In a distant — almost forgotten — time, there was a world that believed in order. Men raised cities, wrote books, created laws, and challenged the heavens with their arrogance. They believed they had dominion over nature, over the gods, over the monsters born of their own minds.
But it didn't last.
One by one, the pillars of that civilization crumbled. Wars came, then flames, then screams. The beasts arrived — and with them, eternal night.
By the time the survivors learned to hide, it was already too late.
Dawn now carried a metallic taste. The wind brought not only dust and dry leaves, but the bitter scent of rust, blood, and loneliness. The land, dry and scarred with deep cracks, held in silence the horrors of forgotten battles.
At the top of a hill, a lone figure stood against the faded sky. Beneath a worn red hood, stained with mud and dried blood, pale eyes stared at the horizon without emotion. Strands of blonde hair slipped through the fabric, tangled and fluttering in the wind. Her body, wrapped in a torn cloak and a dark uniform stained with dirt, trembled slightly — not from cold, but from exhaustion.
She no longer remembered the last time she had slept.
The road behind her was made of corpses, memories, and choices that could not be undone. There was no longer room for regret, nor time for tears. All that remained was the need to keep moving — to walk through the ruins of the world and find something still worth protecting. Or destroying.
There was something in her posture that didn't match her age. A weight on her small shoulders, a hardness in her gaze, as if she had been born on a battlefield and never known any other life.
But it hadn't always been that way.
There was a time when she had been just a child.
And it was in that time, as distant as the clear skies that no longer existed, that her name was spoken with tenderness for the last time:
— Emília, come here! You'll get hurt if you stay out there alone!
The sky, once clouded, slowly dissolved into a distant memory — like smoke slipping through her fingers. And there, at the heart of that memory, there was light.
A field of flowers stretched out before a simple house, built from repurposed metal and aged wood. Sunflowers stood tall, defying the wind, while butterflies with almost transparent wings danced among the leaves.
— Emília, come here! — the woman's voice called again, closer now, full of affection and worry. — I told you not to wander so far!
The blonde girl ran through the flowers, smiling with arms wide open as if she wanted to embrace the whole world. Her blue eyes sparkled as if made of the sky itself. She wore a worn jumpsuit and boots far too big for her small feet — likely inherited from someone else.
— I just wanted to see the little critters again, Mommy! They were near the fence, but they didn't run away this time!
The woman knelt with a tired sigh, pulling her into a tight hug.
— One day, you're going to give me a heart attack, you know that?
The girl just laughed and buried her face in her mother's neck, as if it were the safest place in the world. And for a brief moment, it was.
Inside the house, the clatter of pans, boiling water, and the static of a radio blended into a domestic symphony. Life there was simple, but full of little rituals: breakfast always at seven, silent prayer before meals, storytime with Dad at night — even if the power went out and they had to continue by candlelight.
The world beyond the fence was unknown, dangerous — a land of shadows growing with each passing season. But within those limits, there were laughs, stories, and the illusion that time could stand still.
Once, the girl's father pointed to the night sky and said:
— Back then, the stars shone much brighter. You could see them even in the cities. They guided ships, travelers… even dreams.
— And why did they go out?
He took a while to answer, as if weighing every word.
"Because the world forgot to look up."
It was through stories whispered at bedtime that she began to understand the world hadn't always been like this. That before the darkness, there was light. Before the walls, there were bridges. And that the monsters hadn't always come from outside.
She dreamed of the stars every night.
Little did she know that, one day, she would be forced to face them — or what lay beneath them.
"You know, sweetheart..." her father began as he sharpened an old knife on a stone, sitting on the back porch where the smell of damp earth mingled with the sound of crickets. "The world wasn't always like this. Before the Long Night, there was something called peace."
The girl, her feet swinging from the wooden step, looked at him as if he were a storyteller — not just a man with calloused hands and sorrow in his eyes.
"People lived in brightly lit cities, flew in planes that soared like birds, and talked to anyone in the world just by pressing buttons. It was magical… but it was only technology."
She giggled, not fully understanding.
"And why did it end?"
Her father stopped the blade's motion. His eyes drifted toward the horizon, as if searching for a time he could no longer touch.
"Because the veil was torn."
The girl furrowed her brow.
"Veil?"
"Yeah..." he pointed to the sky, "...imagine there was an invisible curtain separating our world from the other. A world of magic, ancient gods, of creatures the books called myths. No one knows exactly why, but that curtain… it ripped. Like old fabric, full of poorly sewn stitches."
He made a gesture, as if tearing something from the air.
"And then they came?"
"They came. Not all at once, not like an army. At first, there were sightings. Omens. A horned creature in the mountains, shadows that screamed in abandoned forests, entire cities vanishing overnight. The world tried to ignore it, tried to understand. But when the first capital was swallowed by the sky… it was already too late."
A strong wind blew. The trees seemed to shudder at the memory.
"And no one could stop them?"
The father let out a sigh, heavy as stone.
"Not even the modern gods could. Satellites, bombs, technology... none of it mattered against the ancient power that returned. It was like trying to kill storms with stones."
She remained silent for a while, hugging her knees.
"And you saw all of that?"
He hesitated. Then nodded.
"I did. I lost people. And I gained something in return... something I swore to protect." He reached out and ruffled his daughter's hair with affection. "You."
The girl smiled. And for a moment, the sky seemed clear.
But deep beneath the earth, the ancient world still whispered.
And the veil, though torn, continued to unravel.
Night fell with a strange silence.
There were no cicadas, no gentle rustling of branches in the wind. It was as if the air itself had forgotten how to move.
Her father wasn't home. He had gone hunting, or maybe searching for something further south of the village — he had promised to return before dawn. It was common, though she always counted the seconds until he came back.
The house was calm, lit by a dim lamp. Her mother prepared tea while her older siblings teased each other with slaps and funny faces. Gabriel, the eldest, and Liana, just a few years older than her, argued over who would wash the dishes, laughing as if they were immortal.
But she… she felt the air grow heavy. Something was wrong.
A cold shiver ran down her spine. Without saying a word, she stepped down from the wooden porch and looked around. The neighboring houses seemed normal, motionless under the dark sky. But a strange sound broke the stillness.
"Mr. Takeshi?" she called cautiously, heading toward the house of their eastern neighbor.
Nothing. Only that sound...
Cracks.
Chewing.
Like bones breaking.
Her heart began to race.
"Mr. Takeshi...?" she repeated, her voice trembling.
The door to the house was open. She stepped inside.
Everything was dark, except for a faint light coming from the kitchen.
She approached.
And then she saw it.
A troll — massive and grotesque — covered in dried blood and thick drool, crouched in the middle of the kitchen. Its teeth sank into Mr. Takeshi's body, starting at the stomach, which had already been opened like a hunted animal. The man's torso slumped in inert agony, eyes still wide open, empty.
The sound of bones cracking was real.
She let out a strangled scream, fell back, eyes wide, breath uneven. Her hands trembled, her body refusing to move.
But something inside her—a primal instinct—screamed louder. She crawled, stood up… and ran.
She ran like she never had before.
She arrived home in tears, breath broken and shallow.
"Mom! Mom, we have to get out of here!" she cried, tugging her mother's arm desperately. "There's a monster, a troll! It's eating Mr. Takeshi! It's eating him, Mom! Let's go!"
Her mother tried to calm her, confused. Her sister was also frightened. But Gabriel… Gabriel just laughed.
"Emilia, you've been reading too much at night…" he said, chuckling and shaking his head. "Afraid of the boogeyman? Go to sleep."
She shook her head hard, tears streaming down her face.
"I saw it! It's coming here! We're going to die!"
Gabriel scoffed, walked to the front door, and opened it with impatience.
"Alright then. I'll go see your troll…"
That's when he saw it.
The neighbor's house being torn apart by a monstrous force.
The creature—huge—was tearing through walls like they were dry leaves, dragging with it the lower half of old Mr. Takeshi's body, still clenched between its monstrous teeth. Blood streamed down to the dirt road.
Gabriel's laugh vanished. His body froze. Every fiber screamed at him to run—but he couldn't.
The troll saw him.
It dropped the mutilated corpse and stomped toward him with heavy steps.
And with macabre calm, it stretched out its giant hands… and lifted him into the air.
Not violently. As if it were a child picking up a toy.
"GABRIEL!!!" Liana screamed, crying, pulling at their mother.
"LET HIM GO, YOU MONSTER!" the youngest shouted, helpless.
Their mother, paralyzed, trembled as if the world had collapsed upon her. Tears streamed down her face, her breath short, unable to speak a single word.
Then, a sound sliced through the air.
A blade. Two.
The troll roared in pain.
Its right arm—the one holding Gabriel—was severed with two clean cuts.
Gabriel fell onto his back, still alive. The troll stumbled back, growling.
And behind it, covered in sweat and dust—their father had finally returned.
"GABRIEL! GET YOUR SISTERS AND MOTHER OUT OF HERE, NOW!" his voice thundered.
"But Dad… what about you?!"
"OBEY!" the father roared with such fury even the troll hesitated.
With no time to argue, Gabriel scrambled to his feet, grabbed their mother, and pulled his sisters, who were screaming and sobbing. They ran with everything they had. The village was already waking in chaos and smoke.
Their father watched them flee. A faint smile of relief formed on his cracked lips.
But there was no time for anything else—only pain.
A punch came like thunder.
The troll hit him squarely.
He raised his sword as a shield, but the impact shattered the metal—and flung him several meters away, slamming him against a thick tree.
The sound of bones breaking echoed like thunder.
Blood dripped from his lips. But he stood. Staggering. Trembling.
"I need to hold it off as long as I can…"
His feet dug into the soil. His fingers gripped what remained of his sword.
He knew he wouldn't walk away from this.
But he also knew what he was protecting.
The next morning, a search party of survivors—villagers and armed youths—scoured the remains of the village.
Gabriel was among them, eyes hollow, soul devastated.
They found fragments of bodies. Few were recognizable. Almost nothing intact.
Of the father… they found only a hand, covered in dirt and dried blood.
On the finger, still intact, was the golden wedding ring.
Gabriel fell to his knees.
And as tears fell, he smiled. A crooked, forced smile that quickly broke into sobs.
He was losing his mind.
The first thing she noticed was the scent of old wood and dry leather.
Her body swayed with the slow rhythm of wheels over the dirt road. She opened her eyes slowly, as if afraid of what she might find. For a moment, her heart raced—the world around her was quiet, and she lay on a rough blanket, protected by the sides of a covered cart.
Maybe… it had all just been a nightmare.
Yes, maybe.
Maybe the village was still whole, and the morning sun was rising over the wooden rooftops. Maybe their father was coming home, as he always did, with fresh meat and a tired smile. Maybe Gabriel was teasing her, and Liana was laughing with their mother by the fire.
She held her breath for a moment, clinging to the illusion.
But then… she heard voices.
Familiar voices.
And when she looked up, the cart revealed the truth she so desperately wanted to forget.
There was her sister, knees pulled to her chest, staring at the empty landscape beyond the trees, her eyes lost in a place far, far away. The wind swept through her tangled hair, and her face struggled, in vain, to erase the pain still echoing in her memories.
Her brother, Gabriel, sat a few steps away, curled in a corner of the cart, furiously biting his nails. His gaze was hard, dark, as if burning everything he looked at. He no longer looked like a boy—his eyes belonged to a man at war. And even so… he was so close to breaking.
Their mother sat on the other side, hands resting on her lap. Her face was almost expressionless. A faint tremor moved her fingers, and her eyes were far too dry for someone who had lost so much. She was forcing herself to be strong… for the children. Even though her world had collapsed.
And then, the truth hit Emilia like a stone sinking into water.
It wasn't a nightmare.
None of it was.
The memories came back like a punch to the gut: the blood, the screams, their father's body flying through the air, the hand on the ground with the golden ring still on the finger.
She looked at the worn wooden floor of the cart, and the tears began to fall.
Silent. Deep.
No sobs.
No words.
Just pain.
The cart rolled along a long, endless road, through quiet woods and fields still soaked from the last storm. The overcast sky made everything feel colder, more distant.
The only certainty was the destination: Thirengard, the nearest capital.
A powerful city, protected by ancient walls and trained guards. They said it was one of the last truly safe fortresses in the country.
But it was cruel, in its own way.
The cost of living there was brutal. Their mother had no idea how she'd provide for them. She had never been rich. Never had gold. Never had to think about money—the village had always been enough. But now… the village was dust. And reality would demand something far harsher.
The silence inside the cart mirrored their souls perfectly.
As the wheels turned, carrying their bodies toward survival… their hearts remained trapped in that night.
In the destroyed home.
In the scream that never stopped echoing.
In the father… who would never return.
The walls of Thirengard rose on the horizon like the teeth of a sleeping beast.
Tall, gray, carved by human hands in times so ancient even the elders couldn't say when—or how—they had been built. Armed guards watched from towers, and the city's banners fluttered in the winds blowing from the east, where the mountains sliced the sky like blades of stone.
The cart stopped before the gates, among dozens of others. The city's entrance was a sea of people—survivors, all with the same empty eyes and tattered clothes. Entire families, orphans, wounded elders, children clutching blood-stained dolls.
The air reeked of sweat, fear, and loss.
After a long wait, names were registered. Questions were asked. Some received papers, others only instructions. Emilia's group, homeless, was taken to a relief zone—a cluster of simple structures on the outskirts of the capital, where wooden shacks served as temporary shelters for those who had lost everything.
And so, the days began to pass.
There was no time for mourning. No room for rest.
Their mother searched for help, desperate. With tears in her eyes, she knocked on door after door. And when hope was nearly crushed by despair, an answer came—a job.
Industrial cleaning of magical fabrics.
A dangerous, exhausting profession that involved handling enchanted waste from hospitals and laboratories across the city. Most people refused the job, fearing the side effects of prolonged exposure to those substances. But for her, it was a gift from the heavens.
She accepted it immediately.
That night, she cried in silence, relieved.
Not for herself — but for still being able to give something to her children.
The job consumed her. She left before the sun rose. Returned when the moon was high. Her arms were always wounded. Her nails, blackened. Her gaze… increasingly empty.
And when she entered the house, she would collapse onto the makeshift bed and sleep, as if every cell in her body begged for mercy. She barely spoke. Rarely smiled.
But she never complained.
Not once.
Even when she could barely open her eyes, she'd say everything was fine. That they were safe. That now, they could rebuild.
Her brother, Gabriel, took on the role of the father within the home.
He was still just a boy, but forced himself to act like a man. He went out looking for odd jobs, sold water at the city gates, cleaned stables, delivered boxes. He came back home exhausted and covered in dust, but always brought something for dinner.
Her older sister, Liana, started taking care of the house. She learned to cook with the little they had, to mend torn clothes, to care for their mother when she fainted from exhaustion.
And Emília...
...Emília watched it all in silence.
Time seemed to move strangely. Slowly. As if the world was mourning with them.
But then, something changed.
A man with a graying beard and a tired face knocked on the door. He was a government worker, holding papers in hand. He explained there was an emergency education program for orphans and survivors, and that a public school called Beresval Institute had been opened to give the children of the tragedy a chance to understand the new world.
A chance to dream.
The next morning, she stood in front of the gray-stone building.
It was large, old, with tall windows and a clock tower that marked the time with slow chimes. The other children were equally dirty, equally sad. But in their eyes were sparks — a desire to learn. To survive. To understand.
Because now, the world was no longer just a village among the hills.
Now… the world was Earth after the invasion.
With magical creatures wandering the forests.
With human kingdoms struggling to endure.
With fragile alliances and hidden wars.
With forgotten gods and reborn monsters.
And there, with an old notebook in her hands, sitting among children as broken as herself, she began to study.
To understand.
To rebuild.
And though she wasn't aware of it yet…
In that quiet moment inside the classroom…
a warrior was born.