Love is both sanctuary and storm. —
The shelter where our hearts find peace and the tempest that tears us apart.
In its embrace, we are complete; in its absence, we are broken.
Yet still we seek it,
For even tragic love is more alive, Then no love at all.
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"You... betrayer..."
The anguished wail shattered the battlefield's chaos, transforming carnage into pure sorrow. Her sword pierced through the heart she had wanted for herself, his motionless form growing heavy in her embrace.
"Uwaa... sob... ahhhh... haa... sob."
Her broken scream silenced even the clash of steel around them. Sheets of rain erased her tears as quickly as they spilled, washing the battlefield clean of everything but grief.
"Rat-a-tat-tat—"
The downpour continued its mournful dirge as if the heavens themselves wept for what love had wrought.
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Six years ago...
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Year XX16, February 23rd – Neo Melitowa, The Coral Confederation, Aquatica
This lawless underwater city of Aquatica was perpetually dim, its glowing coral walls emitting a strange blue-green light through the magic-engineered barrier that kept the ocean at bay. This was the worst district of the world's largest nation, Neo Melitowa—a place where criminals and outcasts came to hide from the world above.
As the artificial sun within the city's dome dimmed, shadows began creeping through the narrow streets like living things. The ocean water pressed relentlessly against their magical walls, a constant reminder of the depths that surrounded them.
In a dark alley between crumbling, forgotten buildings stood a forge that looked menacing by mere appearance. The stone walls were rust-stained and algae-covered; most windows were either boarded up or too grimy to see through. Ordinary citizens hurried past, unwilling to even glance at the ominous structure.
But when night falls, different kinds of people gather here.
They often came one by one, sometimes in pairs. Tonight, however, a dozen figures approached together. Each wore heavy cloaks or deep hoods that concealed their faces. Some walked with pronounced limps; others kept glancing nervously over their shoulders. But they all shared the same desperate need—to gain entry to that rust-stained forge.
Before they even reached the entrance, the sound hit them:
(CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.)
Someone inside was hammering metal with extreme precision. Followed by the sharp hiss of superheated steel meeting cool water, punctuated by the occasional crash of breaking glass.
Each visitor pushed through the heavy oak door without hesitation.
Inside, the air was thick and suffocating. Special fire coral provided the intense heat needed for underwater metalworking, their brilliant orange and red flames casting wild, dancing shadows across the soot-blackened walls. Sparks flew with each hammer blow, creating radiant sprinkles before dying on the stone floor.
At the centre of this inferno stood the blacksmith, wielding his massive hammer with practised ease.
He was enormous—aged but powerfully built, with muscles that moved and flexed with every swing of his heavy tool. Despite their city being surrounded by cold ocean depths, sweat poured down his bare chest, mixing with the grime and soot of his trade. His seasoned hands gripped the hammer's worn handle with the confidence of decades.
He didn't even turn to welcome his guests, continuing to beat the red-hot chunk of metal shaping it into something sharp and twisted. (CLANG). The anvil rang like a bell. (HISS.) Steam rose as he quenched the glowing steel.
The visitors Know the unspoken rules here: see nothing, hear nothing, and Dare say anything. The blacksmith served as both camouflage and warning—that some secrets demanded to be kept.
Without a sound, they moved toward the narrow staircase against the far wall. The old worn wooden steps groaned under their collective weight, but the sound was masked by the constant hammering and the rhythmic hiss of cooling metal.
Upon reaching the second floor, they entered the only room there and knelt in respectful silence.
"Roger—you're early." "I thought the meeting was scheduled for the day after tomorrow," spoke a man seated behind a desk beneath a solitary lamp. Shadows hide his features, his silhouette engulfed by darkness. His voice was rough and full of authority.
"Yes, my lord. But I received urgent news and must depart immediately. So I won't be available at the scheduled time," Robert replied, lifting his hood as the lamp's faint glow revealed his weathered face. He raised his head while his followers remained kneeling.
"It must be significant if you have to move personally—especially with all your High Knights in tow," the man observed, his gaze sweeping over his attendants. Each one of them emits a confident aura.
Roger turned back towards his companions, hinting to them to stay put and be respectful
"Yes, my lord. The news is of that magnitude."
"Very well. Let's hear it, Roger. "That's why you're here, isn't it?" His voice remained calm, yet carried an undercurrent of anticipation.
"My lord, according to our latest intelligence, the third child of King Boreas Frozenite—the second princess of Glacialis—has departed her castle and is travelling toward the City of Literature... to the Arcane Academy."
"You mean..." The man's composure cracked slightly, excitement bleeding into his voice.
"Yes, sir. She will pass through the Earthen Kingdom and arrive in Arcane City within six weeks."
A wide, unsettling smile spread across Robert's lips.
"Our time has come, my lord."
"Oh, Robert... oh, Robert. He-he-he-he..."
The man rose from his chair, spreading his arms wide as his eyes gleamed in the lamplight.
"What magnificent news you've brought me."
Robert offered a rare gentleman's bow, honored by his master's praise.
"The second princess. The only child truly beloved by the Ice King... Liana Mia Frozenite." That man's facial gestures changed; his face tightened. And sudden anger took over him
He clenched his fist and slammed it into the desk with explosive force. (CRACK!) The wooden surface crumbled to splinters, and the impact sent fractures spider-webbing across the stone floor beneath. Even the old blacksmith in the adjoining chamber paused his work at the thunderous sound.
"The little swan has finally left her nest. Only to be caged and devoured."
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Year XX16, February 24th - Border of Glacialis and Sylvaterra
The grey mountains stood like slumbering titans, their rocky faces crowned with patches of pure snow that refused to yield to the season's change. Crisp morning air cascaded down from the peaks, carrying winter's sharp bite even as the sun climbed higher in the crystal-clear azure sky. A thick fog rolled between the mountains like a veil, concealing the valleys below in its grey embrace.
The melodious symphony of running water and whispering wind filled the air with tranquillity
A truly captivating sight.
But this peaceful silence was suddenly shattered by a powerful (HISS) of escaping steam.
Through the mountain's heart came a sound that didn't belong—the deep, rhythmic chuff-chuff-chuff of a steam locomotive.
A train whistle pierced the fog—long, mournful, and haunting. The sound seemed to bridge kingdoms, carrying across the borderlands. Metal wheels clanged against iron rails in a steady rhythm, the percussion following the train like an iron shadow.
As the mechanical beast left the cold, rocky peaks behind, it rolled into verdant territory. The soil here was rich and loamy, filling the air with the intoxicating scent of fertile earth. The mountain's chill gave way to something warmer, perfumed with wildflowers and heavy with moisture.
The train, which had laboured mightily to climb through the mountain passes, now glided smoothly over the gentle grades. The ascending sun finally rose high enough to paint the landscape in a thousand brilliant hues.
A small songbird landed on one of the open windows. It hopped around, picking up tiny crumbs that had been left on the windowsill. Suddenly, someone inside lunged forward to catch it. The clever little creature was too quick—it evaded the grasp and launched itself back into the open air.
A delicate hand remained extended through the window, pale as fresh snow with soft pink nails that seemed almost like those of ceramic dolls. The fingers slowly retracted, reaching up to gather long azure hair that had been dancing in the wind, tucking the silky strands gently behind a shell-like ear.
What was revealed was beauty so mesmerising that even the escaped bird might have surrendered its heart. Like a falling leaf drawn by an irresistible force, the tiny creature returned and settled softly upon her modest bosom.
The woman's skin was flawless, luminous and smooth as polished marble. Her face was almost translucent quality, with the faintest rose flush colouring her rounded cheeks. Her lips appeared impossibly soft, like rose petals touched by morning dew. Her eyes like striking—framed by long, dark lashes that fluttered like butterfly wings, while her gentle blue irises reflected the very sky itself. Anyone who gazed into those depths would surely become lost.
Though her expression seemed distant and uninterested, her lips curved into the subtlest smile, betraying within.
She wore a flowing white dress that seemed to capture and amplify the morning light, making her appear more radiant than the sun itself. Seated by the window, she watched the world transform from harsh mountain stone to gentle rolling meadows, as beautiful and untouchable as a goddess from ancient tales
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"Roger!! Capture her, now!!" The shadowed figure fixed Roger with burning intensity, his hands trembling with anticipation. "This is an opportunity that comes once in a lifetime, do you understand?!"
"We aren't the only ones who desire that Iceborne child..." His voice cracked with desperation. "You know this, don't you?! That Golden Goose is coveted by how many factions? Too many to count!" He exhaled shakily. "Even now, others have already played their hands. We're falling behind, Roger. Far behind!! Hurry!"
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As he spoke, numerous eyes had indeed fixed upon this golden chance. Hidden factions throughout the realm had emerged from the shadows, all seeking to capture the daughter of the world's most powerful nation. She was the key to unlimited wealth and unstoppable power.
Inside the train, meaningful glances were exchanged as hands drifted to concealed weapons. Miles ahead, another group had already detonated the railway bridge, planning to send the entire train plummeting into the ravine below.
The train crew lay murdered—the conductor sprawled in his booth, throat opened like a grotesque second mouth. The engine had been sabotaged and set ablaze to eliminate all evidence.
Slowly, silently, they converged on her compartment. Every sound was muffled, every breath held. Assassins swung through windows from both sides while others tore through the roof itself. Glass exploded inward—(CRASH! TINKLE!)—as shards scattered across the floor in a glittering carpet of destruction.
They hurled smoke grenades and poison canisters into the confined space. HISS…..POP. Noxious clouds billowed forth as they launched their coordinated assault at inhuman speed.
Roger, hearing his lord's urgency, stepped forward and knelt, placing a hand over his heart in a respectful salute.
"My lord! Don't concern yourself with such a trivial matter. I assure you, your Goose cannot be stolen or harmed at present. Currently, even if every army in the known world marched as one, even if the Four Great Kings themselves led the charge, no one could scratch her skin."
"What?!" His lord's brow furrowed in confusion.
"Yes, my lord. "Regrettably, even we cannot touch her shadow," Roger confirmed with an apologetic expression.
"Roger!! Enough with riddles! "Explain yourself!" The lord's patience shattered.
"Sire, we received intelligence of her departure before even her own guards knew. The route, the schedule, the security arrangements—all of it fell into our hands like ripe fruit." He paused, and in that silence lay the heart of the matter. "It was too easy, my lord. When I investigated her retinue—her knights, her handmaidens, every passenger—I finally understood."
Tension thickened in the shadowy room as Roger's voice grew heavy with implication.
"She has a companion, doesn't she? A dangerous one." A vein pulsed at the lord's temple. "It's a trap to draw us all into the open."
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A bloody train ablaze, running without any Reins.
Inside one compartment, the assassins slashed wildly through the choking thick haze. Steel sang through the air—(SLICE! WHIR!)—cutting through seats, luggage, and anything else in their path. Suddenly, their blades clanged with something immovable, and they were hurled backwards by a counterforce.
Through the blinding smoke, a silhouette rose from his seat. With his left hand, he swept something in a tremendous arc. That one instant single motion unleashed a whirlwind that tore the entire roof clean away with a sound like a world splitting—RRRIIIPPP!
The tornado sent wooden panels spinning into the sky. Passenger luggage whirled through the air—(THUD! CRASH!)—as leather cases and cloth bags scattered like leaves in a hurricane. Chairs broke free from their moorings, tumbling end over end. The compartment windows exploded outward—(SHATTER!)—sending a spray of glass fragments glittering in the sunlight.
All smoke vanished instantly. The flames extinguished as if they had never existed. The poisonous mist was swept away like a bad dream.
There, standing amid the devastation, was a battle-scarred giant—muscles like iron cables beneath weathered skin, towering and broad-shouldered. In his grip was a rotten black greatsword, half the length of his massive frame. The blade was a monument to countless battles, its surface covered in rust, edges dulled by time and blood. Yet he wielded this enormous weapon one-handed as if it were nothing more than a hollow steel rod.
(Crunch). (Crunch). His boots ground the shattered glass to powder with each step.
"Ahh – Ahh!!" Whose foolish child is smoking inside the train? "What am I supposed to do if I get cancer?" He waved away lingering wisps from the smoke, which was actually released from his own cigarette
"Tsk-tsk, children these days—always making messes and destroying public property." He flicked ash from his cigarette with his free hand, exhaling a deliberate stream of smoke while surveying the carnage. His neck cracked audibly as he turned to assess the damage. Pop.
"Poor manners, boys. Yo, 'Momma got to pay for this." He raised his sword while faking a sad face, its point aimed at the groaning assassins scattered across the floor like broken dolls.
((BUT YOU CAUSED THE MOST DAMAGE, YOU SENILE BASTARD!!)) The fallen assassins thought in unison, their faces twisted with indignation.
The surviving assassins regrouped with their reinforcements. Recognising his devastating close-combat abilities, they shifted to long-range tactics. Poison darts whistled through the air—while arrows and throwing knives flew in deadly arcs. (WHISTLE! THUNK!)
But as each projectile neared the old man, another casual sword swing deflected them all. Without even turning, he shifted his massive blade behind his back—(CLANG!)—blocking a surprise attack with perfect timing.
"Ohohoho, naughty children get extra punishment." The old man seized the would-be assassin by the collar and hurled him through the air. The man's scream Dopplered away—"AHHHHHHH!"—before ending in a distant SPLASH as he hit the river far below.
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Back into the darkness….
"Yes, my lord. Security wasn't particularly tight, and her information was suspiciously accessible, as if deliberately offered. They possessed that much confidence in her protection... in him— Swordmaster Chronos Frozenite ," Robert announced,
His lord's eyes widened at the mention of that name—the one that terrorized seven nations, a designation that meant a one-man army.
"The White storm?? The White Storm is here? Why? How? This cannot be true. Surely you're mistaken—?" Doubt and fear crept into the lord's voice as even Roger couldn't meet his gaze, closing his eyes and bowing his head in confirmation.
"No, sire. Our finest informants verified it. His appearance and abilities match every recorded description of the White Storm. It is undoubtedly him in the flesh."
The lord's fingers worked frantically through his beard, tugging at his hair in agitation. "This changes everything."
"AHHHHH!!" He let out a long, tired breath. "You know what, Roger? This world is messed up. The strong guys get everything they want, and the rest of us? We're just here to get stepped on. That's how it works – if you've got power or money, you win. If you don't, you lose everything."
He shook his head, looking frustrated. "And you know who's really running the show? Eleven Individuals. That's it. Just eleven monsters who could probably destroy entire cities if they felt like it.
Four of them got their power the easy way – they were just born lucky. One's got more money than entire kingdoms. Another knows secrets that could drive you crazy just hearing them. There's one who moves so fast you'd think he teleports, and the last one... people actually worship him like a god. These four? They didn't have to fight for anything. The world just handed them everything on a silver platter.
But the other seven? They're not even people, Roger. They ARE the weapons. Seven divine artifacts called 'Astras' – nobody knows how old they are, could be thousands of years old. These aren't just powerful weapons someone picks up. They're alive, thinking, ancient beings that have been around since who knows when. Imagine something so old and powerful it could erase mountains or create new ones just because it feels like it. That's what we're dealing with.
Here's the scary part – three of those Astras went missing during some big war 400 years ago. Nobody knows where they are. The strongest Astra got locked away somewhere, probably for good reason. But the last three? They picked their favourite people and turned them into the most dangerous warlords alive."
He looked at Roger seriously. "That's our world, man. Seven monsters decide everything, and the rest of us just hope they don't notice us."
"Swordmaster Chronos Frozenite – one of those three Warlords, wielder of the Seventh Divine Astra—the Sword of Detachment, Moksha—and brother to the current King of Glacialis himself." His voice dropped to a whisper. (He vanished after the Battle of Pyross Kingdom seven years ago. Why did he have to return now, of all times?
"His motivations remain unknown, my lord. Seven years ago, he publicly severed all ties with Glacialis and renounced his claim to the throne. But one thing is certain: he is personally escorting his niece. Under his protection, the princess might as well be guarded by an entire army."
________________________________________________________________________________________________Back on the train...
The old timer , Chronos Frozenite, had single-handedly neutralised the entire assassination attempt using nothing but his fists and blade. He stood atop a mountain of unconscious bodies, holding their leader aloft by the collar like a trophy.
"HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!" His laughter was that of a predator who had thoroughly enjoyed toying with his prey. He slowly increased the pressure of his grip, crushing the man's windpipe bit by bit, letting him taste the approach of death. CRUNCH.
"U-Uncle? (cough-cough...)" A small voice cut through his revelry, accompanied by delicate coughing. "Can I come out now?"
A tiny figure emerged from beneath a corner seat—azure hair completely dishevelled by the earlier whirlwind, her pale face streaked with soot and ash. She rubbed her eyes with small fists, blinking in the sudden brightness. "Is it over?"
The bloodied human flag slipped from Chronos's grasp—THUD—as he turned toward the sound. His jovial expression sobered, eyes sharpening as they found the small figure cowering in the corner.
(Thump-thump-thump.)
His heavy boots descended from the mountain of fallen bodies, each step crushing glass fragments to glittering powder. (Crunch. Crunch.) He approached the girl with measured steps, his blood-stained hands still dripping. She watched this approaching giant—her head tilted back at an impossible angle just to see his face, barely reaching his waist even standing straight.
"Hey, child..." His voice grew serious, drawing a deep breath as her expression remained perfectly deadpan. "You know what?"
Silence stretched between them like a taut wire.
She closed her eyes tightly as he knelt and raised his massive hand—
"You've got some Poop on your face," he announced, pointing at the ash smeared across her pale cheek.
(...)
(...what?)
He erupted in fresh laughter at her annoyed expression, made even more endearing by those perpetually sleepy eyes.
"Eeeeeeehhhh! You big meanie!" She puffed her cheeks indignantly.
He reached out to straighten her dishevelled hair, inadvertently smearing it with the blood on his hands. Pat-pat.
"Eww!!" "What are you doing? Uwahhh—my hair!!!"
As uncle and niece continued their spirited quarrel, neither noticed the pilotless train barreling toward the destroyed bridge ahead...
SHRIEK... FWOOOSH—CHHIIING!
A rail of crystalline ice materialised from nothing, spanning the entire broken bridge across the bottomless ravine nearly a thousand feet deep. The frozen structure gleamed like captured starlight, solid and unbreakable.
The little girl noticed the shimmering white Urza circulating through her uncle's massive frame—that energy was usually not visible to ordinary eyes but she was a gifted child.
Blessed with massive Urza capacity, the Uncontrolled power often brought pain to her delicate, fragile body.
The train thundered across the bridge of ice, carrying them safely toward their destination and whatever fate awaited them there.
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Roger could see how upset his lord was - hell, anyone would be after hearing about those monsters running the world. He spotted a chair half-buried under pieces of the broken table and carefully pulled it out. After brushing off all the dust with his handkerchief, he slid it over to his master.
His lord got the hint and sat down heavily.
"Sir, you're right about those superhumans being dangerous as hell," Roger said, walking around to face him with a respectful bow. "That's exactly why I didn't send any of our guys after her. I get it - the risks are insane. But..."
He straightened up, meeting his lord's eyes. "If we want to achieve our goals - all of them - this risk is worth taking. We can't get to her now, but soon she'll be alone at that academy. No bodyguards, no protection. Her safety net only goes as far as the academy gates."
Roger's lips curved into a cold smile. "Until then, we prepare and wait."
The room seemed to grow darker as they all faded into the shadows, like predators waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
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Four Months Later
The wooden carriage bounced and lurched through muddy roads, rain drumming against its roof. Finally, it came to a stop in front of massive city gates. The horses snorted and stamped, clearly exhausted and thirsty.
The coachman climbed down and opened the back door. "Hey there, wake up! We've made it to your destination." He gently shook the figure sleeping under a brown shawl.
The passenger stirred, rubbing his eyes groggily. Outside, the rain was coming down hard.
Oh, we're here already? He blinked, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings. Enormous stone walls stretched up before him, with gates that looked like they were built for giants. Other carriages and travellers were clustered around the entrance, all waiting for the rain to let up.
"Yes, child, the city for literature and wisdom is a dreamland for all the children."
Year XX16, July 03rd – Ashram (A city around the Arcane Academy)
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He pulled his dirty, wrinkled robe over his head and hopped out of the carriage. Fishing out two silver coins, he handed them to the coachman. "Here you go, sir! Keep the change. You've been really helpful and kind this whole trip."
"Ho ho ho!" the old coachman chuckled. "You're the kind one, child! Cooking for me the whole way and keeping watch at night – I should be thanking you!"
"Heh, well then I guess we're even, sir."
"Indeed we are!" The old man beamed at him. "By the way, I'll be camping around here for about two months. If you ever need help, don't hesitate to find me. Maybe fate will let us travel together again someday."
The words caught him off guard – it had been a while since anyone had spoken to him with such genuine warmth. A real smile spread across his face as he pulled back his hood slightly and recited an old traveller's verse:
"The stars that guide us through the night,
Know the paths we walk and roads we'll find,
If heaven's lights burn just as bright,
our journeys yet again will bind."
His black hair caught the cool breeze, and something about his warm smile and kind eyes made the old coachman's heart swell with joy.
"Beautiful words, young one. May the stars indeed guide us back together."
The traveler shouldered his pack and headed toward the massive gates. The old coachman didn't move from his spot, watching with fatherly concern as the boy joined the line of people waiting to enter the city.
As he watched the young man's figure grow smaller in the distance, the coachman's expression grew thoughtful. "How could there be so much pain hidden in such tender eyes?" he murmured to himself, shaking his head sadly. "The world is really cruel."
His years on the road had taught him to read people - the real stories behind their smiles, the weight they carried in their hearts. This boy had been nothing but kind and helpful the entire journey, but those eyes... they held shadows far too deep for someone so young.
Only when the traveler had passed through the gates and disappeared completely from sight did the coachman finally tend to his horses, a gentle smile still lingering on his weathered face, mixed now with quiet concern for the road ahead of his young companion.