Location- Duskrane Castle, Duskrane County
Date- 26th, Month of Zephyris, 2007 A.G.
As the evening dulled, everyone left the dining hall.Going to their respective rooms, the babies being carried by their parents.
CREAK.
The door opened with the soft groan of old hinges.
Vincent entered.
His room was silent, still, and disciplined to the point of severity. The bed stood untouched—corners tucked sharp, blanket pulled taut like a soldier's cot. A dark wooden desk sat beneath the window, holding only the essentials: neatly stacked books, a well-trimmed quill, and a small oil lamp that hadn't flickered in days. A plain wardrobe stood against the far wall, polished and unadorned.
Everything had a place.
And nothing was out of place.
No clutter. No warmth.
It felt less like a child's room and more like an officer's quarters—quiet, cold... and utterly impersonal. Like the boy who lived in it.
Only the bookshelf on the wall opposite the bed betrayed his nobility. But even that was odd. The top two rows weren't filled with dusty classics or ancestral tomes—they were packed with notebooks. Journals. Handwritten.
All Vincent's own.
The scent of parchment lingered faintly in the air as he hovered a hand over the third row. Grimoires. Dozens of them—arcane, old, dangerous. He plucked one from the shelf, fingers moving with the ease of habit.
Before sitting, he reached for the drawer beside the desk—more reflex than necessity.
It slid open with a quiet click.
Inside lay four sealed letters, pressed flat beneath a preservation charm.
Each bore a different sigil.
The first: a cracked porcelain mask—edges curled in an eerie, permanent smile.
The second: a flexed arm wrapped in broken chains, etched in burnished gold.
The third: a silver seal shaped like a closed eye, cradling a crescent moon.
The last: a black circle broken by a single vertical line. Stark. Unsettling.
He didn't need to check the names.
He already knew who they were from.
His fingers hovered over the first—the mask.
A flicker of irritation crossed his gaze.
Tivvaz.
He hadn't forgiven the jester for the last incident. Not fully. Not yet.
He moved to the second. The chains.
A faint twitch pulled at the corner of his mouth—not quite a smile, but something close.
Tharnok.
Predictable as ever. Probably another sermon on discipline, strategy, or the "iron will."
Vincent would read it anyway. He always did.
Then the third.
The silver seal shimmered faintly under his touch, cool like dew before dawn.
Velurei.
Her words always lingered—not cruel, but uncanny. Like a dream you forgot, yet still feared.
And finally, the fourth.
The broken circle.
He stared at it.
Expression unreadable.
He didn't say the name.
Didn't even think it.
He simply held the letter.
And listened.
Nothing.
Silence.
A faint pulse of mana flared beneath his fingertips. He summoned a magic circle over the drawer, the air shimmering faintly.
The letters vanished into it with a hiss of static and light.
Then, without another glance, Vincent turned and left the room.
Location: Mournshade Woods, Duskrane County
The forest didn't grow. It curled.
Trees twisted like skeletal ribs, arching over the path like a tunnel of bone. Their bark was marred by carved faces—etched in agony, serenity, or wild mockery. No two were alike. And no one remembered who had carved them.
As Vincent crossed the treeline, the roots shifted—parting slowly, deliberately, like the forest was breathing.
Shadow danced between the branches.
From the underbrush crept the Lurketails—low, sleek, panther-like beasts with eel-like tails that twitched and coiled as they watched him. Their eyes didn't glow.
Their teeth did.
Pearly white. Always visible. Even when their mouths were closed.
High above, Mirrorcrests rustled in the canopy. Birdlike creatures with feathers made of fractured glass. They didn't sing.
They clicked.
Like clock hands. Broken, uneven, and fast.
A Vinewolf slithered across a nearby branch—long, thin, stitched from moss and thorns. No eyes, yet it still turned its head, tracking the quiet thrum of Vincent's magic.
Even the insects were strange. Glowgnats hovered lazily, each one carrying a tiny ember beneath their transparent shells—like living fireflies fashioned from glass and flame. One landed on his shoulder.
It blinked.
Then left.
None attacked.
They only watched.
Because in Mournshade...
Everything remembers.
Vincent stopped before a towering tree at the heart of the glade. Its roots curled and knotted like limbs. Its branches formed a loose crown above the clearing, catching the moonlight like claws catching prey.
Then the bark rippled.
A face surfaced—carved from knots and whorls. Its eyes opened with a creak. Its mouth cracked into a grin.
The voice came slow, deep, and echoing.
"We welcome the Master of the Mournshade Bestiary."
The woods stirred. Leaves rustled. Beasts emerged, shapes shifting behind the vines—half-hidden in shadow.
Vincent raised his hand.
Calmly.
"Open the Realm Index."
Silence.
Then—
Chaos.
The forest erupted. Roots recoiled. Beasts shrieked. Shrubs slithered backward. Even the wind retreated.
The tree's face twisted.
Now childlike. Mocking.
"You look bad, Alfred," Vincent said dryly, smirking.
"I'm sorry, Master. Please forgive my folly," the bark whimpered, mouth drooping in exaggerated guilt.
Vincent didn't reply. Instead, he pricked his finger. A single drop of blood fell to the earth.
WHOOSH!
A magic triangle roared to life beneath him—massive, ancient, pulsing with power. Glyphs lit up in sequence, humming like a spell breathing awake.
Alfred's face darkened.
Voice low, resonant.
"Password."
Vincent leaned forward.
Whispered:
"X@#*?!"
The glyphs pulsed.
Shifted.
Accepted.
"Where do you wish to go, Master?"
He stepped into the center, cloak rustling.
"Aetherion Bastion—Realm of Divine Confrontation."
The forest bowed.
And the world folded inward.
Realm: Aetherion Bastion
A vast stone platform stretched across an endless void. Above, the sky fractured like stained glass under pressure—stars bleeding silver, constellations twisting like wounded gods.
Suspended high above were thirteen platinum rings.
They drifted slowly, silent and eternal. Each shimmered faintly, humming with memory—of power, of war, of divinity undone.
This was no battlefield.
It was an altar.
The Heavenbreaker Rings floated like divine executioners, orbiting Vincent with deliberate grace. Their presence cracked the stone beneath him and whispered names long erased from mortal tongues.
Vincent stood at the center.
Hands behind his back.
Shadow long beneath the divine light.
This was his domain.
Where gods were judged—and slain.
He summoned a square of magic. The rings spiraled into it, aligning themselves.
Then, he drew forth the letters again.
Unfazed. Unhurried.
He tore the first one.
TEAR.
WARP.
The sigil pulsed—then the world folded like paper.
Vincent vanished.
Somewhere Else…
Laughter echoed.
Not the warm kind.
Not the kind that ended.
A carnival stretched in all directions. Spinning. Flickering. Wrong.
Balloons floated upside down. Mirrors whispered secrets. The sky was painted in impossible colors.
On a crooked throne of playing cards and bones...
Tivvaz grinned.
One eye wide.
The other, missing.
He leaned forward, head tilting.
"Finally…" he whispered, voice like a squeal through teeth.
"…the Mad God has entered the game."
Five Years later~
Location- Rugard Palace, Leonhart Duchy
Date- 29th, Month of Frostborn, 2012 A.G.
The Rugard Palace stood as the crowning jewel of the Leonhart estate, perched atop a hill like a diadem forged by kings. Its golden spires pierced the sky, gleaming with a quiet authority that made even the wind tread softer around them.
At its base, towering gates of blacksteel barred the way—etched with swirling motifs and flanked by two armored sentinels on either side, still as statues, vigilant as beasts.
Beyond the gate, a symphony of color unfolded across the land—gardens of tulips in every hue stretched toward the horizon, each bloom swaying in perfect, silent rhythm.
Greeting all who entered stood a grand fountain carved from pure white marble. At its heart, a roaring lion's head spat crystal-clear water into the air, the arc of it glimmering in sunlight before falling into a round basin adorned with delicate carvings of waves and wildflowers. The water fell with grace—soft, constant, and noble.
The entrance to the palace formed a grand dome, its arched frame covered in aged red copper that gleamed like a setting sun. Ancient magical inscriptions ran along the curvature, glowing faintly—wards of protection, power, and legacy etched into the very bones of the palace.
The doors beneath the arch stood tall and solemn, carved from darkwood and reinforced with gold. Twin lion heads, proud and regal, were emblazoned onto each panel—each with a ring of pure gold clutched in its mouth, as if daring the unworthy to knock.
Laughter and shouts of children echoed through the air, carried by the breeze like music. Behind the palace stretched the sprawling training grounds—an expanse of structured discipline and youthful ambition.
Marble platforms gleamed in the sun, spaced evenly for sparring duels, their surfaces polished smooth by years of footwork and magic clashes. Nearby, sections of packed earth bore racks of training gear—weighted vests, metal dumbbells, anklets, and wristbands meant for building strength from the ground up.
Farther down, neatly trimmed fields of grass hosted rows of wooden dummies, arranged in endless formations. Young squires and noble heirs practiced their forms there—slashes, thrusts, bursts of aura—over and over, each movement chasing perfection.
At the very edge of the grounds stood a wide glass dome. Its surface shimmered like starlight in daylight, faintly pulsing with energy. A simple sign hung above the entrance, carved in elegant script: Simulation Room for Mages.
On one of the marble sparring platforms, two young boys moved in a blur of precise motion, blades singing through the air. Among them was a boy with tousled brown hair, tied back into a short ponytail that swayed with each strike—like a sprouting blade of grass dancing in the wind.
His partner, a boy with curling chestnut hair a shade lighter than his own, met him blow for blow.
THUD!
The wooden swords clashed.
"Sig! Block this!" the green-eyed boy shouted, surging forward. He leapt into the air, a downward strike already in motion.
Sig sidestepped, the arc of the wooden blade grazing past his chestnut hair.
"Young Master, you are as splendid as always," he said with a smirk.
The brown-haired boy huffed. "Sig, you keep testing me." He raised his sword. "Want me to beat you?"
Sig tilted his head, calm as ever. "Young Master, why do you delude yourself?"
"Let me show you then."
"Always ready."
WHAM!
Wood struck wood, a sharp crack echoing across the grounds.
SKID!
Both boys slid back, breath steady, stances low.
Then—Sig lunged. A swift vertical strike, clean and direct.
The boy smirked.
THUD!
Just as the blade was about to land, he hurled his own sword upward. It met the blow not with force, but with deflection.
Sig's weapon flew from his hands, spinning through the air.
Without losing a beat, the boy's sword wheeled above his head in a controlled arc—then stopped, its edge hovering near Sig's neck.
Sig's lips parted. "I lost… the duel."
The boy's lips curled into a smirk. "Now for the punishment…" He tapped his sword on his shoulder with theatrical flair.
Then, with sudden seriousness, he stepped forward.
"Sigmund Ferros!"
Sig stiffened, kneeling in reflex.
TAP.
The sword touched his shoulder lightly.
"Your punishment is that from now on, you will call me by my name."
Sigmund blinked. "But—"
"No buts!" the boy grinned.
"Yes, young maste—no, Le—"
BOOM.
The ground shook.
A deep rumble echoed from the direction of the mage dome.
Both boys froze.
Then they turned, eyes widening.
Smoke was rising.
And something inside… was moving.