The royal court was silent, yet tension suffocated the grand hall like a storm cloud. The Emperor of the Jinjin Empire stood at the throne's base, his white robe trailing behind him, eyes heavy with the weight of the decision only he could make.
Before him stood his most trusted council—generals, mages, advisors—all visibly shaken.
"You cannot mean it," the High General declared, slamming a fist against his chestplate. "To keep the child after what the stars have shown... it is madness."
Murmurs followed. Some whispered of curses. Others feared rebellion. The oldest mage trembled as he clutched a scroll inked with ancient prophecy. The room brimmed with fear, not of an army or rival empire—but of a newborn yet to take his first breath.
The Emperor's voice was calm but unyielding. "He is my son. He will live."
"My Emperor," one of the old ministers pleaded, "you are beloved by all. The people will never understand this. The prophecy says he may become the vessel of Zarkhael, the Demon God—"
The Emperor raised a hand. "May. And he also may not. The stars foretell danger, not destiny. That choice belongs to him. As long as he is my blood, he will not be condemned before he draws breath."
Silence fell. None dared speak again, though dissent still burned in their eyes.
Far beyond the palace walls, across the fractured continent, the news had already begun to slither through the shadows.
In the Empire of krocia, the council of seers had already gazed into the flames.
In Brokurst, the king read over the ancient scripture with a trembling hand.
In the icy capital of Elaria, an empress watched the red hue rising in the sky and clenched her jaw. "If the child lives, none of us have a future."
Each ruler plotted in isolation. They did not conspire together—there was no alliance, no declaration of war. Only dread. And fear sharpens a blade quicker than hatred ever could.
Except one.
Emperor Gronad, ruler of the Nareth Empire, friend and blood-brother to the Jinjin Emperor, stood alone in his garden of ice lilies, the scroll unopened in his hand.
He had heard the whispers. He had seen the stars. But when his advisors suggested a preemptive strike, he dismissed them with cold fury.
"I will not kill a child for what he might become," he said. "Let the others spill innocent blood in the name of safety. I will not."
Then, the day arrived.
The heavens changed.
Without warning, the sun dimmed. The skies bled red.
Stars, invisible for ages during daylight, began to burn above, sharp and unnatural.
All across the land, animals howled. Birds abandoned the skies. Dogs whimpered and fled into corners. Horses refused to be ridden. Insects vanished. Children wept without knowing why.
People stopped in the streets, pointing toward the heavens. Panic crept through cities like a slow, rising tide.
In the capital of Jinjin, a low tremor shook the palace floor.
Inside the royal birthing chamber, the Empress screamed, her silver hair clinging to her face, her voice raw with agony. Sweat and magic hung thick in the air. High mages formed a protective circle around her, their incantations echoing, struggling to hold the woven spell of divine protection.
Outside the chamber, the Emperor stood still. He said nothing, yet his knuckles whitened around the hilt of his ceremonial blade.
Then, the great doors swung open.
A knight, panting and blood-streaked, knelt instantly.
"Your Majesty," he gasped. "An assassin. Inside the inner palace. Possibly more."
The Emperor turned slowly. His voice was ice. "They will not reach the child."
A wave of energy burst from him. Mages flinched. Sentries snapped into action. The entire wing of the palace sealed with arcane locks. Every corridor filled with armored guards. Defensive enchantments lit up in cascading runes.
The world had turned. And this child was at its center.
Inside the chamber, the air changed.
The Empress's cries reached their crescendo. The mages tightened the circle.
Then—it happened.
The final push.
The child emerged.
But the moment he was caught in the healer's arms, the mage nearest him recoiled as if burned.
His skin paled. His eyes rolled back. He collapsed to the floor, unconscious.
The chamber went deathly still.
The child was quiet at first, wrapped in sacred cloth. Then one mage leaned in, caught a glimpse of his eyes—and staggered backward.
"Black... black as the void... No light... no reflection..."
The Empress, exhausted but conscious, stretched out her arms.
Her child was laid against her chest, and for a moment, the world felt calm.
But then—
A deep hum. Not from the child—but from around him. As though the very air acknowledged his presence.
The remaining high mage whispered, "The veil has thinned. The realm of Zarkhael stirs."
But the Empress wasn't listening.
She looked down at her son, and though his eyes were unnatural—pure darkness, infinite and unblinking—she saw no evil. No malice.
He was... calm.
He was just a child.
She brought him close, holding him against her.
The Emperor stepped inside.
He looked upon his son. Then at the unconscious mage. Then back at the child.
He gave no speech.
No blessing.
Only a nod. A silent command to the room: This child is to be protected. At all costs.
The others bowed and obeyed.
Then it happened.
The child cried.
Not a wail—but a piercing sound that cut through every wall, every barrier. The palace trembled. The red moon flared.
And far, far away—
In the heart of a forgotten realm buried beneath molten stone and time itself...
It smiled.
A voice without lips, a presence without form.
He is born.
Let the celebration begin.