First Leafe:
I could not grasp many things... Ne'er have I, in truth. And if one be reading this tome... then verily, I am departed from this mortal world.
I do know who they be... who governeth all... Aryavarta... 'tis nowt but a pawn of the mercantile tyrants... the Crimson Senate... and the Church of Aetheria... aye, a veil... a title to mask a far grimmer dread. I have seen it. I know now.
I am Nashīr al-Ḥaqīqa... child of Gaia... one of her kin, at the least.
They call me thus, for I was born of Murād the Third. I was but eight winters aged when my lord father's eldest, Mehmed—the third of his name—did put me to the sword, e'en as he did slay his nineteen brethren... and one unknown: myself... and seven womb-bearing concubines of our sire.
And yet... I did awaken hither.
Second Leafe:
"I was born to a daughter of a most devout and puissant Wazīr of the faith... I knew full well the throne would never be mine. Thus, I set my heart to the path of knowledge—aye, to wax wise and become a great man of letters, spreading the Word of Allāh to lands where no man has trod.
Yet when mine eyes did open in Drakastradorn... lo, mine heart was struck with bemusement. What place is this, I thought. Strange and vast and barren of call to prayer. And thus, I did take a new name... Bijob, as I was cast—nay, transmigrated—into this other realm, this curious reality of which no scribe of my people has ever written."
Third Leaf:
They did call me a fool... mad, even—when I took to spreading the truth. Yet all did change when I crossed paths with the one known as Bastard Black in the hollowed heart of Olive Dale. I saw him then—white blemishes marked the left half of his visage, a thing he named vitiligo or some such. When I dared inquire of it, he spake thus: "Don't Bother with it."
His eyes were of gold—aye, glimmering with something lost and ancient. His elvish ears, shorn by some cruel outer hand, bore the mark of torment ere I met him.
He was bastard-born of Kainas the Following, and his dam was a devotee of Aerion's Way.
A goodly fellow he was, though mad of spirit—fond of wine, rape, and war. He did not reckon good from ill, yet at times... he changed, as if taken by another soul. At moments he was soft of heart—pious, kind, and noble, like unto a chieftain with unseen followers. In him lived many faces... at the least, twain.
He would often spout drunken lore of things foreign to my ear... speaking of a 'Taylor Swift'—a name unknown in any scripture. In his cups, he decried her 'mid-ass music' and her worshippers, a fearsome cult he called the Swifties.
Perchance... she be some Goddess, long forgot by this realm."
"He also had a habbit of scrubbing bowels everyday for reasons unknown..."
Fourth Leafe:
Bastard Black did bid me thus: "Go forth and seek thy truth." As if to cast aside the sacred tenets of the Abrahamic Law, he spoke boldly against the faith of my forefathers. When I did strive to bring him unto the Light of Allāh, he laughed softly and said,
"Each man ought to craft his god anew and live suchwise that his god would grant him paradise for that reason alone."
Perchance... he was touched by some higher madness. For he claimed descent—aye, blood-kin—from Adamas the Father and Evaline the Mother... the first elves, the holy Archetypes of the first Emergence, whose names are but whispered in the deepest roots of all myth."
Fifth Leafe:
Rikkard the Mad—issue of Kainas the Following, and of Ella the Begotten, his blood-sister—did commit most vile acts. For the twain were locked in unholy union, bedding one another in secret, their flesh entwined in sin. 'Twas a perversion most foul, a mockery of love and law.
Bastard Black, upon learning of this cursed bond, was stricken with grief and wrath. He did strive mightily to sever it, for he loved Ella—not as Rikkard did—but as one cherishes the lone ember in a world of ash. She was to him the last warmth of kinship.
Black oft spake of "an unconsensual love," a tether born of confusion and ruin. For Ella, poor maiden—a pale veil of milk and gentleness—knew not the vileness she was drawn into. Her soul, he said, was innocent... misled.
He did name Rikkard with venom: "An incestuous tyrant, a beast of control and filth." So deep was his loathing.
To cleanse this bloodline's curse, Bastard Black did betroth fair Ella to Nile Omen—a man cloaked in mystery. I do presume him to be of Gaia's kin, for he spake once of Cleopatra, and his eyes held ages unspoken."
6th Leafe:
Rikkard, consumed by his own festering bile—of jealousy, hatred, and despair—descended further into shadow. Each child born of Ella and Nile, fair in visage and half-elven in blood, drove him to greater madness. When the thirteenth child did cry its first breath, Rikkard usurped the throne. He framed his uncle, Abalus the Other, and waged slander against Bastard Black, who rose in defiance of his ill-gotten rule.
It was then he laid a black lie: that Bastard Black did slay Kainas... yet many believe—aye, I believe—that 'twas Rikkard himself who drew the blade. Bastard Black, betrayed, broken, was left crippled—his legs robbed of life.
Thus dawned the Elvan War.
Rikkard, drunk on blood and vengeance, cast his sword upon mankind and Nile alike. Yet Nile fought back, bearing alliance with Abalus and his broken nephew. Rikkard faltered, until he stooped low—striking the capital of Men, Ni'kahj'yu, beneath the shroud of night. There he butchered all thirteen of Ella's children in their sleep.
When word reached Ella's ear—of her brother's abomination, of her children slaughtered, of her beloved Nile slain with blade to back—her heart did burst within her breast, and she perished in grief. For in Nile, she had glimpsed love untainted. True love.
Abalus the Other, struck mad with sorrow—he who loved Ella as Bastard Black did—spoke one final curse with his dying breath:
"No blood of this line shall rule for more than thirteen generations. One for each grandchild thou hast stolen from me."
The Church of Aetheria, still in its nascent dawn, sent forth its sparrows at the behest of Pope-Mother Raiayay. And lo—they found Rikkard in a stupor of dance and howling madness upon hearing of Ella's death... and struck off his head.
Bastard Black, in righteous fury, did unleash the Narayana Astra upon the battlefield—a god-weapon of unspeakable wrath—stilling the war with divine force. Then he turned to me, his last confidant, and charged me thus:
"Find a worthy heir of the blood that yet breathes."
So I found Kawau the Left—Abalus's son by a lowborn maid—and crowned him king.
And ere I took my leave... Bastard Black gave his life in penance. He allowed the rope to find his neck—for all the blood he could not save."
Seventh Leafe:
"I forsook the dream of bearing Islam unto this realm. For the wickedness here was so deep—so foul—I dared not let them sully the purity of my faith. 'Twas better the Word remained untouched than to see it mocked, twisted by heathen tongues and filthy hands.
So I walked. Across the scalded lands of Men. Through the iron holds of Orcs. Beneath the moss-veiled huts of Goblings. Among the silent groves of Spirits. Across the shoulders of towering Giants. I scaled the spines of Maga-Titans, fled from the coils of Krakens, and heard the songs of Sirins deep beneath waterworlds.
I soared to the sky, where countless moons weep—moons chained to Drakastradorn like prisoners unto a throne. I met beasts with faces of men… and men cursed with the eyes of beasts. In their midst, I saw that these were not merely creatures—but worlds entire, hidden in bone and blood, each their own kin, their own godless Eden.
Who hath bound them thus? Who chained the moons and broke the stars?
I sought this truth...
And found a Veil—a great shroud of fog. Pale and eternal. Surrounding all lands. An ancient mist, unmoving since time unremembered. And within it... lies something.
Not a thing. Not a force.
Them.
I do not know what they are—but they are behind the fog. They watch, they wait, they bind.
But neither the Crimson Senate nor the Church of Aetheria would suffer me to reach them. Nay, they guard the fog. They keep the Aetherians blind, like sheep too fearful to peer past the paddock gate."
Eighth Leafe:
"Just as Bastard Black once muttered beneath a dying sun, his wine-wet lips trembling with weary wisdom—"Too much knowledge is more dangerous than no knowledge."
Yet still… I walked.For that same man, broken and burning with visions, also told me: "Walk into Hell if it contains the Truth."
So I did.
I wandered into the shadows behind all things, into the cracks of kingship, under the floors of cathedrals, behind the masks of gods and beneath the lies of light. I looked where I was forbidden to look. I listened to the silence that speaks between the screams.And when I found it—the ancient fog—I gave it a name.A name to bind it. A name to brand it unto memory:Divar Mah Alode Zandan Ebdi Haghight.I bore witness to the truths that rot the soul.I gathered knowledge not meant for flesh or mind.And I kept walking—across this accursed world—until my bones ached from the weight of knowing."
Ninth Leafe:
"I poured myself into the tongues of this shattered world. I let the languages cut me open and write their meaning into my marrow.
I learned the words of Old Aetherian—serene and sanctimonious. I studied the New Elvan, proud and spiraled like their spires. The Dusk Elvan tongue—whispered in sorrow and scented with blood. The Orc tongue—rough and true, a song of war and womb alike.
I sang upon the Sirin Ladder—each note a step closer to madness. I howled the verses of the Great Wolvian, where growls carried intent sharper than steel. I listened to the scales of Divine Dragons, where syllables stretch centuries.
I mocked the Talk of Monkeys—vulgar, loud, true. I read the faded runes of the Halasier. I knelt before the thunder-writ of the Khanese.
Yet all of these—each beautiful and blasphemous dialect—belong only to the lands we see.
Within the fog, there are tongues uncountable. A great total—Two Hundred Thousand, Six Hundred and Seventy-Eight.
And still, none know how many more whisper in the world beyond it.
What songs do the gods beyond fog speak? What truths are hidden in syllables our minds would melt to utter?"
Tenth Leafe:
"Something was off... It had always been off.
The Fog—It has always been there.Ancient, unmoving, watching like a dead eye in the sky.But when I taught others of it, they vanished.Or worse... their minds turned to dripping wax, melted by truths unripe.
There are those not of this world—within the fog and beyond.Not just lords of land and sky, but of time, of purpose, of cruel divinity.
The Aetherian Gods—They are foreign.Stowaways from a realm not drawn on any map made by mortal or myth.
And they brought with them… others.Others cloaked as kin.Others pretending to be "ours."
I begged for answers.The gods remained silent—false, polished masks with no mouths behind them.Until I found it...
A ship.No, not a ship...A womb of dread.Crafted from flesh and brimstone. It pulsed.I called it "Hakshet."It had no birth, no creator. It was simply… there.
And guarding it—A suit of armor, walking, breathing, but hollow inside.It held a lance that never misses… not even against truth.
I dug deeper, to Elkalvador—city of wisdom, capital of thought.They call it "The Hollow City."They did not lie…
Beneath its marble bones, like ants crawl beneath bread, there was another Hakshet… older, angrier.
And within…Pots.Pots filled with porridge of the damned.Not food, no… but people—softened, melted, stirred…The truly ancient ones. Preserved not in amber, but agony."
11th Leafe:
"I found it.Not the full truth—but close enough for the world to hunt me.Close enough for the gods to shiver.So I ran.Through salt and ash, through dreams and thunder, I ran.And I did what no scholar, no priest, no king dared—
I crossed the Fog.
Bastard Black...If this reaches your rebirth, wherever your soul now burns or breathes—You were right."
Twelfth Leafe:
"Beyond the Fog, I saw it—Time... separate.A river forked. A mirror with no reflection.
There is another world.There are many.
I watched—I watched every king that shall ever sit on that accursed throne,even the ones not yet born.Their faces. Their wars. Their betrayals. Their ends.
And I saw this:Men… evolved.Their lives brief, like candles in a storm—but they burned bright.Three generations in a single century.Three minds, three dreams, three revolutions.
And the Elves?Eternal.Stagnant.Still trapped in the same song for a thousand years.Their eternity is a coffin with golden trim.
For while Elves lived to remember—Men died to invent."
Thirteenth Leafe:
"I saw the beginning of the Elves.Not in poems or scrolls—but with my own eyes, beyond the Fog, where time folds upon itself like parchment in flame.
The Goddess of the Forest, Aerion, birthed two forms—Adamas the Father.Evaline the Mother.
And in the year 70,000 BEW—Before Elven war—they gave life to 9,000 children.This was the First Emergence.This was the Seed of the Elvan world.
Then... they vanished.Adamas and Evaline left no tombs, no last words—only silence and a fragile civilization born from their bones.
Their children, alone and fertile, turned to each other.Blood bred blood.Time wove them into tribes. Then castes.
The Bhrihmans, Scholars of everything under the sky & beyond.The Kshatriyas, Warriors bound to sword and mantras.The Baniyuns, Traders who weighed gold heavier than gods.And the Shurudras, whose backs broke the stones others walked upon.
This was not wickedness—Not yet.In the beginning, the Varnus was pure: a measure of service, of merit, of offering.
But then the Church came.And with it—Propaganda.
A lie became scripture.And birth replaced worth.
The Varnus became a pyramid—its peak piercing the heavens,and its base crushed under its own divine weight."
Fourteenth Leafe:
"The Church of Aetheria did not grow.It appeared.Like rot on bread—already there, already thriving.
I now know why.It was not the gods beyond the mist who seeded it—It was THEM.
The ones behind the fog.The ones who twist thought, who bend faith, who whisper scripture into minds unguarded.THEM—They could not rule the people by sword, nor coin, nor throne.So they used belief. And the Church was born.
The Crimson Senate? Same poison. Different robe.No birth records. No founding war. No revolution. It simply... was.As if THEY placed it there like a carved piece in a fixed game of Kings.
I have found nothing of Bastard Black's legacy in their scrolls—Nothing but silence where his fire once roared.Was he truly a man...?Or something else wearing the name like a mask?
I do not know.All I know is the history to come—
For Raulus the White and Severus the Black stepped forward in these twilight days.They took into their arms the wombs of light and void—Anniwa, bearer of radiance...Lilisia, cradler of the abyss.
And from their unions came the twin seeds: the Light Elves and the Dark Elves.Born not as enemies, but as balances—As day and night are both children of the same sky."
"I don't know how long will I stay alive-if my writing will ever reach the people I don't know what's going on even....maybe this book gets hidden in the church's archive for all I know"
"& All I know is that Bastard Black's last word to me were"
"There was once a hero".