Night draped the ancient castle in silence.
Beyond its towering blackstone walls, the world slept beneath a sky strewn with cold stars, their distant light filtered through slow-moving clouds. The moon hung low and pale, casting long silver shadows across cracked battlements and ivy-choked towers. Time had gnawed at the fortress for centuries, yet it still stood—weathered, scarred, and stubborn, like a relic that refused to fade into myth.
Within one of its many chambers, a fire crackled softly.
The room was modest compared to the rest of the castle, its stone walls lined with old tapestries whose colors had long since dulled. A single arched window stood open, letting in the chill night air along with the distant howl of wind passing through the ruins beyond.
Near the hearth sat a man in his mid-thirties.
His features were sharp but worn, as though carved by both hardship and responsibility. Dark hair streaked faintly with silver framed a face marked by restraint rather than weakness. His eyes—deep and steady—reflected the firelight as he spoke in a low, measured tone.
Across from him, curled beneath a thick woolen blanket, sat a young boy no older than eight.
The child's hair was a lighter shade, unruly and soft, his youthful face illuminated by flickering flames. His eyes were wide, bright with wonder, fixed entirely on his father as if the world beyond the story no longer existed.
"And so," the man continued, voice calm and deliberate, "when the earth was drowned in blood, he alone stood unbroken."
The boy leaned forward unconsciously.
"He walked through slaughter as though it were mist," the father said, fingers tightening slightly around the cup in his hand. "Stars shattered before him. Spells unraveled at his gaze. Even the Gods learned fear."
The fire popped.
The boy swallowed, heart pounding—not in terror, but in admiration.
"Father…" he hesitated, then asked in a hushed voice,
"Was he… a god?"
The room fell silent.
The father did not answer immediately.
For a brief moment, the crackling fire was the only sound. Shadows danced across the stone walls, stretching and warping like memories that refused to stay buried. The man's gaze drifted away from his son, toward the open window and the moonlit ruins beyond.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter.
"The churches called him the Incarnation of a Demon," he said slowly.
"Certain races named him Blood-Born, whispering his title as a curse."
The boy's eyes widened.
"But others…" the father continued, "…knelt before him. They worshipped him as a Supreme Deity."
He exhaled softly.
"For us," he said, turning back to his son, "he was a god."
The boy's breath caught.
"Because," the man said, his voice tinged with something reverent, "he created our entire kind. Gave us form. Gave us will. Gave us purpose when the world offered us none."
The boy's eyes shone.
Stars could not have rivaled the admiration burning within them.
"Then where is he now?" the child asked eagerly. "Is he still watching us?"
The fire flickered.
The father's expression changed—only slightly, but enough.
A heaviness settled into his gaze, something unspoken pressing behind his eyes. He looked older in that moment, burdened by knowledge no child should yet bear.
"A thousand years have passed," he said quietly.
"Since our lord left us."
The boy blinked.
"Left…?" he repeated.
"Most believe he never existed," the father continued. "That he is nothing more than a myth… a legend told to frighten children or inspire fools."
The boy frowned, confusion knitting his brows.
"Why?" he asked.
The question hung between them.
The father looked at his son for a long moment—long enough that the boy began to feel uneasy. Then the man stood, setting his cup aside.
"It's late," he said gently. "We'll speak of this another time."
The boy pouted immediately.
"That's not fair," he muttered, clutching the blanket tighter. "You always stop when it gets good."
A faint smile tugged at the man's lips.
"Sleep," he said, reaching out to ruffle the boy's hair. "Tomorrow, perhaps."
The boy hesitated, then nodded reluctantly.
"…Okay," he said, then paused. "One last question."
The father stopped.
"What was his name?"
The fire crackled louder.
For a heartbeat, the man said nothing.
Then, as though speaking the name itself carried weight, he answered softly:
"Lord Aelric Noctarian."
The boy whispered the name under his breath.
And somewhere far beyond the reach of memory—
Blood fell upon stone.
⸻
The coffin lay shattered.
Fragments of blackened wood and shattered sigils littered the ground, their once-glowing runes now dim and cracked like dying embers. The stench of blood saturated the air, thick enough to choke. Bodies lay strewn across the chamber—some whole, some broken beyond recognition.
In the center of it all stood a man.
His white hair was soaked crimson, strands clinging to his face and shoulders. His pale skin was smeared with blood—most of it not his own. Deep gashes marked his body, bones visible beneath torn flesh.
Yet he stood straight.
Calm.
Composed.
Like a king surveying a battlefield long after victory had already been decided.
His crimson eyes scanned the carnage with cold detachment.
They kept coming, he thought.
Fanatics.
Creatures he had not seen in his thousand years of life.
Beasts wearing human flesh.
They had charged without hesitation, without fear, without regard for their own lives. Even as he slaughtered them, tore through them, crushed their souls—
More had followed.
No retreat.
No surrender.
Only obsession.
Aelric exhaled slowly.
His right arm hung loosely at his side, bone exposed and shattered. Blood dripped steadily from his fingers to the floor.
Then—
Crack.
The bone shifted.
Flesh writhed.
Muscle reknit itself with sickening precision, veins knitting together as if guided by an unseen hand. Within seconds, the arm restored itself, pale and unmarred.
He flexed his fingers once.
Functional.
But the cost lingered, coiled deep within his core like a tightening noose.
"This world…" he murmured, voice low, emotionless.
"…is relentless."
A tremor rippled through the chamber.
Aelric turned sharply.
From the far end of the ruined land, he could feel it—approaching presences, numerous and unwavering.
He clicked his tongue softly.
So be it.
Without another glance at the ruined coffin—he moved.
Stone shattered beneath his feet as he burst through the outer wall, emerging into the open night.
Beyond the ruined structure stretched a vast forest, ancient and wild, its canopy swallowing moonlight whole.
Aelric narrowed his eyes.
Then he ran.
⸻
Under the pale glow of the moon, a lone figure raced through the forest—
long white hair trailing behind like strands of silver silk.
Branches tore at him as he moved, blood dripping from a torn sleeve as his body pushed beyond mortal limits. His footsteps barely touched the ground, yet the forest trembled in his wake.
"Huff… huff…"
"…Are they still following me?"
His voice was sharp yet calm—
a predator forced into retreat, not desperation.
The forest stretched endlessly, silent except for the rhythmic rustle of leaves underfoot. The scent of blood lingered in the air, mingling with damp earth and ancient decay.
When he finally slowed, his gaze caught something unnatural.
An old hut.
Half-collapsed. Forgotten.
Hidden beneath roots and shadows as though the forest itself wished to bury it.
Aelric stopped.
Though his body was battered, his expression remained composed—cold, detached, almost regal.
He extended his hand.
Crimson mist spiraled from his fingertips, spreading outward like a living tide. It sank into the soil, crawled across bark and stone, and flowed through the forest in all directions.
Within moments—
Life.
Thousands of heartbeats.
Animals. Insects. Roots drinking deep from the earth.
And then—
Nothing.
For a fleeting instant, the world shattered.
His body seized as invisible chains wrapped around his veins. His vision blurred. The forest fell deathly silent.
An oppressive stillness descended.
What… is that?
The air felt heavier. Denser.
As if space itself had folded inward.
A bead of sweat rolled down his temple.
Slowly, cautiously, Aelric stepped toward the hut.
Inside, dust floated in pale moonlight.
And in the center of the room—
A black cube hovered above the ground.
It pulsed faintly.
Dark.
Metallic.
Alive.
White light leaked through its seams like the heartbeat of a dying star.
Each pulse sent agony through his body.
Still, he reached out.
The air warped violently as his fingers brushed the artifact.
A whisper echoed—not in sound, but in thought.
"Found you."
His crimson eyes widened.
And the world went dark.