The two hunched men shuffled through the creaking door of their crooked cottage in the village, the evening sky bruised with purple and grey.
"Shut it tight," rasped one, wheezing as he secured the locks. "Don't want the neighbors hearin' our luck."
The other clutched the brittle scroll like a child gripping a treasure.
"This thing… It's the key," he whispered. "We pay off our taxes, maybe even leave this cursed hole."
"Better it works. Or we're dead anyway."
They unrolled the parchment. Glyphs older than the village itself shimmered in a sickly crimson. As they read aloud, syllables churned like sludge in their mouths. The words burned in the air, black smoke rising.
A hum began in the floorboards.
"You feel that?"
CRACK.
The wood split. A jagged rupture formed in the stone floor beneath them. A claw surfaced—black, jagged, and dripping with molten fire.
"No, NO—"
From the crack, a demon burst forth—towering, monstrous. Horns curled like roots of a dying tree, and its eyes blazed infernal red.
The men didn't scream for long. One swipe of its blazing hand and their bodies became ash.
The house exploded. Wood, stone, and flame erupted into the air.
From miles around, villagers looked toward the sky as it turned red.
Farther down the slope, in a small hut near the tree line, Lyra stirred the pot of soup in silence. Miya sat at the table, knees hugged to her chest.
"Will it be okay, Lyra?" Miya whispered.
"It always is. We're just... having one of those nights."
BOOM.
The ground shook.
Lyra grabbed Miya. The kitchen window shattered. A heat wave surged through the air.
They looked outside.
The sky. It bled red.
Velharest's crystal chamber shimmered with blue firelight, but the mood was anything but calm.
Laughter rippled through the long obsidian table.
"They sold their goat for a tin spoon," snorted Councillor Harek, slamming his goblet down. "Then spent the rest of their days hunched over dirt and air."
"Did you hear they tried to pawn a rusted spoon as a relic?" added another, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. "Said it would summon gold!"
More chuckles followed. The village mayor, bald, sweating, and clearly out of his depth, attempted to defend them.
"They were… harmless. Just two fools, not criminals."
"Fools attract curses," spat Councillor Fenna. "Let them rot in their crater."
Arkan, the High Speaker, raised a hand, his silver hair glowing faintly beneath the chamber's enchanted dome.
"Enough. This isn't what we're here for. Let's address the more urgent matter—the Red Ivy River."
He slid a worn parchment across the table. The image was crude but clear—a grotesque beast with gnarled limbs, jagged scales, and human-like eyes.
"The Kin Alligator," Arkan announced. "We found what's left of a boat crew. Torn apart. Blood-soaked reeds. Scales the size of shields."
"That's an A-Rank beast," muttered one councillor. "We'll need royal knights."
"And what do we pay them with? Fairy dust?" grumbled Harek. "Mobilizing S-Ranks costs more than fixing a village."
"I propose a bounty," Arkan continued. "Forty million Solin for its head."
A beat passed.
Then—
BOOM.
The chamber shook.
A shockwave rippled through the walls, as if reality had hiccupped. Crystal chandeliers swayed. One cracked and fell.
The sky outside dimmed unnaturally.
A deadly aura crawled down every spine in the room.
"What was that?" breathed Fenna, voice trembling.
Another explosion—distant, but monstrous.
The bald mayor collapsed to his knees. "The old men," he whispered. "They did summon something…"
Outside, a plume of black smoke curled into the sky. Red lightning cracked within it.
Silence fell over the council.
Then, Arkan moved. With a swift motion, he drew a brass and crystal device from his robe—a magical telephone, humming with runes.
He pressed his palm to it. "Call him. Now."
On the golden shores of West Zarion, paradise bloomed.
Sunlight kissed the waves. Gulls circled lazily overhead. Beneath a golden parasol, a man lay reclined in a hammock tied between two moon-palm trees. His chest glistened with sweat and sea-salt. His body—honed like a blade—rested lazily as if sculpted for war but now only entertained peace.
Several women lounged around him, laughing and feeding him grapes and skewers of grilled phoenix meat. He wore loose silks and no shirt, a glass of fruit-laced alcohol resting in one hand.
"Sir Rion, try this one," a woman said, offering him a curved bottle shaped like a mermaid.
"Mm… smooth," he murmured after a sip, eyes closed beneath silver shades. "Ten out of ten."
A crab clicked by. He kicked it lazily into the sea.
Then the phone buzzed.
The orb beside him flickered red with urgent light. He sighed.
"High Speaker?" he muttered, brushing off a bit of sand. "Tch. I told them—no calls during beach hour."
He picked it up, slouching.
"What's the crisis this time? Did someone's cat awaken lightning magic?"
Then he felt it.
The air turned wrong.
Heat vanished.
Clouds above twisted unnaturally.
Even the waves stopped for half a second.
Rion's eyes sharpened.
"...Demon?"
The girls around him shrieked as the skies above flashed crimson. He stood up slowly, set the drink down, and flexed his shoulders.
The hammock ripped. Sand beneath him cratered.
And then—he vanished.
No spell words. No glowing circles.
Just a shriek of compressed air and shattered sound as he blasted into the sky like a divine spear.
The women gasped.
Far away in the sky, a blur of gold trailed east.
The sky bled red over the ruined village.
The sun was gone, swallowed by the malevolent aura twisting the clouds into a vortex of smoke and hate. Screams echoed from alleys and shattered homes. Children wailed. Men ran. Women cried for gods that had long stopped listening.
In the heart of the chaos stood the demon—a twisted beast of blackened bone and molten flesh. His jaw unhinged unnaturally, vomiting fire in pulses that scorched everything in his path.
Ash rained down like snow.
Houses collapsed in waves.
People ran and died in the same breath.
Spikes jutted from his back, bloodied with torn limbs and charred pieces of flesh. Some still twitched—human remains snagged like trophies. They flopped and burned with each movement of the beast.
With every step, the demon left a crater. His mouth ignited again, a river of flame pouring across the main road, incinerating a fleeing merchant and the crying boy behind him.
Then he turned.
A small home.
Lyra's home.
He raised his hand.
FWOOM.
A torrent of fire erupted, smashing through the front of the house. The kitchen exploded in debris. Glass, wood, and fire cascaded inward.
Inside, Lyra and her little sister Miya were curled in the corner—holding each other, sobbing.
The door burst open.
Three officers rushed in—the same ones who came for the taxes.
"Go, go—take cover!" shouted the senior officer, but it was too late.
The demon slammed a spike through the house wall.
SHUNK.
Blood sprayed like paint. One officer was sliced in half, his top half skidding across the floor, eyes still wide.
The young officer—Derek, the one who once brought Lyra flowers when no one else cared—grabbed both girls, lifting them onto his shoulders with trembling strength.
"Hold on—I got you! I got—"
The demon lunged.
SNAP.
A clawed hand crushed Derek's leg in its grip. The bone popped. Derek screamed—high, loud, raw.
He dropped to his knees as Lyra slid off him, scrambling to grab Miya.
"No—Derek!"
The demon dragged him back.
Derek kicked and screamed.
Then the demon bit down—his teeth crunching into Derek's shin, chewing. Derek's howls shattered the air.
"LYRA! RUN!"
Blood poured like soup down the demon's jaw.
He kept chewing—the thigh, the hips, then tore Derek in half.
Then came the chest.
Then the head.
Lyra stared.
Her breath broke.
Her voice was gone.
The boy who smiled at her every morning now slurped down like soup.
She turned.
Clutched Miya's hand.
They ran.
Behind them, the demon unleashed a fireball that slammed into the street. The shockwave sent the sisters flying like ragdolls.
They hit the ground.
Hard.
Miya's body bounced once—then stopped.
"MIYA!" Lyra screamed, crawling to her.
Miya's arm was burned raw, skin peeled and bubbling. Blood poured from her forehead where she'd struck the cobbled street. Her breath was shallow.
"Miya, wake up, please…"
Nothing.
Then—
Another roar.
The demon loomed again, fire swirling around his arms.
He opened his jaw.
A sphere of flame pulsed at the back of his throat.
He fired.
Straight at Lyra.
Time slowed.
Lyra felt every moment stretch.
The burning light.
The pain in her chest.
The blood soaking her hands.
Then—a vision.
Her eyes went wide.
The world turned white.
The fireball was inches away—
—but everything stopped.
The world was white.
Soundless. Endless. Still.
Lyra stood barefoot on nothing—no ground, no air. Just light. Her breath didn't fog. Her skin didn't sweat. Time itself had stopped.
Then a wind stirred. Not air, but presence.
She turned.
Before her stood a man—not old, not young. His robes shimmered like woven starlight, flowing with their own gravity. Behind him hovered seven rings of magic, each etched with runes older than speech. His eyes glowed gold, yet held the sorrow of a hundred dead kingdoms.
A crown of energy floated above his head, pulsing softly.
"You have endured fire," he said. His voice was soft. But when it spoke, everything listened.
Lyra trembled, instinctively falling to her knees.
"…W-who are you?"
"I am called many names across the continents. The Starbound King. The Flame Between Worlds. But in this land…"
"…I am the Mage King. One of the Celestials."
The light around him pulsed. Something ancient stirred.
"I have watched your world through the eyes of time. And I have seen you, Lyra."
She looked up, barely able to meet his gaze, her voice cracking.
"…I'm just a nobody. I couldn't even save one person. Why would you see me?"
"Not for bloodline. Not for fate. Not for revenge," he said, walking toward her slowly. "You were not born special, Lyra. But you chose compassion when the world offered you nothing. In a country that ignored your pain, you held on to kindness."
He stopped in front of her.
"Power does not change people. It reveals them. And when your village burned—when death came to your door—you chose to shield your sister, not yourself. Even knowing you would die."
A soft glow gathered in his hands. He opened them.
In one palm: a core of radiant mana, swirling like a newborn star.
In the other: a long staff, carved from a silver branch that shimmered with gold veins. At the top: a crystal orb, glowing like the moon behind stormclouds.
"This is my gift. My mage soul—a flame only those I choose may carry. And this," he said, offering the staff, "is the Staff of Celestia. Wield it, and you shall channel what few can comprehend."
The staff floated toward her.
As Lyra touched it—her body convulsed.
Light poured into her chest.
Magic like she'd never felt—searing, endless, living.
She gasped—tears falling. Her skin cracked with energy. Her old self peeled away.
"You are not alone, Lyra," he said, stepping back, his voice now in her head.
"I will remain with you. Not in form—but in thought. You will hear me in the quiet. In the heat of battle. In the silence of doubt."
She stood, the staff now humming in her grip. Her burned rags were gone—replaced by soft robes of white and gold. Her scars remained—but no longer hurt.
"Protect those who cannot fight," he said, fading.
"Defy the weight of fate. Prove to this world that light still answers."
The vision crumbled.
The demon's fire surged toward Lyra—blazing, death-born, inches from her face.
And then—
she moved.
With the back of her hand, she slapped the inferno aside.
The flames didn't vanish—they burst outward, flaring into harmless golden sparks that vanished in the wind.
From her palm, a shockwave of blue mana erupted like a star being born.
The sky gasped. The earth shuddered.
Above her, the clouds pulled back as if commanded.
A radiant sun-wheel ignited behind her, casting a golden halo across the smoking ruins.
Light bled from her skin.
Her staff formed in the air—spiraling silver, ribbons of light curling around it like celestial silk.
At the top, sapphire flame danced inside the crystal orb—holy, defiant, alive.
Lyra rose to her feet.
Divine. Untouchable. Chosen.
Her once-burned clothes were gone—now replaced by robes of black, white, and deep forest green, embroidered with glowing veins of gold.
They shifted and flowed like liquid armor.
Her silver-blonde hair lifted, floating as if underwater, dancing in the magic like threads of sunlight.
Her eyes—no longer scared—now glowed silver-blue, unblinking and infinite.
And she stood—not like a girl who had once begged to survive,
but like an ancient memory returned to flesh.
The demon paused.
A sound filled the air—not a voice, but something older.
The earth stilled. Magic obeyed.
She raised her staff.
Her pose—simple, still—carried the weight of myth.
Like a story kingdoms forget until it walks again.
She did not scream. She did not cry.
She only said,
" This is where your fire dies."