(Standard Opening Narration)
"Long ago, the Demonrealm was sealed away. But now, the gate has broken open."
"For the first time in history, the realms of the living stand united—an uneasy alliance forged to push back the threat."
"But the tide of war cannot be turned by armies alone…"
"Only the one who carries the ancient power of Darkness can shift the fate of the living realms."
And his soul walks the edge of ruin
Prologue – A Dream of Shadows
Scene 1: Birth
Soft, flickering light. A dreamlike vision unfolds.
A man and woman sit side by side in bed, gazing lovingly at their newborn son. No crying. Just silent wonder. The child stares back at them—calm, wide-eyed.
As the vision draws closer into his eyes, shadows ripple beneath his pupils—something ancient stirring within.
A flicker of darkness.
A scream echoes faintly as the world turns black.
[Opening Theme Plays]
Interior – A modest but warm home. Night. Gulsah is in labor, surrounded by women.
Sweat glistens on her brow. Her breaths come in gasps as she clenches her teeth, trembling from the pain.
Necla (her mother): "Sweetheart—steady now. Breathe with me. Don't push too hard!"
Gulsah (between sharp exhales): "I—I'm trying, mother…!"
She groans deeply, muscles tensed. Her body is shaking from the strain.
In the corner, the two midwives exchange uneasy glances.
Midwife 1 (whispers): "The baby's not coming out…"
Midwife 2 (whispers): "This could be fatal for her."
Necla (stern, hushed): "Hush, girls."
They fall silent as Leyla, Gulsah's best friend, grabs her hand.
Leyla: "Squeeze it. I'm right here. You've got this!"
Gulsah lets out a long, guttural scream.
Necla: "Breathe with me. Focus."
Mother and daughter close their eyes, synchronizing their breathing.
Exhale… exhale… exhale…
Gulsah pushes with all the strength left in her body. Her face is soaked in tears and sweat, jaw clenched, veins straining.
Midwives: "We see the head! One more, Gulsah—push!"
With one final cry, the baby emerges. The cord is cut. Blood stains the cloth.
But the baby doesn't cry. Doesn't move.
The midwives stiffen, rushing him away in silence.
Gulsah (weakly): "What's happening…?"
Her vision blurs. The room spins. Whispers fade into quiet.
Leyla (gently): "Stay with me. How do you feel?"
Gulsah passes out.
Necla steps forward, takes the baby, and lifts him to her eyes.
He's breathing—but only just. His eyes open slightly, and Necla freezes.
Something moves within them. A sliver of shadow.
Alive. Watching.
Necla (quietly): "He'll live… Clean him up."
The midwives nod, shaken, and obey.
Hours pass.
Gulsah awakens, disoriented.
Gulsah: "Leyla… What happened…?"
Leyla: "You passed out. But you're okay now. The baby… He's alive. But… he didn't cry. He barely moved."
A hollow weight sinks in her chest.
Gulsah: "Where is he…? Let me see him…"
She tries to rise—but her body gives out. She falls to her knees with a gasp.
Leyla: "No! You can't—just rest!"
Gulsah (desperate): "Please… I need to see him!"
Leyla, eyes welling with tears, helps her to her feet. Together they move toward the child. Gulsah touches his cheek gently.
Tears fall freely.
Gulsah: "Please… Please, I beg you! Don't take him from me!"
"Let him live… Let him grow strong… I'll give anything. I'll sacrifice anything!"
She leans forward, resting her head against the child's tiny chest. Her voice breaks into sobs.
Moments pass.
The world goes dark again.
Then—
A cry pierces the silence.
A healthy, loud, life-filled cry.
Gulsah opens her eyes. Leyla is holding the baby close to her chest, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Gulsah (smiling through tears): "Please… Let me hold him…"
Leyla passes the baby to her. For the first time, Gulsah cradles her son—fragile, warm, alive.
She looks upward and whispers something only the wind can hear.
The scene switches—-
Scene 2: All grown up
Ten years later – a sunny afternoon.
Aslan and his cousin Hakan crouch near a pond, watching a dragonfly hover above the water.
Gulsah (from afar): "Hakaaaaaan! Aslaaaaaan! Dinnnnerrr!"
The boys spring up and bolt toward the house.
They burst through the front door. Gulsah turns from the stove.
Aslan: "I told you I'm faster!"
Hakan (panting): "Barely! I had a cramp! Next time, I'll win!"
Gulsah: "Stop teasing your cousin. Sit—eat while it's hot."
Aslan sits, grinning.
Aslan: "Hey mom, what did the five fingers say to the face?"
Gulsah (raising a brow): "What?"
Aslan (with a smirk): "Slaaaaap!"
He claps his hands. Hakan erupts in laughter. They both howl.
Gulsah lets out a reluctant chuckle.
Gulsah: "Where do you hear these things?"
Aslan: "A true comedian never reveals his secrets."
He winks at Hakan. The boys finish their meal quickly.
Aslan jumps up, bursting with energy.
Aslan: "Let's go!"
But Hakan is slumped over the chair—completely knocked out from eating three plates.
Aslan sighs.
Aslan: "Tch. Amateur."
The scene switches——
Scene 3: Aether
Night blankets the village. Crickets hum softly. The stars shimmer above the nearby lake, its still surface like a mirror reflecting the heavens.
Aslan, restless and wide awake, slips outside.
Barefoot and quiet, he wanders down a dirt path toward the lake, drawn by flickers of movement in the dark. As he approaches the shore, he stops.
Leyla is sitting on a large flat stone near the water's edge, her legs crossed, one hand extended over the surface.
She's whispering—but not in words. Just soft hums, shaped by breath and emotion.
Then—light begins to bloom beneath her palm.
Not flame. Not heat. But warmth.
Glowing threads of gold and pale blue rise from the lake like floating silk.
They ripple through the air—memories dancing in the breeze.
Aslan hides behind a tree, captivated.
Leyla (without turning):
"You know, Aslan… it's rude to spy on people using magic."
Startled, Aslan steps out, rubbing the back of his neck.
Aslan:
"I didn't mean to. I just couldn't sleep."
Leyla:
"Neither could I."
She pats the stone beside her. He walks over and sits.
They both gaze out across the still lake.
Leyla:
"This place is old. Older than our village. They say the lake remembers everything said beside it. Laughs. Tears. Promises. Goodbyes."
"Magic listens to memory, you know. Especially in places like this."
Aslan:
"So this is… real magic?"
Leyla (smiling gently):
"Yes. But not like the fairy tales with wands and words. Real magic comes from within—from your soul."
"It's called Aether. It's not just energy. It's shaped by what you feel, what you remember, what you carry in your blood."
Aslan looks down at his hands, opening and closing them.
Aslan:
"How do you know what magic you have?"
Leyla (with a soft smile):
"You don't choose your magic. It chooses you."
"Some say magic is born the moment your heart breaks for the first time. Others say it comes when you understand what it means to love, or to lose."
"It waits… for something real. And when that moment comes, it changes you forever."
She scoops a handful of water, letting it fall through her fingers.
Leyla:
"Your bloodline matters too. It carries echoes. Pain, love, loss, triumph—these things stay in the soul, even after generations. And the older the blood, the louder the echo."
She glances at Aslan.
Leyla:
"You're a Balkar. That name carries weight. That name remembers."
Aslan:
"So… what kinds of magic are there?"
Leyla (with a soft smile):
*"There are many. Some you'll learn when you're older."
"But for now—there's Destruction: fire, force, things that break and burn."
"There's Illusion: bending light, sound, even thought."
"And Healing: for those who carry gentler memories."
She pauses.
Leyla:
"And then there are rarer paths… but you're still a boy. You have time to find yours."
A quiet breeze flows over the lake.
Aslan closes his eyes.
Aslan:
"Can I try?"
Leyla:
"You can try to feel. But don't force it. Think of something that made your heart heavy. Or warm. Or afraid."
Aslan inhales slowly.
He thinks.
Of his mother's tearful smile when she first held him.
Of racing Hakan through the fields.
Of seeing a bird die last winter and not knowing why it hurt.
Of the shadows in his dreams.
The wind stills. The world narrows.
Then—a breeze gathers around him.
Gentle at first. Then stronger. Swirling leaves rise, floating in a spiral.
Leyla blinks, surprised.
Leyla:
"That's… Aether wind. You really did feel something, didn't you?"
Aslan (eyes wide):
"I didn't mean to! It just… happened."
Leyla (grinning):
"That's how it begins. That was no spell. That was you."
The wind settles. The leaves fall.
A quiet moment passes.
Leyla:
"Don't tell your mother. She'll blame me."
Aslan laughs softly.
Then, in the distance, a low horn sounds—deep and distant. The ground hums slightly beneath them.
Leyla's smile fades. Her hand gently closes over Aslan's.
Leyla (softly):
"Let's go back. The wind carries more than magic tonight."
The stars ripple across the lake as the point of view pans upward…
Scene 4: The curse of Darkness
Thunder cracks above the northern plains of Adanai. The skies weep ash. Fire rains down like cursed snow.
A massive battlefield stretches to the horizon—rivers of blood, shattered weapons, fallen soldiers. Fireballs tear through the air. Arrows whistle past the cries of men. Blades clash in brutal cadence with the roars of charging demons.
This is not a war.
It is a massacre.
At the center of it, defiant and unmoved, stands Fikret Yildirim, Nineteenth Sultan of the human realm—his armor torn, his pike dripping black ichor. He leads the last brigade of humanity's hope against a fresh wave of hellspawn.
A Yildirim soldier stumbles through the chaos, bleeding and breathless.
Soldier: "Sultan! The demons have broken through the eastern flank! They're trying to surround us!"
Fikret doesn't flinch. His jaw clenches, eyes sharp like a falcon's.
He grins.
Fikret: "Then they've made a mistake."
He rises to his feet, slams his pike to the earth—and launches forward like a living spear. The ground trembles from his takeoff. When he lands, the impact sends demons flying in all directions.
He becomes a blur of destruction.
Pike strikes—precise and relentless. Jabs that pierce through armor, slashes that cleave bone from flesh. Around him, demons fall like wheat beneath the scythe.
Then—
A colossal shadow descends.
Wings blot out the sky.
The earth splits as Lord Lucius, the infamous Winged Horror, crashes down in front of Fikret. Horned. Armored in bone. Wings like a bat's nightmare.
Lucius (voice like rusted steel):
"You think slaying vermin means you can stand against me?"
"I've faced sultans stronger than you. You'll be nothing but a stain on the snow."
Fikret wipes demon blood from his face.
Fikret: "You may have faced my forefathers…
But that will be your greatest achievement."
They clash—a quake with every blow. Steel sings. Shadows ripple. Their battle tears through air and earth, launching both into the sky.
The duel twists and spirals above the battlefield, fury meeting finesse. Below them, the Yildirim troops, though outnumbered, march without hesitation—following their Sultan's light.
Midair, Fikret spins—slashes Lucius's thigh, then twists into an overhead heel-kick. A concealed blade gleams from his boot—slicing across Lucius's shoulder. Blood sprays. They crash into the earth below like falling stars.
Lucius howls—an unholy scream that rattles the bones of every man.
Lucius: "Whaaaaaa—AAAAAAA!"
Fikret flinches, eye twitching.
Fikret: "You're loud."
He vanishes—reappears instantly, slashing from behind. Lucius meets him strike for strike, but Fikret is faster—cleverer.
Lucius lands a blow—his blade cutting through—
No. Fikret catches the blade. Bare-handed.
Lucius (stunned): "H-How?! How can you—"
Fikret: "You talk too much."
He grabs Lucius by the throat and smashes him into a pillar of jagged rock, shaking the land. Fikret launches forward again—his silhouette becomes a storm of motion.
The Hundred-Pike Strike.
In a flash, he strikes a hundred times, each hit with surgical precision. Lucius jerks violently, overwhelmed.
Suddenly—
A scream behind Fikret.
Soldier: "They're behind us! Where are the ELVES?!"
Fikret turns. His forces are faltering. The eastern flank is collapsing.
Fikret: "Damn those elves…!"
He rushes to his son—Yasin, blade in hand, fighting desperately.
Fikret: "You must leave. Now."
Yasin: "I can still fight!"
Fikret: "You will live. That's an order."
Zulkarneyn, Fikret's younger brother, rides in, grabbing Yasin by the arm. The boy is dragged away, his point of view catching a final glimpse—his father cleaving through demons like a vengeful celestial.
Then—
Lucius returns.
With a claw, he rips through Fikret's side, claws sinking into ribs.
Yasin (screaming): "NOOOOO!"
Fikret staggers, coughing blood—but retaliates with a spinning back kick that shatters Lucius's jaw.
He drops to one knee.
Fikret: "You damned coward!"
Smoke bleeds from his eyes.
His aura turns black.
Lucius halts—paralyzed by primal fear.
Lucius: "…No… Not this…"
He takes flight—tries to flee.
But Fikret appears in his path before he even turns.
With one swing, he smashes Lucius to the ground. The earth cracks. Dust rises.
Fikret, now consumed by rage and darkness, roars. The sound quakes through the realm.
He rips through Lucius's wings—slicing them clean off. Blood fountains from the wounds.
Lucius screams. Again. And again.
But it's over.
Fikret ends it with a clean, brutal strike to the neck.
Lucius's head rolls to the dust.
A moment of silence.
The sky above the northern front is torn open—veins of red lightning streak through black clouds. Reality groans under the weight of the magic being unleashed.
Fikret Yildirim, battered, bloodied, and breathless, lifts himself from the rubble. Lucius lies dead behind him—wings torn, head separated from his monstrous body. Around Fikret, the battlefield is silent—his men fallen, the snow painted red.
Only demons remain.
And one figure now walks through the haze.
The Demon lord.
Clad in obsidian armor etched with glowing infernal runes. An aura of death trails behind him like smoke. In one hand, he holds the severed head of an elf, its expression still frozen in horror.
Fikret stares at him, eyes cold and burning.
Fikret:
"You'll pay for that."
"You'll pay for all of it."
He stands tall despite the searing pain in his ribs. His pike digs into the ground beside him, absorbing the Aether of the battlefield—the blood, the death, the rage. The weapon hums.
Demon lord:
"You mortals never learn. Every age, a fool like you rises… thinking you're special."
"But you are nothing but embers in a dying fire."
They launch at each other with the speed of thought.
Darkness and hellfire clash.
Shockwaves flatten what remains of the battlefield.
They spiral across the sky—Fikret's pike spinning, deflecting blast after blast of flame and darkness. The Demon lord moves like a juggernaut, his axe—Hellrender—carving through stone and sky alike.
Fikret ducks, dodges, parries—he fights not like a man, but like a weapon wielded by vengeance itself.
They crash through the remains of a frozen ridge—ice shatters like glass as they tumble midair.
Fikret, channeling darkness through his veins, calls upon a forgotten technique—
"Black Veil." His body disappears into smoke, splitting into seven illusions.
Demon lord:
"Parlor tricks."
He incinerates four of them with a sweep of his axe—but the real Fikret strikes from above, driving his pike into the Demon lord's shoulder. Blood, thick and molten, erupts.
The Demon lord snarls and retaliates with a backhand that sends Fikret flying into a stone column.
Fikret coughs blood—but smiles.
Fikret:
"Did that hurt? Good."
Suddenly—the wind itself answers him.
From the north, a stormwall of ash and snow rises. The battlefield becomes a void of swirling darkness. The cold intensifies.
Fikret rises from the rubble, now fully shrouded in darkness. His cloak whips like tendrils. His pike gleams, now fused with Shadowsteel, the cursed alloy of the Yildirim line.
Behind the Demon lord, four shamans chant in the dark tongue, casting crimson sigils to heal their master.
Fikret:
"Coward. You're not a lord. You're a leech."
He places two fingers to his chest and mutters an ancient vow.
Suddenly, chains of darkness erupt from the ground, binding the Demon lord's arms and legs. The magic is old—older than any human or demon alive.
The shamans scream and begin to unravel. One combusts. Another turns to salt.
Fikret blitzes forward.
He strikes the Demon lord thirteen times in the span of a second, targeting weak points in the armor. Bone cracks. Horns chip.
The chains snap—but too late.
Fikret's pike pierces the Demon lord's stomach, and with a roar, he lifts the monster off the ground—spinning and slamming him into the dirt.
Demon lord (coughing):
"You dare—!"
Fikret:
"I am the last of my line, demon. And you stand in my kingdom."
The Demon lord erupts in fury, casting aside his axe and drawing in raw hellfire from the sky. His body burns with celestial like power.
Fikret is blasted backward. His armor melts at the edges. His skin scorches.
He falls to one knee.
Then—
A flicker in the snow.
A boy. Pale. Small. Watching.
Fikret's eyes widen. It's not an illusion. He sees him.
Aslan.
Eyes black. A soft, eerie smile.
Fikret hesitates. Just for a second.
The Demon lord strikes.
Hellfire consumes the space around Fikret—but he survives, holding his ground inside a dome of darkness. The darkness shields him—but barely.
He rises again.
Fikret:
"I don't know what you are… child or curse…"
"But if this is the end—I'll carve my name into the bones of Hell itself!"
The Demon lord, now burning brighter than ever, bellows in fury. Wings of flame erupt behind him as he flies into the sky. Fikret takes flight—darkness trailing behind him like smoke across stars.
They collide midair with apocalyptic force.
Each strike is the sound of thunder. Cracks form in the clouds. Lightning bends around them.
The Demon lord grabs Fikret mid-spin and throws him through a mountain ridge. The stone collapses.
Fikret emerges, body shattered, breathing ragged.
He smiles, bloody.
Fikret:
"You're strong, I'll give you that…"
"But you're no Yildirim."
He plants his pike. Whispers something.
Suddenly, the entire datkness of the battlefield gathers behind him.
He invokes the final technique of the Yildirim line:
"Eternal Dusk."
A towering spirit of darkness forms behind him—a silhouette of every cursed Sultan that came before.
Together, they strike.
The Demon lord is overwhelmed, pushed back, wounded, bleeding black fire.
He stumbles. But a horned demon general—Gravous—fires a burning orange beam from the cliffside.
Fikret turns too late.
The blast rips through his side, spinning him through the sky.
He crashes down.
The spirit behind him fades.
Fikret lies in the crater, staring upward.
Snow falls slowly. The ash settles.
The boy is near now. Aslan. Unblinking.
He walks up to Fikret, silent as a ghost.
Fikret:
"Don't…"
"Not… yet…"
Aslan kneels. Smiles with sinister calm.
And ends him with a whisper of darkness.
A shockwave tears through the battlefield.
The Demon lord shields himself with the bodies of lesser demons. Their forms melt in his grasp.
He approaches.
Fikret's eyes are open. Still.
He never stopped looking at the sky.