Long, long ago, in an age so distant that even the oldest tomes mention of it only in fragments, the world of Vaelgard was plunged into war. What sparked this great conflict, whether ambition, betrayal, or some ancient prophecy, has long since been swallowed by the abyss of time. All that remained was the devastation it wrought.
Among the nine races that dwelt upon Vaelgard's sprawling continents, humanity was by far the weakest.
Their bones were frail, their lifespans fleeting, their magic thin as mist.
Inevitably, they were driven to the brink of extinction, their once-proud cities reduced to smoldering ruins, their children slaughtered or scattered to the winds.
Desperation, however, breeds audacity.
In the darkest hour, the remnants of humankind turned to a forbidden rite, an ancient spell unearthed from the crumbling vaults of lost civilizations. With trembling hands and hearts heavy with dread, they tore a rift across the veil of worlds, summoning forth a champion from beyond the stars.
His name was Ranzo.
Clad in steel strange to Vaelgard's eyes and bearing weapons forged in a distant world, Ranzo rose like a tempest against the armies that threatened to snuff out the last embers of mankind.
He carved a path through their foes, elves with ageless eyes, scaled draconians, towering giants, cunning beastkin, until at last humanity stood secure once more.
But victory came at a terrible cost...
As Ranzo gazed across blood-soaked fields littered with the corpses of old and young alike, something inside him cracked. He had become a reaper, harvesting lives by the thousands. The screams haunted him... the weeping of mothers and the vacant stares of the dying clung to his soul.
So he resolved upon a final, singular ambition: to end all war. To bring forth a peace so complete it would eclipse the memory of sorrow. In his relentless quest, Ranzo turned his hand against every throne and banner. He conquered the dominions of all nine races, crushing them beneath his iron will until at last he stood alone, King of the World.
For a time, peace blossomed across Vaelgard. Markets bustled without fear of raiders; children laughed beneath banners of unity. Yet Ranzo, who had seen the rot in mortal hearts, knew this age of tranquility balanced on a knife's edge. When death inevitably claimed him, who would keep the world from tearing itself apart once more?
He refused to deceive himself with dreams of immortality, knowing that eternity only invited madness. Nor would he entrust the world to his own blood, princes born to privilege, blind to the wounds still festering beneath the surface. A dynasty bred only decay; the sons of conquerors rarely matched their sires.
Thus was born the King Project.
Ranzo decreed that no heir of his would inherit the Absolute Crown by mere right of birth.
Instead, from every race under the sun, candidates would be gathered, youths of talent, ambition, and cunning, brought to grand academies scattered across his empire.
There they would train, strive, and clash. Through rigorous trials, political intrigue, and open duels where they might legally hunt each other's heads, the true worth of each would be laid bare.
Only one would emerge, forged by pain, suffering and tempered by triumph, worthy to don the Absolute Crown, an artifact bound by soul oath to ensure that none could defy the decrees of the crowned king.
This crown would judge for itself who fulfilled its ancient requirements, and only then allow itself to be worn.
And so Ranzo, weary of slaughter yet driven by resolve, set the world upon this path.
In his final years, he watched as the first generation of candidates entered the crucible he had prepared, whispering a silent prayer that this brutal forge would yield rulers strong enough to preserve the fragile peace he had won with oceans of blood.
…
…
Year 7345 of the New World Calendar
Sunlight poured like molten gold upon the cobblestone streets of Avelmont as a procession wound its way through the bustling heart of the city.
At its head rode a man clad in golden armor, the plates designed to resemble the regal mane of a lion.
Upon his helm shone a crest of emerald and ivory, catching every beam of light. His blond hair spilled from beneath the crown of steel, and his deep green eyes sparkled with pride.
He sat astride a majestic white steed, which tossed its mane and pranced beneath him as if equally aware of the moment's grandeur.
On either side of him rode twin knights, who lifted their visors to reveal matching, stern blue eyes. Behind them trailed a woman with red hair and red eyes, a bishop draped in ivory and crimson vestments, her hands folded over her staff as she smiled softly at the crowd. A tall elf mage, also blond and purple-eyed, rode next, her cloak a swirl of indigo runes, waving as well.
Their retinue stretched on, rows of foot soldiers bearing the proud crest of the guild Aetherion, each man armored in polished steel emblazoned with the same roaring lion motif. Yet among these marched one figure who did not belong to the usual ranks of footmen.
Astride his own pale horse, less ostentatious than the golden knight's charger, but also regal, was a young silver-haired, blue-eyed man garbed in unassuming black, a single white coat draped over his shoulders. Silver revolvers gleamed at his hips, very detailed snake engravings in their craftsmanship yet unmistakably deadly. His hair ruffled slightly in the warm summer breeze, and his eyes softened as he looked upon the gathered crowds.
Children leaned over balconies and darted between barrels to catch a glimpse. Merchants paused in tallying their goods; farmers still dusted with soil held up eager hands. A cheer rose up, rolling down the street like thunder.
"Long live Guild Aetherion!"
"Congratulations on your claim to the throne!"
"May the Absolute Crown favor you!"
And from the crowd, bright childish voices rang out, chasing after the black-clad rider with all the hope and innocence of youth.
"Lucian! Lucian, you're my hero!" squeaked a tiny girl waving a daisy chain in both hands.
"Hey, mister Lucian!" shouted a gap-toothed boy, sword belt comically large around his waist. "I can finally swing my blade without falling over, will you teach me more moves next time?"
Another child piped up with earnest enthusiasm, "Do you want to come by for bread later? Mama says she'll bake extra if you do!"
Lucian offered them a playful salute and a sly grin. "Later, alright? But you all better be ready, I'll expect that bread hot and your swings sharper than last time."
They laughed, chasing after the procession like tiny blessings.
From his place ahead, Reinhart, Lord of Aetherion, the golden lion himself, watched this exchange from the corner of his eye. His jaw tightened, teeth grinding together for a brief instant before he forced his gaze back to the road ahead.
They rode onward, hooves striking on the stones as they made for the towering silhouette of their castle on the distant hill. Banners streamed from every window and tower, proclaiming to all the realm that Aetherion was now an official royal successor candidate.
…
…
Night had fallen over Castle Aetherion, its towers bathed in the glow of a thousand lanterns.
From the grand banquet hall drifted sounds of laughter and soothing music. Neighboring nobility had been invited to celebrate the occasion, the clink of goblets and the low murmur of toasts rising to touch vaulted ceilings.
Servants darted between long tables heaped high with roasted game, sugared fruits, and rich wines, while nobles in jewel-bright finery whispered among themselves, their eyes filled with ambition.
But far from it all, in a dimly lit chamber lined with massive shelves of war tomes and maps of the realm, something else entirely was going down.
BAMM!
The heavy slam of a golden-gauntleted hand upon polished oak cracked through the stillness in the room. Papers fluttered, inkpots rattled. A candelabra trembled, casting frantic shadows over the faces gathered around the long strategy table.
Reinhart stood at its head… he slammed the hand. Veins stood out at his temple, his green eyes darkened with something cold.
"I'm only going to say this once, so listen close."
Reinhart's gaze locked on the single figure seated across from him, he then smiled smugly as he continued on to say.
"Lucian, starting today, you are officially no longer a founding member of Aetherion."