The light of Eternal's celestial world had always been bright, illuminating its vast golden fields and white mountains. The three great pillars of the celestial races—the Angels, Seraphim, and Cherubim—coexisted in delicate harmony, maintaining balance as the dark miasma of invading necromantic forces threatened their existence for nearly a millennium.

The air in Eternal carried a sweet fragrance, as if it were always spring, and the light bathing the fields seemed to breathe life into everything it touched. Yet, far off in the distance, the horizon was tinged with a somber twilight, a warning that the dark forces were creeping ever deeper into the celestial lands. The skies seemed to crack under their presence, hinting at a shadow no one dared to speak of.

Zakarius, a high-ranking angel, marched at the head of his troops. His armor gleamed with the glory of countless battles, and his sword echoed with the victories of the past. For over a century, he had fought against the forces that sought to corrupt his world. To his people, he was a symbol of courage, discipline, and sacrifice. Yet, deep in his heart, a seed of envy began to take root, a feeling that slowly gnawed at him.

Every time he returned to the Sacred Church, he saw the Cherubim. Small, eternally youthful, carefree, playing in the gardens under the watchful gaze of the Seraphim. These beings, despite their childlike and capricious nature, were essential in the war against the malevolent miasma. With their purity, they could dissolve the darkness that threatened to destroy everything. And yet, they lived without worry, protected, while Angels like Zakarius shed blood and tears on the battlefield.

Zakarius felt a rift growing within him, as if each battle eroded not only his body but his soul. Every time he crossed the gardens where the Cherubim laughed without care, he felt the gap between his sacrifice and his desire for peace grow, piercing him like a thorn. Although he admired those he protected, his longing for eternal life and tranquility transformed into a need that threatened to suffocate him.

Zakarius never spoke of it, but his heart was filled with resentment. Each victory brought him less satisfaction, each scar left a deeper ache. Why could he, who had given everything for Eternal, not enjoy the same life as those little beings? Why was his fate to fight and die young while they lived carefree for centuries?

As the years passed, Zakarius’s resentment grew. He began seeking answers in places he should not. Under the shadows of the forbidden vaults of the Academy, he discovered decrepit scrolls that whispered ancient secrets. The necromantic texts seemed alive, their words slithering across the pages like veins of liquid darkness, wrapping him in an energy both addictive and repulsive. Though he felt he was betraying all he had defended, his hands continued to turn each page, captivated by a promise of longevity and omnipotent power known as a lord of death, a lich.

In those solitary moments, he began studying the dark arts, hiding his growing knowledge from his companions. He did so in secret, deep within the Sacred Military Academy, where new angels were trained for war. Zakarius used his rank to avoid suspicion, but his obsession slowly consumed him.

One night, under the light of a red moon, Zakarius made a final decision. On a starless night, while the wind whispered secrets only he could hear, Zakarius took an ancient stone inscribed with inverted celestial symbols. Under the dim glow of the red moon, he muttered the forbidden words, feeling a part of his essence torn away, like a piece of his soul screaming as it was imprisoned. It was a sacrifice, and though his hands trembled, his resolve was unbreakable. Thus, he managed to transfer a part of his consciousness into a phylactery, a forbidden object that contained his essence, his soul. He hid this relic deep within the academy, sealing it with magical barriers to prevent it from being discovered.

He knew what he had done was a betrayal of everything he stood for. But for Zakarius, this was an opportunity. If he ever fell in battle, his phylactery would bring him back to life.

The skies of Eternal darkened with the advance of a new wave of necromancers. The celestial armies prepared for a decisive battle, and Zakarius, as always, was at the forefront. Despite his studies in the dark arts, he had maintained his role as one of the army’s leaders, and his combat skills were legendary.

The battle was fierce, and the miasma seemed to consume everything. The Cherubim, purifying the air, stayed safe, while the Seraphim fired arrows of light from above. But the Angels were on the front line, directly facing the dark hordes.

In the midst of the chaos, Zakarius was gravely injured. As he fell to the ground, his life began to fade. But in his mind, a single hope shone: his phylactery. He knew that even if he died on that battlefield, his consciousness would live on, waiting for the right moment to return.

However, before he could be rescued, something unexpected happened. The Seraphim, tasked with guarding the realm, had discovered his dark studies. When Zakarius fell, instead of being honored as a hero, he was judged as a traitor. The high-ranking angels who respected him were unable to defend him. The truth of his betrayal had come to light. Zakarius was executed by his own celestial brethren, and his name was erased from the Angels' history, condemned to oblivion.

But what they did not know was that the phylactery remained hidden, slowly feeding on the residual energy of the realm, until, hundreds of years later, Zakarius's consciousness would begin to awaken once more…

Darkness was the only thing Zakarius could perceive. He floated in the void, without form, without time, without a sense of self. His mind was fragmented, trapped in an endless cycle of forgetting. But something was beginning to change. A spark of consciousness broke through that darkness, bringing with it indescribable pain.

He awoke, though the word "awoke" didn’t quite fit. There was no body to cling to, nothing tangible. He was simply... there. A being of pure energy, trapped in a confined space, bound by invisible limits.

"Who am I...?" The question echoed in his mind, but there was no answer. It was as if something important was buried deep within his being, unreachable.

As time passed —if time existed in that place— fragments of memory began to return, though they were broken, incomplete. He remembered battles, a war... had he been a warrior? Had he fallen in battle? He didn’t know. His identity, his purpose, everything was covered by a thick fog.

But amidst that confusion, a truth filtered through: he was trapped. Confined within something. And, somehow, he himself had caused this.

Time passed, and Zakarius began to notice something else. Despite the prison in which he was confined, his consciousness could extend beyond those limits, though weakly and hesitantly. At first, it was only a glimpse: a dark room, the distant echo of voices he couldn’t quite understand.

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With each attempt, his projections became clearer.

Gradually, he managed to see the academy, the place where his phylactery had been hidden. The central military academy looked almost the same as in his hazy memories, though everything seemed more modern, more structured. New angels and seraphim trained there, but now, there was something else that caught his attention. An uncomfortable feeling of unfamiliarity surrounded him, as if something important was slipping away from him.

Through the halls and chambers, Zakarius realized that he couldn’t project his physical image, only his perception. Like a specter, he could observe without being seen, filling him with both relief and fear. He needed to stay hidden, even without fully understanding why. Instinctively, he knew he couldn’t let anyone sense his presence.

"Why am I here...?" he wondered again and again. The academy was so close, yet at the same time, the feeling of alienation grew. The voices of the new recruits echoed in his ears. He overheard fragments of conversations: the necromantic forces were still a threat, but something in the trainers' tone made him think that the war wasn’t as intense as before.

Then, a detail slipped out from his vague memories: the phylactery. Something about that term made him shudder. He remembered having done something... something dangerous. But what and why were still beyond his reach.

With each projection of his consciousness, Zakarius gained control over his surroundings. He realized that, although he couldn’t interact physically, he was able to trace the energies flowing within the academy. The magic of Eternal, once so familiar, now felt strange to him, but he could perceive its presence, helping him stay hidden.

However, each time he tried to explore beyond the academy, a force pulled him back. The phylactery anchored him, like an anchor, and although he didn’t fully remember why he was there, he was beginning to realize that it was not something natural. He had done something that went against celestial laws. That filled him with deep unease.

In one of his projections, he ventured into the ancient archives room. There, among texts and scrolls, he found something vaguely familiar. A tale about a traitor angel who had used forbidden arts to defy the natural cycle of life and death. Although no names were mentioned, the words echoed in his mind like a distant echo.

"Traitor angel..." The words haunted him. Could he be that angel? Something within him told him yes, but there were still pieces missing in the puzzle of his memory.

He decided that he needed answers. The central military academy was full of guards, both living and spiritual, and although they were unaware of his presence, the risk of being discovered loomed. Each projection weakened him, and each attempt to explore left him more vulnerable. But if he was going to understand his situation, if he was going to remember who he truly was, he needed to take the risk.

Days, or what Zakarius perceived as days, passed slowly in his prison within the phylactery. With each projection of his consciousness, his control over the surroundings grew more precise. Though he didn’t fully remember his purpose, he was beginning to understand that the outside world feared him and that he needed to keep his existence hidden.

Each attempt to push beyond the academy’s boundaries weakened him, as though something warned him he wasn’t ready. But during one of his nighttime explorations, something unexpected happened. While his perception wandered through the dormitories of young recruits, his essence was involuntarily drawn toward one of them. He felt a pull, as if the mind of one of the angels in training had opened a door he could cross. Before he could resist, Zakarius found himself immersed in a torrent of chaotic images.

He was inside a dream.

The recruit, a young angel in his first phase of training, was dreaming of heroic battles. The images were vague, blurry, but what Zakarius sensed was unmistakable: fear, insecurity, and a desperate desire for approval. As he watched, something within him clicked. He could interact in this space.

Zakarius extended his consciousness and, with just a thought, the dream images began to change. The battlefield dissolved, and in its place, a majestic figure emerged from the shadows: himself, though he had not yet fully remembered his identity. His projected form was powerful, imposing—an idealized version of what he once was. The young recruit gazed at the figure in awe, while Zakarius remained silent, observing the power he now held.

Upon waking, the young angel wouldn’t remember the figure clearly, but the impact on his subconscious was already made. Zakarius had planted a seed.

Zakarius soon realized that his ability to invade dreams was no accident. It was an extension of his necromantic power, an ability he had forgotten but was beginning to rediscover. Though he still couldn’t physically interact with the world, the realm of dreams was his to shape.

He decided to test his discovery. Night after night, he projected his essence into the dorms of the youngest recruits—the most inexperienced, those with minds more malleable. With each invasion, Zakarius not only observed but began to intervene in their dreams, leaving subtle marks: a figure in the distance, a whispering voice that promised power, safety, recognition.

The recruits didn’t realize the intruder’s presence in their minds, but upon waking, their thoughts were slightly altered. Some began to feel an inexplicable attraction to the darkness, others a growing loyalty to a figure they couldn’t fully identify. Unknowingly, they were becoming followers of Zakarius, driven by their own ambitions and desires, which he manipulated in their dreams.

"I am more powerful than I remembered…" Zakarius thought as he watched the first fruits of his manipulation. These young angels would be his first pawns, and although he couldn’t fully recall his original plan, he knew he needed to build a base of power if he wanted to achieve what he once sought.

As he mastered this new ability, Zakarius began to work with more precision. He ensured he wasn’t too obvious; the interventions had to be subtle. A slight hint here, a push toward doubt there. His victims began questioning the academy’s teachings, distrusting the seraphim and other superiors.

One recruit in particular, a young angel named Elian, caught Zakarius’s attention. Elian was especially talented but also insecure, constantly seeking his superiors’ approval. He was the perfect candidate. In his dreams, Zakarius showed him visions of greatness, of how he could surpass his peers if he only took the right steps, if he embraced a source of power he didn’t yet understand.

"They are lying to you," Zakarius whispered in Elian's dreams. "True power doesn’t lie in the light, but in what they deny you."

Elian woke more and more convinced that he was destined for something greater, and over time, his actions in the academy began to reflect his growing loyalty to the dark figure that visited his dreams. Though he couldn’t name it, Zakarius was already creating a network of future followers—servants willing to give their lives for his resurgence.

But Zakarius knew he couldn’t rush. He needed to be patient. If any of his young recruits started acting too suspiciously, the academy might notice something. He had to keep his interventions in the shadows, ensuring that each step was imperceptible until he was ready to strike.

The central military academy was accustomed to receiving notable visitors, but the arrival of a high-ranking Cherub from the Celestial Oligarchic Republics was an unusual event. This small neutral country, which had achieved independence centuries ago, had managed to survive and thrive despite its scarcity of resources. They hadn’t directly participated in the wars against the necromancers, which allowed them to focus on scientific advancement and the development of a renowned mercantile economy.

Their currency, the Solaris, was widely accepted in nearly every region, a symbol of their growing influence in the celestial plane. The oligarchs who ruled the republics were powerful figures, and their children, though young and seemingly harmless, were seen as heirs to that influence and wealth.

The Cherub visiting the academy was the son of one of the three most powerful oligarchs of the republics. Despite his youthful appearance, his presence had generated great anticipation. Elior, as he was called, was known not only for his lineage but also for his intelligence. Although barely a child by cherubic standards, he was treated with respect by the academy’s high command due to his position and his family’s power.