units for the Bald Eagles out there), with its roots plunging to an average depth of 74 kilometers (or 46 miles for our imperial-measuring overlords).
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