Deep within the territory of Xerxecia, on the damned continent of Shardon, lay its ancient capital, Quenttrax. The city, a haunting relic of the past, bore the scars of millennia. Crumbling buildings and decaying monuments whispered tales of a once-great civilization, now reduced to ruins. The air was thick with the scent of dust and decay, a constant reminder of the glory that had long since faded.
Amid the ruins, the remnants of the Xerxecians and the race of Men toiled side by side. Their faces, etched with the lines of hardship and hope, told a story of survival against all odds. The Xerxecians, with their rugged features and fierce eyes, moved with a determination born of a promise made by their ancient king: one day, they would storm the bountiful west. Beside them, the Men, their skin weathered by years of toil, shared the burden of their broken city. Together, they kept the fires of Quenttrax burning, their combined efforts a testament to their unyielding spirit.
In the heart of this forsaken city stood the Ancient Palace, its once-grand structure now a skeletal shadow against the twilight sky. Vines crept along its cracked walls, and shattered windows stared like hollow eyes into the darkness. Yet, despite the decay, a persistent light burned within, casting a warm glow that defied the surrounding gloom. The palace's light was a beacon of lingering power and lost glory, drawing both the hopeful and the desperate to its doors.
Inside the palace, the throne room lay in ruins, its grandeur faded but not forgotten. The stone floor was a tapestry of indecipherable writings and symbols, each stroke a mystery from a bygone era. At the center, a large circle glowed with a mysterious light, enclosing seven smaller circles connected by intricate lines of arcane symbols. This design formed a massive heptagon, a puzzle written in a language unknown to the world.
The heavy doors creaked open, breaking the silence. Shadows danced across the walls as snickering Xerxecians led a cloaked figure into the room. Their laughter echoed off the stone, a jarring contrast to the room's solemn atmosphere. The cloaked figure raised a hand, and the laughter ceased. "Leave," he commanded, his voice low and authoritative. The Xerxecians obeyed without question, their footsteps fading as the doors closed behind them.
The cloaked figure stepped forward, the torches lining the room igniting in pairs with each step. The flickering light revealed the cryptic symbols etched into the stone, casting eerie shadows that seemed to writhe and twist. The figure paused inches from the glowing heptagon, the purple light intensifying as if recognizing his presence.
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He moved to the center of the heptagon, his steps measured and deliberate. Surveying the room, he raised his hands in a sweeping motion. Seven massive teleport orbs materialized above the smaller circles, each pulsating with an eerie light before vanishing, leaving behind caskets from his raids in Arumar. The caskets hovered in the air, aligning themselves before him with another wave of his hand.
As he stood amidst the floating caskets, his eyes glowed with a dark intensity. The room, filled with the hum of ancient magic, seemed to hold its breath. The caskets, symbols of his conquests and relentless pursuit of power, faced him like silent sentinels, ready to unleash their secrets.
He gave the caskets one last look, then slapped the floor with his palm. The violet light surged towards the caskets. As if struck by lightning, they shook violently, resonating with the power of the circles beneath them. The purple light shifted to a menacing red, wrapping the caskets in an arcane shroud.
The heptagon began to pulsate, waves of energy radiating from its center to the seven circles. The figure stood at the epicenter, encased in a transparent pillar of violet and red light. Slowly, he removed his cloak, revealing the man behind the shroud. His body was covered in intricate tattoos, marked with symbols of Orderian origin. Stretching his hands upward, he hovered in mid-air, legs crossed, chanting words in a forgotten language. His eyes snapped open, glowing a fierce red, as though the light emanated from within him.
“At last,” he murmured, raising his arms as purple light coursed through his veins, power radiating from his body. His breaths deepened, a grin of malice spreading across his face.
“At long last, my mission is almost complete.” His eyes, glowing red, slowly shrank within their lids, the blood-red pupils turning violet. Opening his mouth, he exhaled a plume of purple smoke.
“I will be the one to end these thousand years of mistakes. I, Marius, will end it all.”
The room pulsed with his declaration, the walls reverberating with the power he unleashed. The caskets, wrapped in their mystical bindings, floated ominously, as if waiting for his next command. The symbols on the floor glowed brighter, the entire chamber thrumming with ancient, potent energy.
Marius stepped into the dark corridors of the palace, his heart filled with fierce determination. The time for waiting was over. The time for action had begun.
End of Book II