The Night of Dark Moon Light's Birth
His hand trembled.
Before Kraan stood a long black sword, as if it were dissolving into the shadows. Its blade did not glimmer in the light—
It devoured it, like a void of darkness swallowing all radiance.
His heart pounded, his whole body tense as if charged with raw current.
But he did not step back.
He reached out his hand.
(I) — The Moment of Connection
The instant his fingertips brushed the cold metal, everything froze.
Time stopped.
The air thickened.
All sound vanished—except for the deafening thump of his heart.
Suddenly, he felt someone beside him.
— "Who are you?"
A voice.
Not in his ears—
But in his mind.
Kraan turned. No one there.
Yet he knew someone was present.
— "What do you desire?"
A vision flashed into his mind—not a memory, but a living nightmare etched into his soul.
His home burns.
His parents die.
He stands helpless, empty-handed.
A surge of fury and cold emptiness erupted from within.
There was only one thing he had lacked then—
Power.
Without hesitation, he grasped the sword.
His hand felt as if it froze on contact.
The cold steel bit into his skin, a deep tremor surged through his mind—
But this was no ordinary pain.
(II) — 2,000 Years Ago
He stood alone in darkness.
The ground black. The sky red.
All around him — death and destruction.
Before him, a warrior drew his blade.
— "This is not your beginning… but your end."
His voice trembled slightly—
A man who had walked a long path soaked in blood.
Everywhere he looked, only memories drowned in gore and ruin.
He raised his sword to defend himself.
But in time, this blade had become the reason he killed everything he once loved.
— "I forged this… myself."
He gazed at the weapon.
Suddenly, black smoke flowed from his hand—
His pain, his hatred, his despair all poured into the sword.
As he lifted the blade one final time, he understood:
This sword will never serve a man.
A man will serve it.
(III) — The Blood Oath of 20,000 Souls
Kraan saw another vision.
A battlefield drowned in corpses, the earth covered in the dead.
Above, tormented souls shrieked through the sky.
And among them stood a single warrior.
In his hand — Dark Moon Light.
— "We've won!" one soldier cried out.
But no one remained alive.
20,000 soldiers.
20,000 screams.
Their souls were sucked into the blade one by one,
Their torment and agony infused into its steel.
Kraan felt it all.
This sword—
Was not just a weapon.
It was fear.
It was death.
It was a curse.
(IV) — Who Is the True Master of Dark Moon Light?
— "Do you wish to wield me?"
Kraan returned to consciousness.
The cold black blade scorched between his fingers, searing his flesh.
— "Yes."
Black smoke erupted from his hand—
And coursed through his body—
Through muscle, bone, vein, soul.
— "Then you must inherit my fate."
A chilling emptiness took root in his heart.
This was not just power.
Not just a blade.
It was a curse.
But he accepted it.
And as he drew the sword—
Everything became his:
The fear.
The metallic echo of cold steel.
The overwhelming flood of darkness inside.
The master of Dark Moon Light… was reborn.
Kraan stood, taking a shallow breath.
Within him surged a torrent of spirit and power.
He now understood—
Dark Moon Light was no mere weapon.
He gripped the sword tightly,
And the sound of cold iron rang in his ears.
Though all felt strangely smooth and effortless,
a gnawing ache clawed at his soul.
— "Yes… this is not just power.
This is a curse."
He turned to gaze at the distant mountains and plains—
They too were now swallowed by dark shadows.
Everything around him dulled, like the world itself was fading.
And within him, the cold emptiness whispered:
If he were to wield this power—
Would he remain himself?
Dark Moon Light—was not simply a sword.
It was the story of his first helplessness.
The blade carried the weight of his deepest wound
and now fueled his battle against a cruel world order.