In a secluded canyon, hidden from the prying eyes of the world, the Matrivan civilization thrived.

Nestled amidst towering cliffs, their home was a place of harmony, where nature and culture intertwined.

The air was thick with the scent of ancient trees and the sound of gentle streams that wove through their tranquil land.

The Matrivan people, elegant and ethereal, had long lived in balance with the world.

Their horns, shimmering like polished ivory, curved elegantly from their heads, and the gems embedded in their foreheads glowed with a soft, ethereal light that marked them as a race in tune with the very energy of the planet.

Among them, a small Matrivan child played, his horns still small and budding, his hair wispy like the first hints of dawn.

The gem on his forehead was pale, unlike the vibrant blues and purples of the elders.

He was experimenting, fingers weaving through the air, attempting to shape the energy around him, coaxing matter to shift and change.

His laughter echoed through the canyon as he and his friends explored the boundaries of their powers, creating small bursts of light, shaping stones into playful forms.

The village around him was alive with the hum of peaceful activity.

Elders gathered by the fires, weaving stories of the past, their eyes glowing with wisdom and ancient knowledge.

Young ones learned the ways of their people, crafting intricate designs in stone and metal.

Life was simple here, rooted in the earth, the stones, the streams.

The Matrivans had no enemies, no wars to fight.

Their world was one of balance, peace, and reverence for nature.

But then, the ground trembled.

A distant rumble turned into thunderous hooves, and from the edge of the canyon, riders appeared.

Clad in heavy armor, their faces obscured by helmets, they rode swiftly on horseback, their weapons gleaming in the pale light.

The Matrivan child froze, his heart pounding in his chest as the peaceful atmosphere shattered.

More riders emerged, their numbers growing like a creeping storm, until the once tranquil canyon was filled with the metallic clank of armor and the harsh cries of human soldiers.

The humans, with their swords drawn and bows aimed, charged.

The Matrivans, though smaller and more delicate in appearance, were stronger than any mortal could imagine.

With a shared, instinctive cry, the land itself seemed to come alive.

Golems—massive statues made of stone—rose from the ground, their eyes glowing with fierce determination.

The Matrivan elders called upon the ancient magic that flowed through their veins, causing the earth to shift.

Large, humanoid figures carved from rock and metal surged to life, clashing with the human soldiers in a brutal fight.

Rocks flew, the air crackling with the fury of magic.

But then, the unimaginable happened.

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From the horizon, a new army appeared—elves, their slender forms graceful but deadly.

Their longbows sang through the air, arrows piercing the hearts of the stone golems, shattering them to pieces.

Their swords flashed, their blades flashing with an ethereal glow.

The Matrivans fought valiantly, their powers surging, but they were outnumbered and outmatched.

And then, the orcs arrived.

Hulking brutes, their faces twisted in grimaces of rage, brandished crude, barbaric weapons.

They charged with primal fury, cutting through the Matrivan defenses with brutal strength.

The Matrivans, despite their strength and the ancient magic they wielded, were slowly overwhelmed.

The orcs hacked through golems, and the elves' arrows rained down upon them like a deadly storm.

The battle raged on, the canyon echoing with the sounds of war.

The Matrivans fought fiercely, but their efforts were in vain.

The humans, elves, orcs, and dwarves—each with their own motives—united in a single, brutal assault on the once peaceful race.

The Matrivans fell, their bodies scattered among the rocks and earth they had once revered.

But even as the last of their warriors fell, there was a glimmer of hope.

A handful of Matrivan children, including the small one, were spared.

With the last remnants of their strength, their elders managed to create a rift in the fabric of space itself, sending the children through the rift just as the final blows were struck.

The child watched, wide-eyed, as the canyon, the land, and the people he had known all his life were obliterated.

He fled into the unknown, the sounds of destruction fading behind him, replaced by the haunting silence of a world that had been torn apart.

But the anger and hatred—the searing fury of watching his world fall to the hands of the invaders—was too much for him to bear.

It consumed him. It haunted him.

Every memory of his people, every face of the warriors who fought to their last breath, drove him forward.

His heart burned with a single, relentless purpose: vengeance.

The races who had destroyed his home, who had slaughtered his people, would pay.

And though he was just a child, the fury within him grew as he matured, until it became an unbreakable will.

The hatred, born from the ashes of his lost civilization, motivated him.

It became his strength, his guiding force.

The echoes of the massacre, the faces of those he had loved, would never leave him.

And in the deepest recesses of his soul, he swore to destroy those who had taken everything from him.

As the years passed, the scattered remnants of the Matrivan children grew into vengeful survivors, their anger festering like an open wound.

Alone, they were weak, but together, they became a force of cunning and manipulation.

They could not wage war outright, but they could plant seeds of chaos.

Their first target was the elves and orcs.

The elves, lovers of nature and harmony, were polar opposites to the brutish orcs, who thrived in conflict and destruction.

It took little effort to ignite the flames of war between them.

With subtle whispers and shadowy deeds, the Matrivans sowed distrust, blaming the orcs for the destruction of elven groves and accusing the elves of sabotaging orc territories.

Tensions boiled over, and soon, blood stained the forests as the two races clashed.

Arrows rained down from the treetops, and the ground shook under the weight of orcish war cries.

The elves' precision and magic clashed against the raw power and ferocity of the orcs.

Trees burned, rivers turned red, and the lands once vibrant with life became battlefields of ash and death.

The humans, ever opportunistic, saw the conflict as their chance.

Greedy for power, they launched attacks against both weakened races, exploiting their strife.

Human knights on horseback charged into elven woods, their blades cutting down warriors and trees alike.

Orcish camps fell under the fire of human trebuchets, their crude defenses unable to hold.

Meanwhile, the dwarves, watching the chaos from their mountain strongholds, thought themselves safe.

But the humans, hungry for the dwarves' riches and advanced technology, soon turned their sights on them.

Armored battalions stormed the mountains, their siege engines breaking through fortified gates.

The dwarves fought fiercely, their hammers clashing against human steel, but the overwhelming numbers of the humans proved too much.

The Matrivans watched from the shadows, their vengeance taking shape.

The races that had once united to destroy their people now tore each other apart.

And when the dust began to settle, the Matrivans made their move.

Golems, crafted from stone, metal, and the remnants of their ancient magic, rose from the earth.

The Matrivans had spent years perfecting their creations, and now they unleashed them upon the humans.

Towering constructs of raw power marched forward, their footsteps shaking the ground.

Villages burned under their assault.

Entire towns were reduced to rubble as the golems crushed walls and homes with unrelenting force.

The Matrivans led their army of destruction, striking where the humans were weakest.

Villages were consumed by fire, their inhabitants fleeing in terror.

Screams filled the air as the Matrivans showed no mercy, their hatred for the humans driving them to annihilate everything in their path.

But the humans, desperate and resilient, fought back.

They called upon every warrior, every weapon, every ounce of their strength to resist the Matrivan onslaught.

Archers lined the walls of their last cities, raining arrows upon the advancing golems.

Knights charged into battle, their swords clashing against stone and magic.

Even mages, once few and scattered, united to hurl fire and lightning at the monstrous constructs.

The war was long and bloody.

For every golem destroyed, a dozen humans fell.

For every Matrivan slain, an entire village burned.

But as the numbers of the Matrivans dwindled, the tide began to turn.

One by one, the Matrivans fell, their powers unable to keep pace with the endless waves of human forces.

At last, the final Matrivan stood alone, surrounded by the armies of humanity.

His horns were broken, his body battered and bleeding, but his eyes burned with unquenchable rage.

He fought with everything he had, wielding power that tore the earth and shattered the skies.

But even his immense power was not enough.

The humans captured him, chaining his broken body.

They paraded him through the streets, a symbol of their victory.

And then, they executed him.

The last Matrivan fell, his lifeless body crumbling to the ground.

But even in death, his hatred did not fade.

His rage, his grief, his unyielding desire for vengeance lingered, like a curse upon the world.

The flashes of memory faded, leaving me trembling.

My chest felt heavy, as though the weight of the entire Matrivan race had settled upon my heart.

I could still hear the screams, feel the rage, and taste the despair.

It all made sense now.

The memories of those dreams—the burning villages, the bloodshed, the relentless destruction—were my own.

I was that little Matrivan, the one who had survived the massacre of his people, the one who had lived to see the end of his race.

And now, that hatred lived within me.