This world was not always as it is now. Today, those born into it look around in awe, mesmerized by the magic flowing through everything, grateful that they were not among those cast into the lower realms, condemned to their fate as beasts or demons. But if they had the chance to witness the past, to breathe in that era, they would understand the truth hidden beneath the brilliance of magic.
A hundred years ago, the world was neither a battlefield for heroes nor a kingdom of composed sorcerers—it was pure chaos. The lords who believed they were shaping reality to their will never realized they were, in truth, being led toward an abyss with no end. Magical weapons were not grand instruments but merely tongues of fire narrating an unending war, and the warriors were nothing more than pawns in a struggle beyond their comprehension.
During that time, balance was nonexistent. Madness ruled everything, and every individual was merely a fragment of a chaotic tapestry, teetering between survival and oblivion. But that madness… was not the end—it was the beginning of what came after.
Magic was not always part of this world. For a long time, people lived in complete ignorance of its existence, unaware of its latent powers, oblivious to the fact that it surrounded them at every moment, hidden in the corners of the world they dared not explore.
It was all a matter of chance—a group of inquisitive souls, neither seeking glory nor chasing grand secrets, just people who spent their time uncovering strange phenomena. And ironically, it was these ordinary individuals, those with no place in history, who discovered the first spark of magic. It seemed simple on the surface: one of them raised their hand, and for the first time, a fireball ignited in their palm by sheer accident—without consuming them. A few moments of stunned silence, then a storm of questions.
And from that moment, everything changed. The world began, little by little, to learn how to harness magic, how to make it an integral part of daily life, and how to rely on it more than on themselves. As days passed, magic became the foundation of everything—of living, of fighting, of healing, and even of ruling.
As always, however, nothing progressed perfectly. With the flourishing of magic, its darker aspects began creeping in, unnoticed until it was too late. To the young pioneers who had carried the banner of discovery, it felt as though they had achieved something magnificent, as if they had forged a legacy that would be spoken of for centuries. But their legacy, grand as it was, proved to be merely the prelude to something greater—and far worse.
Intertwined with the air, soaring freely like birds, gliding with water in tranquil silence, caressing flames without being consumed, and vanishing into shadows as if it were part of their very fabric—magic was not merely a force or a tool, but the heartbeat of the universe itself, the foundation upon which all things, moving and still, were built. Beneath its glow, kingdoms were born, cities flourished, and kings ruled.
Yet, humans knew no boundaries to respect. The magic that had begun as a light granting comfort and peace slowly transformed into a burden, into a power surpassing wisdom, into a curse that coursed through veins without anyone truly grasping its effect. And so emerged groups who wielded magic in ways unrestrained and reckless, first on the fringes of the world, then at its very heart, until some began to stare at what was once a beacon of hope and ask: Was magic truly a blessing, or was it merely a disaster awaiting its moment?
At first, the answer was unclear. Cities began crumbling, chaos crept into the alleyways, and fear found its way into people's hearts. But all of this was merely an introduction, something bearable, something that could be restored—if not for what came next.
There, from the depths of the shadows, emerged a figure unlike any before. His mastery of magic transcended comprehension, obliterating the bounds of reason, rendering knowledge itself insignificant in the face of his reach. Some claimed he was not entirely human. Others saw him as the inevitable consequence of a world gone mad. But all agreed on one thing: when history spoke his name, he was not just a sorcerer. He was the legend that marked the end of one era—and the beginning of another.
Thus appeared Claridis—the Lord of Dark and King of Sorcerers.
He was not merely a sorcerer—he was a storm that raged without mercy, a force that defied all boundaries, a shadow stretching across the land, crushing everything in his path without hesitation. His command over magic was enough to make the strongest bow before his might, to compel the greatest armies to surrender, to turn light into nothing more than a whispered legend among survivors. By his name alone, terror spread, and by his power alone, he seized dominion over the land, wielding a different kind of magic—"black magic"—a force no one before him had tamed or bent to their will.
People had no choice but to become slaves to fear, to rage, to hatred that spread like wildfire. Claridis did not need decades to tighten his grip, nor did he require elaborate schemes; in just two years, the world had fully submitted to him. He had crowned himself King of Sorcerers, the master of this new age—an age in which obeying Clarides was the only way to survive. Some say the sky itself changed the day he ascended his throne, as if the world recognized that it had entered an era that was never meant to exist.
Yet, amid this darkness, a man emerged—one unlike those who had come before him. He was no king, no ruler, not even a man of power or influence. He had no wealth, no army, not even a land to call his own. He was simple, unassuming, but he carried within him something far more valuable than any crown that could rest upon his head.
He held a singular belief—a philosophy unchanged despite all he had endured, an idea that needed no magic to become immortal. As he once declared: "Humans were born to be free, not to be slaves to a force that thrives on fear and hatred. Everyone deserves to live in peace, to receive love and care, regardless of lineage or race, regardless of circumstance."
This man was one of the common folk, yet he became a legend spoken of like the great myths. His name became synonymous with light in a world tainted by darkness—Grannadil, the legendary knight.
He was not an invincible man, but he was one who never bowed. Among the fallen thrones, among the kingdoms swallowed by despair, among the armies that had lowered their heads in defeat, he remained standing—with a single sword, with unyielding resolve, defending those who had lost their voices, those whose rights had been stripped away so thoroughly that they had forgotten they ever possessed them. His voice was a cry against tyranny, his courage a wall untouched by storms—even when the tide rose against him, even when he faced the bitter truth: that he could not defeat Claridis alone.
But that was not the only obstacle in his path. Claridis was not merely a force; he was a ruler of creatures unlike anything human, beings the world had never seen before—moving like extensions of shadow, spreading terror as they drifted across the two ancient continents.
Thus, Grannadil set his sights on the land spoken of in myths and legends, a land no one truly believed existed except those who had no choice but to trust in its reality. A land where humans did not belong, where they were never meant to be. There, where the most powerful beings dwelled, creatures who had withdrawn from the world—not out of weakness, but because their very existence was more than the world could bear. Their seclusion was a mercy, for their power was something that should never be seen, never be touched, never be wielded: the Sacred Land—Land of Dragons .
In that land, perhaps there was hope. Perhaps something existed that could stand against Claridis, against his magic that defied understanding, against his nameless creatures. Grannadil believed it, and so he embarked on a journey that stretched for weeks across the vast sea.
It was said that beyond the sea's mist, where no ship dared sail, where only thick darkness met the eye, lay the Land of Dragons—a realm untouched by human feet. There, where dragons lived, where magic pulsed untainted by madness, there stood a king who had never known defeat, who had never bowed, who had never lost a war in his lifetime.
The ruler of the Celestial Throne—Eithrius, the Silver Dragon.
The moment Grannadil set foot upon the Land of Dragons, there was no welcome—no words, no warmth in their gazes. Dragons did not greet humans, and Eithrius was not a ruler who entered alliances easily. To him, humans were weak, consuming magic as recklessly as they consumed the land, failing to understand balance—creatures unworthy of the power they possessed, and certainly unworthy of what they sought.
But something changed when he heard Grannadil's words. No one knows how the knight managed to shake the convictions of the Dragon's King, how he defied his great pride and persuaded him to fight at his side. Yet, in the end, Eithrius agreed—not out of trust, but out of necessity.
And so began a fragile alliance—not built on mutual faith, but the only alliance possible. When the Dragon's King sent some of his followers into human lands to combat Claridis' monstrous forces, pure magic clashed against corrupted power. And as the tides of fate shifted toward something far greater, Grannadil and Eithrius set their sights on facing Claridis directly. Together, they sailed across the vast sea, heading toward the domain of the Lord of Dark.
When they arrived, they found themselves before an island of considerable size—neither vast nor small, yet just large enough to serve as a battlefield.
Eithrius soared into the sky as Grannadil leaped from his back, landing on the island's surface. His massive wings stretched out like curtains of silver shadows, blotting out the last remnants of sunlight trapped behind the somber clouds. His humanoid form, encased in gleaming silver scales, reflected light as effortlessly as it radiated undeniable strength. His roar split the heavens, unleashing a tremor that shook the very earth.
And so, the battle began.
Grannadil fought as he had never fought before, his hands gripping the sword with unwavering resolve, his body moving with a speed that left no room for hesitation. But he was not facing an ordinary foe—he was not battling a force that could simply be cut down with a blade or mastered through sheer skill. **Claridis was more than that.** Every strike of the knight's sword tore through the air, but it could not carve through the darkness; the shadows merely reformed as if death had no claim over them. But Grannadil did not waver—for he was not fighting alone. Above him, ruling the skies, was his strongest ally.
Eithrius was no mere observer. His roar echoed once more, sweeping across the island like a tempest. His blows struck Claridis with a force that shattered the stone beneath, and his silver flames surged forth like a storm, consuming everything in their wake, reducing the island to scattered embers. His fire was more than mere destruction—it was an ancient legacy, a pure force untouched by human desires. His flames merged with magic so potent that even Claridis' own power faltered beneath its weight, forcing him to struggle just to remain intact. This alone was proof of the terrifying might of the Dragon King.
But…
In a moment no one foresaw, when victory seemed within reach—when Grannadil raised his sword for the final strike, when Eithrius prepared his breath for the decisive blow—Claridis moved like never before. He knew his end was close, but he was not a king who would fall without a price.
From his body, magic erupted—unlike anything seen in the battle thus far. Auras of deep crimson and shadowed violet swirled, intertwining with his sword as if it were an extension of himself. One swift motion—one unstoppable strike—was all it took. With that single movement, he slashed through Eithrius' chest, carving deep into his heart—a wound beyond repair.
The death cry of the Silver Dragon reverberated through existence itself—a declaration, a moment that halted the world.
In his final seconds, Eithrius looked at Grannadil. There was no regret in his shining silver eyes, no fear—only something else, something beyond words. He looked at the world he had fought for, at the sky that had borne witness to his greatness, and with solemn dignity, he fell—his last breath leaving behind a land reduced to ashes.
The Dragon King fell like a star collapsing from the heavens, like a mountain everyone thought unshakable. And when Grannadil saw his companion's form crumble, when he watched the grandeur that had stood beside him vanish before his eyes, it was not magic that moved him—it was not power, nor legacy, nor the pursuit of glory.
It was rage.
To Grannadil, victory no longer mattered. The meaning of battle had changed. He no longer fought for freedom or justice—he sought only one thing—vengeance. Consumed by fury and sorrow, with one final strike, when his blood mixed with Eithrius' upon the desolate ground, and when Claridis' lips curved into a final, defiant smile against death, Grannadil charged forward without hesitation. His sword, in that instant, was not a weapon—it was the extension of his very soul. There was no thought, no hesitation—only the will to end everything.
The blade plunged into Claridis' heart—deep into the body that had never known mercy. With that last stroke, the Lord of Dark faltered, staggering back a step before his form collapsed onto the earth, motionless. There was no doubt—the end had come. The shadows that had encased him began to dissolve, as if they had only existed through his presence. Grannadil did not look upon him further—there was no need. It was over.
There was only ash, and a knight standing alone amidst the ruins of a battle that had altered the fate of the world. But after that moment, no one truly knows what happened. **Where did the Silver Dragon's body go? Where did Grannadil go—what did he do after that harrowing fight?** No one knows. These questions remained an unsolved mystery. And though Grannadil later returned to recount what had transpired, he never spoke of Eithrius' body, nor did he allow anyone to ask.
But he spoke of him.
Eithrius was not merely a fallen king, not just a comrade who had fought beside him—he was something greater. Even in the grand halls, Grannadil spoke of him with pride, of the mighty ruler who had fought for humanity and perished with honor. But when his voice quieted, when his words faded for a moment, he did not speak of glory or triumph—he spoke of a friend…the closest friend, the one who was never meant to depart in such a way, the one who left behind an emptiness that could never be filled.
And as the years passed, as Grannadil became another memory in history, his words remained, the legacy of the Silver King endured, and the simple sentence he always spoke with quiet warmth lingered:"He may be gone... but he will never be forgotten."