Before war scarred the world, before kingdoms grasped for godhood, there were only the people—and the Power.
Not a gift.
Not a weapon.
A burden.
Two forces.
Balanced and absolute.
Aura, the force within—a soul's roar made manifest.
Mana, the voice of the world—a breath of stone, sky, and storm.
Power was sacred. Meant to guard the weak. To slay the creatures born in the earth's cracks, where light dared not go. To stand, bleeding, between horror and home.
It was never meant to conquer.
But mortals forget.
---
Solara, the human realm. Ever-reaching. Ever-hungry. Masters of ambition, driven by vision, fueled by fear.
Lunareth, the elven dominion. Radiant. Arrogant. Wielders of deep magic, guardians of old forests and older pride.
Dravengard, the dwarven bastion. Forged in fire. Rooted in stone. Builders of wonders. Binders of grudges.
Three kingdoms.
Three peoples.
And in time, three sins.
Each wanted to define power.
Each thought themselves worthy to shape it.
Each thought they could control what no one ever had.
They were wrong.
---
It began not with a war—but with hope.
A healer in Lunareth discovered a way to weave Mana into Aura, accelerating recovery. A dwarven smith forged a weapon that pulsed with both powers—faster, sharper, unbreakable. A human soldier channeled Mana through Aura-infused veins, moving faster than arrows could fly.
The world cheered.
They called them Ascended.
Awakened.
Champions.
But it didn't take long before kings began asking:
If one can heal a hundred… could another kill a thousand?
It took eight years to answer.
---
They called it a war.
It wasn't.
It was a slow unraveling of the world.
Fused warriors marched across fields and left nothing living. Cities disappeared in a single night. Trees screamed as wild Mana ignited in their roots. Mountains broke open as Aura storms clashed.
And from those broken veins, things crawled out—beasts shaped by warped energies, minds burned away by too much power. Creatures neither man nor nature had ever named.
The kingdoms blamed each other.
Then they blamed their weapons.
Then they blamed the gods.
But the truth was simpler.
They had become the very monsters they once fought.
---
When the last king fell—devoured by a relic he once wore—the war ended. Not with victory, but with silence.
And into that silence came the Arbiters.
No crowns. No banners. No second chances.
They walked in black, their blades unseen, their words fewer than their footsteps.
> "Power that protects is sacred.
Power that rules is sin.
Fuse them again… and die."
No trials. No parley.
They swept through cities, sealing ancient forges, purging forbidden scrolls, and silencing those who defied balance.
Their presence became law.
Their silence became fear.
And the world bowed—not in loyalty, but in guilt.
---
Aisu Erlic opened his eyes.
There was no storm now. No aura flares. Just the faint clatter of a spoon in a pot, the weight of sleep, and the fading sting of helplessness.
He had seen power.
And it hadn't protected anyone.
He rose slowly, his legs stiff, mind thick with memory. A wounded man… an Arbiter's blade… a scream. Blood. Still warm on the edge of thought.
He stepped into the kitchen.
---
Theo was bruised and bandaged but awake.
Elda stirred broth without looking up.
The twins sat together, unusually still, holding each other like glass.
No one spoke. Not at first.
"I froze," Aisu muttered.
"You stayed," Theo answered without glancing up. "That's more than most."
"But I didn't help."
"You will," Elda said softly.
And for a while, they let silence be enough.