In the ancient annals of Eru, a tale unfolds that transcends the boundaries of time and echoes through the fractured lands. Once, the world was a single, vast continent, a realm where the song of life resonated harmoniously. But shadows loomed, casting a pall over the serene landscapes as malevolent forces sought to devour the very essence of existence.
Long before the continents of Aldoria, Celestria, Ignara, and Verdantia took shape, Eru was a realm ravaged by war, a crucible of shadows that birthed the heroes and the horrors that shaped its destiny. Demons, dark and insatiable, demanded weekly sacrifices and tributes from the trembling civilizations that clung to survival.
Mighty dragons, revered as the epitome of power, fell prey to the demonic forces, their majestic forms enslaved and reduced to mere pets for the malevolent overlords. The skies, once adorned with the graceful flight of dragons, now harbored the twisted silhouettes of their corruption.
In the heart of this turmoil, the original twenty-five kings and queens arose, leaders of disparate realms unified by a common threat. Their kingdoms spanned the vastness of Eru, each ruled by a monarch whose bloodline bore the weight of ancient magic and divine lineage.
The Immortal Throne, a relic of unparalleled power, lay at the center of the continent, feeding off the Nexus Spring—a wellspring of mystical energies that pulsed beneath the very foundations of Eru. Whoever sat upon the throne gained power beyond comprehension, a power sought after by both the defenders and the demons.
The war raged for years, an unyielding storm that left no corner of Eru untouched. Cities crumbled, forests burned, and rivers ran black with the blood of both mortal and demonic. The very fabric of the world trembled beneath the cataclysmic forces unleashed in the struggle for dominance.
Dragons, once revered, succumbed to demonic corruption, their roars replaced by agonized screams as they were twisted into instruments of destruction. The skies became a battlefield where the majestic creatures clashed with demonic monstrosities, the heavens weeping at the desecration.
In a desperate bid to turn the tide, the twenty-five rulers harnessed divine-level magic, channeling the very essence of the gods to forge a realm separate from Eru itself—a sanctuary to contain the Daemon King. The sacrifices made during this ritual were immense, as the kings and queens poured their life force into the weaving of a separate reality.
This newly created realm, a pocket dimension named Lacum, became the prison for the Daemon King. The barriers between Eru and Lacum were sealed with the collective sacrifice of countless lives, both mortal and divine. The world quivered as the arcane energies danced through the air, sealing the malevolence within the confines of Lacum.
But the Daemon King, refusing to be vanquished, wielded its immense power over the centuries of its rule. Through cunning manipulation of the arcane, it opened portals to Lacum from within its prison, sowing discord and chaos in the very shadows of its captivity. The echoes of demonic influence whispered through the fractured lands, creating pockets of malevolence that threatened to unravel the delicate tapestry of peace.
In response to this emerging threat, the kings and queens, unified by the remnants of the ancient alliance, established the Dungeon Masters Guilds. Trained individuals, warriors, mages, and hunters, were enlisted to patrol the outskirts of dungeons—gateways to Lacum—exterminating monsters that slipped through the fabric of reality.
These brave individuals were compensated for their perilous endeavors, receiving payment for venturing into the dungeons and confronting the malevolent entities that sought to breach into Eru. The guilds became bastions of defense, standing as the first line against the encroaching shadows and ensuring that the legacy of the twenty-five rulers persisted in the face of an ever-present threat.
As the dungeons became battlegrounds for heroes and monsters, the world of Eru found a fragile equilibrium. The sacrifice of the past weighed heavily on the shoulders of its inhabitants, and the prologue of Eru's history remained etched in the stones of time—a testament to the resilience of mortals and the ever-lurking shadows that sought to reclaim their dominion2
200 Years later Pluto's Kiss
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- In the wake of Pluto's Kiss, a cataclysmic event that saw new portals opening around the continents of Eru, casting dark shadows over the once-stable realms. While the Immortal Throne had been a source of contention and corruption in the past, this time, the royal families themselves were not immune to the whispers of malevolence.
Many kings, lured by the insatiable hunger for power, found themselves succumbing to the shadows without the influence of the Immortal Throne. Scandals within royal families were nothing new, but the year of Pluto's Kiss surpassed them all in infamy.
Celestria, the once-glorious northern continent, found itself embroiled in a scandal that shook the very foundations of its celestial rule. Pluto, the Third King of Celestria, accused his queen of bearing a child not of his blood. The whispers of betrayal and deception echoed through the hallowed halls of the celestial palace.
The child in question, born with jet-black hair unlike the customary red or white that adorned Celestria's royal lineage, became the focal point of the scandal. As the child reached the age of seven, it was discovered that he possessed neither the natural Fire magic of Ignatius nor the shadowy magic of Eclipse—the magic that coursed through the veins of the King and Queen, respectively.
The revelation of this mysterious child's existence, unclaimed by the divine magic that marked his royal siblings, sent shockwaves through the kingdom. The boy, hidden by the queen's handmaidens for years, could no longer be shielded from the probing eyes of the court.
Pluto, in his pursuit of truth and justice, confronted the queen with an ultimatum. She had to choose between punishment for her alleged crimes and being an outcast, or remaining as the queen for the sake of their other six children. The King, seeking to unravel the depths of the scandal, also demanded to know the name of the child's father. Failure to provide this information would result in the child's banishment from the entire country, not just the royal family.
Faced with an impossible choice, the queen made the agonizing decision to preserve the unity of her family. The child, born with neither affinity for Fire nor Shadow, was put on a boat and sent to the far-off kingdom of Aldoria, a realm shaped by turbulent storms and tempestuous seas.
As the ship sailed away, the young exile, burdened by a destiny forged in the shadows of Plutos Kiss, left behind the celestial splendor of Celestria for the unknown realms of Aldoria. The dark clouds of scandal lingered over the northern continent, casting a long shadow that hinted at the deeper mysteries yet to unfold.
The events of Pluto's Kiss had not only fractured the Celestrian royal family but sent ripples across Eru, stirring the dormant shadows and awakening ancient secrets. As the mysterious child found refuge in the stormy embrace of Aldoria, the stage was set for a new chapter in the history of Eru—one marked by both the echoes of scandal and the enduring pursuit of truth.
In the opulent throne room of the royal palace, King Pluto stood before his subjects, a commanding figure with deep red hair, a heavy-set frame, and a towering stature that dwarfed the queen at his side. Muscles strained against the regal attire that adorned his robust form, emphasizing the aura of dominance he exuded. The queen, with her flowing white hair, stood beside him, head bowed in submission.
Their children, scattered around the hall, displayed a kaleidoscope of hair colors—some fiery red, others ethereal white, and a few adorned with a mix of both. The diverse lineage of Celestria's royal blood was a visual spectacle within the grandeur of the throne room.
With a voice that echoed through the vast chamber, King Pluto addressed his people. "Noble citizens of Celestria, today marks a moment of reckoning. The shadows of scandal have cast a pall over our once-unified realm, and it is my duty to bring forth clarity and restore honor."
He turned his piercing gaze to the queen, whose head remained bowed, a symbol of the alleged transgressions that had befallen their family. "I stand before you not as a father of seven, but as a ruler who must make difficult decisions for the greater good of our celestial realm. My sixth son, born with neither flame nor shadow, shall be stripped of his name and title. He shall henceforth be known as a child, not of this royal blood."
The announcement hung heavy in the air, the gravity of the decree palpable among the courtiers. King Pluto continued, his voice unwavering, "In light of this, I name the three sons who bear the flame of Ignatius: Aelius, Pyrrhus, and Varian. The three daughters who carry the luminosity of Eclipse shall be known as Seraphina, Astrid, and Emberia."
As the new names resonated through the hall, the king's proclamation continued. "The queen, once adorned with the title of my beloved, has been demoted. She shall now bear the title of Queen Consort, a position more fitting for her new role within the monarchy."
A somber hush settled upon the court as the queen remained silent, her head still bowed. However, the king's decree was far from over. "In the pursuit of a new era—a time marked by both peace and power—I declare my intention to remarry. A queen who shall stand beside me in unity, forging a path forward for Celestria."
The new queen, draped in regal attire and bearing an air of grace, stepped forward to stand beside King Pluto. Her eyes, filled with a mix of anticipation and trepidation, scanned the room as the murmurs of surprise swirled around her. The courtiers, adorned in elaborate garments, observed the unfolding drama with a mixture of curiosity and unease.
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As the chosen queen took her place at the king's side, some of Pluto's children couldn't hide their disdain. Their faces contorted with visible disgust, their eyes revealing the internal conflict that raged within. The turmoil within the royal family manifested in the children's expressions, a silent protest against the reshaping of their world.
The whispers among the courtiers became audible, carrying the weight of judgment and speculation. The majority of the assembled nobility, however, directed their disdain toward the demoted queen. In their eyes, she bore the blame for the fractures in the once-unified family. The legacy of Celestria's rulers was tarnished, and the queen became a symbol of the discord that threatened to unravel the Kingdom.
The grandeur of the throne room, once a symbol of unity and strength, now echoed with the hushed tones of disapproval. The chosen queen, aware of the scrutiny upon her, maintained her composure, but the tension in the air was palpable. The courtiers exchanged knowing glances, and the fate of the celestial realm hung in the balance, caught between the threads of tradition and the turbulent currents of change.
One Week at sea---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
On the vast and endless expanse of the open sea, a small and timeworn vessel struggled against the relentless waves. A worn and ragged hood clung to the small frame of a seven-year-old boy, his figure cowered beneath its folds. The salty breeze whispered through the threads, carrying with it the tang of the sea and the weight of uncertainty. The leaking boat, battered by the elements and time, strained beneath the burden it carried—a cargo of souls bound by the chains of indenture.
The ship, though once sturdy, bore the scars of countless journeys across unforgiving waters. Its hull groaned with each tumultuous wave as if lamenting the destiny it carried upon its wooden shoulders. Leaks in the hull dripped seawater onto the damp, wooden floor, forming stagnant pools that mingled with the stench of sweat, fear, and desperation. The air was thick with the acrid scent of salt, creating an atmosphere that clung to the skin and seeped into the very fibers of clothing.
Within the confines of this floating prison, a motley crew of humanity found themselves cramped together. Old men, young women, old women, young men, criminals, and those simply down on their luck—all were bound for the Kingdom of Aldoria as indentured servants. The dim light filtering through the cracks in the hull barely illuminated the faces of the downtrodden, revealing eyes weary with the weight of their circumstances.
A narrow walkway separated the area reserved for women and children from that of the men, but the distinction seemed only symbolic in the squalor of the cramped quarters. The boundaries between the withered faces blurred in the shadows as the ship's swaying motion tested the resolve of those huddled within. The low hum of muted conversations and stifled sobbing created a dissonant symphony, a reflection of the collective sorrow that permeated the air.
Heavy shackles, worn by time and captivity, clanked intermittently, a harsh reminder of the chains that bound the unfortunate souls. The rhythmic lull of the waves against the beleaguered boat became a haunting melody, a backdrop to the melancholic whispers of those who clung to the frayed edges of hope.
As the ship sailed further into the heart of the open sea, the horizon remained an elusive promise on the distant edge of the world. The ever-changing canvas of the sky painted a story of its own—a tale of despair and yearning, reflected in the faces of children robbed of their innocence by the harsh reality of their circumstances.
However, this was more like a floating purgatory, for the hooded boy who clung to the security of his ragged hood. His eyes, once bright with the wonder of youth, now reflected the shadows of a world that had forced him to grow beyond his years. He became a silent witness to the trials of those ensnared in the unforgiving grip of indenture—a witness to the stories etched in the crevices of each weathered face. The Kingdom of Aldoria obscured in the distant haze, awaited its cargo of human suffering. Each ripple of the sea carried with it a tale of heartache and resilience, echoing through the cavernous theater of the open ocean.
Even though there was little reason for hope or song an old man with a voice that bore the weight of history began to sing. His weathered eyes, though tired, flickered with a fire of determination as he wove a shanty of freedom—a melody that resonated with the dreams of liberation.
The vessel, battered by the relentless waves, creaked and groaned beneath the strain of its cargo. Men and women, their spirits tethered by the shackles of servitude, huddled together in the dimly lit quarters. The air was thick with the scent of salt and despair, yet the old man, undeterred by the oppressive atmosphere, raised his voice against the darkness.
"Come, ye souls, hear the ocean's tale, Of waves that crash and winds that wail.No more in chains, our spirits frail, We'll rise again, break free from the jail."
His voice, a rallying cry against the tyranny of bondage, echoed through the wooden corridors like a secret rebellion. The ship, a floating prison of oppression, seemed to quiver under the weight of the anthem that rose from its very bowels.
A disgruntled murmur rose from the shadows, a dissenting voice seeking to snuff out the spark of hope that the old man's melody carried. "Save your breath, old man! Freedom's a tale for fools, not for the likes of us!"
Yet, emerging from the shadows like a guardian of hope, the one-eyed defender stepped forward. His singular gaze, weary but resolute, challenged the cynicism that sought to extinguish the flame of liberation.
"Sing on, old man," he declared wearily. "Let the waves carry our dreams beyond the horizon. Freedom may seem a distant shore, but in song, we find a compass to guide us home." the large man says trying his best to sing, but his voice is far too raspy to sound warming.
Though the singing sounded rough, his words hit home nonetheless. The dissenting voice, faced with the unwavering resolve of the defender, fell silent. The ship became a vessel not just of servitude, but also of resistance—a vessel where this hymn of freedom resounded like a battle cry.
As the old man sang on, the ship sailed through the boundless sea, each verse a testament to the indomitable spirit that yearned for liberation. The shanty of freedom became a thread, weaving through the souls of those who had been cast adrift, binding them together in a shared aspiration for a life unshackled.
The night descended upon the ship like a shroud, casting shadows that danced in the dim light of flickering lanterns. The air within the cramped quarters held a heavy stillness, broken only by the murmurs of those huddled together in the gloom. The ship sailed through the inky darkness, the waves outside a symphony of solitude.
As the occupants of the ship awaited the meager rations that passed for sustenance, a foul-smelling slop was distributed among them. The tasteless gruel, a concoction of scraps and unidentifiable substances, seemed to mock their hunger rather than satiate it. The atmosphere was thick with the stench of despair as they begrudgingly accepted the pitiful offering, their faces reflecting the weariness of bodies and spirits bound by captivity.
Amongst many slaves the quiet conversations, a murmur of discontent arose. Some spoke in hushed tones about breaking free from the chains that held them captive. Whispers of rebellion lingered in the air like a forbidden promise, a dangerous hope that flickered in the hearts of those who dared to dream of escape.
As night settled in, the guards descended, their presence imposing a grim reminder of the oppression that governed life on the ship. Some of these guards, driven by perverse inclinations, approached the prisoners with an offer—the promise of extra food in exchange for participation in their sick games. The choice, though seemingly simple, carried a heavy price, as it demanded the sacrifice of both dignity and pride.
The young cloaked child, hidden in the shadows, was observed with a mix of anger and helplessness. Night after night, he watched as mothers and fathers, driven by desperation, subjected themselves to degradation for a morsel of additional sustenance. His eyes, haunted by the scenes unfolding before him, betrayed the turmoil within. He longed to scream in terror, to call out for his mother, but a stern warning from a father—now revealed as a man he once thought to be his father—echoed in his mind.
"Don't reveal who you are. Don't attempt to escape. You will lose more than your life. You are no son of mine."
The memories of his father's anger and rejection haunted him, and the nightmares that plagued his sleep were sometimes more terrifying than the harsh reality of the ship. All of this suffering, all because he was born without magic—an anomaly in a world where magical prowess dictated one's worth.
His cloaked figure became a silent witness to the degradation and cruelty, a reluctant participant in the twisted theatre of the ship. The nights were a battleground for survival, where the prisoners navigated the treacherous waters of captivity, their dreams of freedom obscured by the darkness that enveloped them. The young boy, with his cloak wrapped tightly around him, yearned for a dawn that promised not just physical escape but the liberation of a soul burdened by the chains of a birthright denied. As sleep claimed him, his consciousness became a prisoner to a spectral world, where the cold tendrils of memories intertwined with the grotesque whispers of a father's cruelty.
In the oppressive darkness, the nightmare began with the young boy, a version of himself stripped of innocence, standing before a man who should have been his protector. The atmosphere reeked of disdain, the air thick with a suffocating tension as the father's voice, dripping with venom, cast a cruel decree upon his flesh and blood.
The father, a figure of authority rendered monstrous in the dreamscape, raised an accusatory finger towards the young boy.
"You are stripped of your holy name," he declared with a malevolence that seemed to pierce the very fabric of reality. "From this day forth, you shall be known as Nemo, for you are No One."
The nameless void of Nemo hung over the young boy like an oppressive shroud, a symbol of a stolen identity, a birthright denied. The father's words echoed in the caverns of the boy's mind, a relentless refrain that condemned him to a life of anonymity and scorn.
"You are a bastard," the father sneered, the word a lash that cut through the air. "Your mother, a harlot of even the lowest class. The only reason she remains my wife is that she has brought forth six pure-blood children in my eyes, and I will not see them tainted by you."
The nightmare unfolded with the relentless cruelty of a twisted theater, each scene a tableau of degradation and rejection. The young boy, now Nemo, felt the weight of the father's disdain as acutely as if it were a physical burden on his shoulders.
His father's visage, once a source of comfort, contorted into a mask of disdain and contempt. His eyes, void of paternal warmth, bore into Nemo like icy shards, piercing through the vulnerable layers of the boy's spirit. The nightmare played out the father's cruelty with vivid detail, the emotional wounds inflicted in the dreamscape leaving scars on Nemo's soul.
As the King's tirade continued, Nemo's surroundings transformed into a desolate landscape, a manifestation of the emotional wilderness he now wandered. The air became heavy with the stench of rejection, and the shadows whispered tales of belonging lost.
In the nightmare, the young cloaked man relived the anguish of being declared No One, a bastard forsaken by blood ties and familial bonds. The father's cruel decree reverberated through the corridors of Nemo's consciousness, haunting his waking hours with the echoes of an identity erased. Each night, the nightmare unfolded with relentless precision, the rejection and degradation that played out in the recesses of the young child's subconscious. The nightmare, like an unyielding specter, sought to bind Nemo in chains forged from the shards of shattered familial ties, leaving him to navigate the desolate landscapes of a nameless existence.