Author's Note
Hey, it's been a while.
After years away, I'm finally back to continue Dark Morpher in a new light. Life got in the way, but the story never left me and now, I'm ready to bring it to life the way it was meant to be told.
You may notice major changes: the world is sharper, the lore runs deeper, and the tone has matured. But the heart of the story remains the same. If you've been here since the beginning, thank you for your patience. If you're new, welcome to Alcraya.
Let's dive back in.
Saturnring.
Chapter One: The Fall and the Spark
Welcome to planet Alcraya.
A thousand years ago, Earth went kaboom.
Not metaphorically, literally exploded. Climate collapse, nuclear overreach, bioengineered diseases. Humans threw every apocalyptic scenario at the planet until it finally caved. But if there's one thing humans are stubbornly good at... it's surviving. At least, some of us.
Long before the end, Earth's top scientists saw it coming. Projections, simulations, last-ditch meetings with world powers, none of it stopped the inevitable. So they pivoted. Instead of saving Earth, they prepared to abandon it.
They found a new planet they called Alcraya. Harsh, distant, but technically habitable. And they began constructing the last hope of the human race: the Mother Ships. Colossal space-faring arks, each designed to carry tens of thousands.
But there was a problem.
There were too many people. And not enough ships.
So, yeah... humanity turned on itself.
The day before launch, Earth looked more like a battlefield than a planet. At every boarding site, mobs surged. People clawed, screamed, fought. Some made it on. Most didn't. Governments collapsed in the final days, and the leaders already secured inside the ships watched from sealed observation decks as their nations tore themselves apart.
> "Takeoff in five… four… three… two… one…"
BOOOOOM.
Engines lit the sky. Dust clouds billowed. A thousand hands reached for steel they couldn't grasp. The Mother Ships rose, screaming into the upper atmosphere. Those left behind vanished in the firestorm.
The ships carried with them the last strands of humanity broken, grieving, terrified and scattered into space.
The journey was hell.
Ten generations lived and died in cold metal halls. Babies were born in orbit. Elders died staring at digital stars. Some went mad. Others built new cultures in zero gravity. People fell in love, made enemies, made art, made do.
When they finally reached Alcraya, the Earth they'd left behind was a myth.
The planet itself was alive. Strange flora, monstrous fauna, unpredictable weather. But no intelligent life. No rivals.
That didn't stop humans from creating their own.
They settled. Built walls. Formed colonies. And eventually, started fighting again. Different factions rose with different philosophies: survivalists, monarchists, technocrats, zealots. Tensions turned to battles, and battles into a continent-wide civil war.
Eventually, one faction won. The scattered remnants of humanity united under a new structure: The Seven Nations, ruled by kings, nobles, and military councils.
And then... the cards appeared.
It started subtly. A rumor. A story. A myth. Then it became pattern.
Within days of birth, newborns began to attract a strange energy, a glowing, pulsing force that coalesced beside them and solidified into a card. Each card bore runes, etched with a single word:
Light. Dark. Summoner. Morpher. Elemental.
No one could explain it.
Not the historians. Not the physicists. Not the priests.
Some believed it was Alcraya itself choosing to mark humanity. Others thought it was a mutation, some dormant gene awakened by alien radiation. Whatever the cause, the effect was real.
The cards were powerful.
Not at first. They just existed. But every generation grew more in tune with them. Children learned to feel them. Teenagers began to manipulate them but barely. Adults started developing minor abilities: a flash of heat, a sudden gust, a flicker of vision.
Still, it was unreliable. Wild. Dangerous.
Then came the Arcglove.
Developed by the Cradle Guild. An engineering house formed from old Earth tech traditions, the Arcglove was a breakthrough in control. It didn't create power. It channeled it.
Built with Obrium plates, the Arcglove was designed to draw in the strange ambient energy of Alcraya. What scholars started calling the Arc and direct it into the user's card.
At last, humanity had a way to interact with the cards instead of just fearing them.
It wasn't elegant. It wasn't even safe. But it worked.
The first major test run used ten volunteers, two from each card type. When they activated their Arcgloves, everything changed.
Eight survived.
The Summoner and Morpher volunteers didn't. Their gloves triggered a transdimensional rift pulling their minds, maybe even their bodies, into some beast-filled world. One screamed until the connection cut. The other never made a sound.
For the Dark users, one went berserk, possessed by a violent force. The other nearly broke but survived. Barely.
The Elementals fared better. When they engaged, the card reacted. Their elemental affinity appeared as a sigil on the back: Earth. Air. Fire. Water. Real, usable power followed.
That was all the proof the world needed.
Each of the Seven Nations fought to secure the Arcglove schematics. Within five years, Arcgloves were standard-issue for soldiers, scholars, and licensed initiates. Expensive, yes. Dangerous, still. But not rare. Not sacred.
Utilitarian.
They became humanity's tools to survive. To fight. To conquer.
And as always...
to destroy each other.
The next war was inevitable.
And with it came the rise and fall of legends.