Chapter 3 – A World Worthy of Conquest
The void shimmered like a dying star, and from its folds emerged a vision—a world unlike any John had ever known. Mytherra.
John stood suspended in nothingness, staring at a planet unraveling before his eyes. It wasn't like Earth. It was grander. Colder. Wilder.
Mytherra was a living, breathing colossus—forty times the size of Earth. Oceans the size of galaxies churned with storms so massive they swallowed islands whole. Mountains floated above the clouds, their roots wrapped in chains of lightning. Forests pulsed with luminous, alien life. Rivers glowed in silver and red, branching like veins through the land.
The planet rotated slowly, showing John the span of its continents—there were hundreds, vast and diverse, each soaked in ancient history and brimming with lifeforms both majestic and monstrous.
Azrathos said nothing now. He allowed the vision to speak for itself. And it did.
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The first lands John beheld were savage and unforgiving. A thick jungle teemed with roaring creatures—scaled beasts and horned monstrosities. There, a race known as the Lizardmen hunted in tribes, their amber eyes glowing in the twilight.
Further north, amidst obsidian cliffs, dwelled the Ogres—giant brutes whose strength alone could shatter stone. They lived in massive strongholds carved into the cliffs, their society rooted in combat, hierarchy, and raw force.
In the dark caverns below the mountains lived the Goblins, clever and cruel. They dug labyrinthine cities beneath the earth, building machines from bone and scrap, powered by stolen magic and fumes.
Beyond the high peaks, soaring through clouds, were the Dragons—beasts of myth and terror. Not all dragons were mindless; some ruled over their own territories, spoke in ancient tongues, and hoarded not gold, but souls, memories, and time itself.
In the deep waters of the sapphire oceans, Nagas ruled vast underwater cities. Their tails shimmered with bio-luminescent runes, and their magics could call upon leviathans that could devour whole fleets.
In hidden realms beneath the sea, Merfolk swam silently. Unlike the peaceful myths of Earth, these beings were hunters—deadly, beautiful, and territorial. They weaved songs of compulsion, drawing surface dwellers to watery graves.
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The vision shifted.
A golden desert rolled into view. Towering Giants strode across the dunes, dragging spiked warclubs and ancient relics from an age even Azrathos seemed to respect. They were solitary, philosophical, and bound by laws older than most civilizations.
Nearby, volcanic mountains erupted in rhythmic pulses. Within them, the Dwarves built cities of molten stone, their forges eternal. Masters of metallurgy and engineering, their weapons could kill gods—given the right chant, the right strike.
Forests blanketed in moonlight came next, where graceful, silver-eyed Elves hunted with bows that sang and blades that whispered. Their society was built on magic, bloodlines, and pride. Not all elves were benevolent—many viewed other species as vermin.
The Beastkin, part-animal, part-human, roamed the plains and forests. Lions, wolves, tigers, owls—each tribe mirrored the instincts of its kind. They thrived on honor, ritual combat, and natural harmony.
Among snowy peaks, the Orcs thrived in harshness. Tribal, war-hardened, but fiercely loyal to their kin, they were not mere savages. They sang of ancestors, told tales through scars, and respected only strength and truth.
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The scene darkened.
A realm of eternal night emerged—Vampire lands, cloaked in crimson mist. Towers scraped the sky like fangs. Within them lived the nobility of undeath—immortal, cunning, and ever-thirsty for blood and power. They held grand courts, played twisted games of politics, and ruled mortals as livestock.
Then came the Demons, born of fire and chaos, roaming scarred wastelands and scorched skies. They carved their names into the flesh of reality, ruling hellish domains with brutality and cruel delight.
High above, radiant figures descended from the clouds—Angels, beautiful and terrifying. But these were not merciful guardians. These beings were judges, executioners of cosmic law. They burned heresy with holy fire and smiled while doing it.
At the edge of perception, forests shimmered with eerie tranquility. The Dryads lived here—spirits of ancient trees. Passive, until provoked. When angered, entire forests would rise like armies.
Shadows rippled across the vision. Creatures of darkness walked—Shadeborn—faceless entities that whispered lies, manipulated dreams, and shattered wills. Even the bravest warriors feared them.
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The planet turned again. New lifeforms emerged.
Titans, colossal and nearly divine, slept beneath mountains. It was said the world quaked when one stirred in its sleep.
Insectoids, hive-minded and ever-evolving, built cities of crystal and bone, ruled by queens with psionic powers.
Slimes, once thought simple, had evolved into intelligent, adaptable beings. Some could mimic any form. Others had consumed so much magic they became walking catastrophes.
Fey, tricksters from pocket dimensions, appeared where reality thinned. They offered deals. They never told the cost.
There were more. Too many for even a god to name at once. Life in Mytherra was endless. Unforgiving. Beautiful. And cruel.
John's eyes were wide. He couldn't look away.
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Azrathos spoke, finally, his voice quiet.
"This is the world you will enter, John. It does not favor the weak. It does not offer kindness. It offers only one thing... opportunity."
John was breathless.
Azrathos didn't elaborate. He didn't need to. The message was clear: This was not a world that needed saving. This was a world to be taken. If John had the will.
And John did. More than anything, he wanted to rise. To own. To rule.
This world, this monstrous world, might finally be the place where a nobody like him could become everything.
If he could survive it.
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