Chapter 1 : The Double Pentagram and the Birth of Chaos
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Cursed and Blessed: The Tale of Baba Matuwa
The Great Baba Matuwa was not born of ordinary flesh, but of a union that defied the laws of both realms. His mother, a radiant deity of the heavens, and his father, a prince of the infernal dominion, bound themselves in a forbidden affection. From that union came a child neither heaven nor hell could claim without breaking their eternal covenant.
For this transgression, the child was burdened with both blessing and curse. The curse: he would be forever barred from stepping fully into either paradise or perdition. The blessing: the gift of sight beyond mortal measure—the ability to peer into the strands of time itself. To Baba Matuwa were laid bare the echoes of the past, the shifting tides of the present, and the yet-unfolding tapestry of the future.
Thus, he walked the world of mortals as a figure apart, neither angel nor demon, carrying within him the contradiction of grace and damnation. And though the gates of heaven and hell remained closed to him, the paths of destiny were his to read, making him both feared and sought after—an eternal witness to the flow of existence.
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The Double Pentagram
The world of humans has always been shrouded in mystery and wonder, a place where balance is born out of both meaning and causality. Within it walk the ordinary and the extraordinary—those who live quietly in the stream of fate, and those who, by blessing or curse, stand apart from it. Yet in all, there lies the same gift: the freedom to choose.
But choice, by its very nature, breeds discontent. Belief clashes with belief, principle collides with principle. From these fractures, conflict rises eternal. Chaos, it seems, is the only constant. And yet—within the endless struggle, there stirs the whisper of destiny. A chosen one is said to emerge, one who will weave structure out of disorder and restore a harmony the world has never known.
It was the Great Baba Matuwa who first spoke of this. Child of heaven's light and hell's shadow, he bore the vision of what was, what is, and what may yet come. His prophecies never faltered, and his words carried the weight of both grace and curse. To him, the future unfolded as a storm upon the horizon—an overwhelming flood, a reckoning that would drown the world if left unchecked.
The Babaylan, the oldest shamans known to humankind, share a fragment of his gift. Through their enchanted eyes, they peer across the veil of time, whispering with spirits seen and unseen. They are wanderers whose homes cannot be fixed, found anywhere and nowhere at once. Many fear them. More revere them. Few ever meet them.
Baba Matuwa's warning was clear: destruction would come, but it could yet be delayed—perhaps even undone—if all creatures, despite their bloodlines, despite their differences, could stand together.
It was this revelation that stirred the resolve of Doctor Bharit, an alchemist of unmatched conviction. Refusing to bow before despair, he sought to unite the divided. To leaders of every kind—human, beast, spirit, and beyond—he carried the prophecy. He promised that through his great experiment, the Double Pentagram, there might yet be salvation. The ritual would not erase the danger entirely, but it could bind it, weaken it, and buy the world precious time.
And so the names of doom began to spread like wildfire: The Revelation. The Day of Destruction. The Destroyer. The Apocalypse. The End of the World.
But in the hands of those willing to believe—in prophecy, in alchemy, in the frail possibility of unity—the Double Pentagram became not only a weapon against ruin, but the fragile hope of a world teetering on the brink.
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The Pact of Makyan
Datu Othello Musain, fearsome leader of the Wendigo tribe, ruled with an iron hand over the thirteen divided territories of Makyan. His people, notorious for their insatiable hunger for human spirits, were equally renowned for their mastery in concocting both poison and cure—masters of death and life alike.
When Doctor Bharit entered the Wendigo's lands, shadows moved around him, eyes glowing from the forest depths. The air was heavy, almost alive with suspicion. And then the Datu himself appeared, towering and grim, his voice a growl that carried the weight of the tribe.
"Ngēn engullān nengkāsyā, salakamē?"
(What is a scientist like you doing here in my territory?)
Doctor Bharit, though surrounded by hostility, did not falter. He met the Datu's gaze, his voice steady.
"The great Babaylan asked me to come. I bring words of matters that decide not just your tribe, but the fate of the entire world."
It was no small thing that the Makyan were the first to grant him audience. Their territory lay near the Pollace Empire, where whispers of prophecy already stirred. With the aid of a crystalline device—an invention born of alchemy and magic—Bharit's words were translated into sounds the Wendigo could understand. Slowly, carefully, he unfolded the vision of Baba Matuwa: the flood of ruin, the end that threatened all creation.
The tribe listened. Their hunger was endless, their ways feared, but even they could not ignore the shadow looming over every creature, mortal or otherwise. And when Bharit's speech ended, Datu Musain gave his answer.
"Demapakāy umanykā dāh panggulān kū."
(I will do my best to protect my family, my disciples, and, most importantly, my throne.)
Thus, the Wendigo of Makyan, feared eaters of souls, became the first to align themselves with Bharit's cause. Not out of mercy. Not out of love. But for blood, kin, and throne—for survival itself.
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The Rivalry of Steel and Sea
With the aid of the Pollace Empire's skycraft, swift as falcons and clad in glimmering alloy, Doctor Bharit and Datu Musain crossed the skies with ease, arriving in the rugged lands of Harmania. This was a realm shaped by storms and blood, where the Viking clans carved their lives with blade and fire.
Their path led them to Alexandre—the famed swordsman of the Northeast, whose skill was said to rival any warlord in history. They found him in the midst of his training, sweat glistening across steel, each stroke of his blade carrying the weight of ten thousand battles.
When Bharit spoke of prophecy and apocalypse, Alexandre did not even lower his sword.
"I am not interested!" he barked, voice cold as iron. With a stubborn glare, he shoved them aside, unwilling to be distracted from his ceaseless pursuit of mastery.
Datu Musain bristled, his Wendigo pride demanding confrontation, but Bharit raised a hand, quelling the storm before it broke. They would not win this ally through force. Yet as they turned to leave, Alexandre paused, resting his blade upon his shoulder.
"If it is unity you seek, go instead to the east," he said, his tone edged with disdain. "Find the pirate lord—Captain Aleph. My rival, my shadow. He would leap at such foolishness."
Doctor Bharit inclined his head respectfully. "If you change your mind, my friend, press this emblem, and I will come." He left behind a small token etched with alchemical runes, its glow faint but true. Alexandre accepted it without a word, merely offering a curt nod before returning to his relentless training.
And so Bharit and Musain departed, their course set by a rival's advice, into the lawless waters where the pirates ruled.
There they found Captain Aleph, sovereign of the Eastern seas and commander of a thousand marauders. Unlike the hardened flesh of Vikings, Aleph bore the blood of Leviathan—a monstrous sea-born power wrapped in human form. With a sword-hand that could draw steel and treasure alike as though magnetized by fate itself, he stood as a creature of awe and dread.
The rivalry between Viking and pirate stretched back through centuries, fueled by the hunger for treasure, islands, and dominion over Harmania's coasts. Aleph and Alexandre, inheritors of that hatred, were bound to oppose each other until death.
When Bharit spoke of the Double Pentagram, Aleph's eyes gleamed not with concern for prophecy, but with ambition. His laughter echoed like crashing waves.
"Will I be counted among the greats? To conquer all of Harmania—that is my destiny!"
Then, with sudden gravity, he leaned forward.
"Oh, certainly, I'll agree. On one condition."
"What is it, Captain Aleph?" Bharit asked.
Aleph's grin spread wide, sharp as a blade.
"I will go, so long as gold lines my path. Payment, Alchemist, for my consent."
Without hesitation, Bharit answered, "So be it. Gold will be given."
Thus, the pirate lord pledged his strength to the cause—not for unity, nor for survival, but for wealth and glory. And the rivalry of steel and sea was written into the fate of the Double Pentagram.
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The Sword and the Leviathan
When the pact was sealed with Aleph, the seas themselves seemed to whisper of it. Doctor Bharit, mindful of balance, turned his course once more toward Harmania's rugged highlands. Datu Musain grumbled at the delay, but Bharit knew the Double Pentagram would falter if rivalry was left unchecked. To bind one, they must at least awaken the other.
Alexandre stood where they had left him, his blade flashing in the pale light, carving the air as though it were an enemy. His discipline was unbroken, his refusal still firm. Yet when Bharit spoke the pirate's name, the swordsman's rhythm faltered. For an instant, steel hung in the air.
"Captain Aleph," Bharit said softly. "He has agreed. For treasure, not truth. But agreed nonetheless."
A flicker passed in Alexandre's eyes—a storm of pride, resentment, and the hunger of rivalry. He turned his back to them, thrusting his sword into the earth.
"That Leviathan fights for greed alone. If he joins, it is not to save the world, but to conquer it. Do not mistake his laughter for loyalty."
Musain snarled, eager to provoke him. "Then why do you stand idle? Will you let him claim glory while you polish steel in solitude?"
Alexandre's hands tightened on the hilt of his sword. Silence stretched, heavy and sharp. At last, he drew a long breath, his voice low but clear.
"If the world truly stands at the edge of ruin, I will not yield the field to Aleph. But I choose the moment of my step. Not now."
Bharit inclined his head. He understood—this was not refusal, but the pride of a warrior bound by rivalry. He offered no further words, only the emblem he had given before, its runes pulsing faintly in Alexandre's palm.
"Then when the time comes," Bharit said, "press it. The world will know your choice."
The swordsman did not look back as they departed, but the emblem burned faintly against his hand, its glow a reminder that destiny had not finished with him.
Thus, Harmania's fate was sealed not in unity, but in tension—the sword and the Leviathan circling each other, their rivalry destined to shape the coming storm.