Scene: The White Palace Gardens
The white palace gleamed beneath the rising sun, its tall spires piercing the golden morning sky. Behind it stretched a vast garden — serene, endless, filled with the scent of dew and flowers. Yet that peace trembled beneath the echo of battle.
Six children trained there.
Four of them now sat in the grass, exhausted from their morning drills, their clothes damp with sweat, their breaths unsteady. But their gazes were fixed on the two still standing in the center of the field.
One had blue hair that shimmered with sparks of lightning, every movement leaving streaks of crackling light in the air.
The other had red hair, and from his blade spilled dark energy — shadows bending around him like waves from another world.
Their swords clashed again and again, each collision splitting the air with blinding light and trembling sound.
Lightning met darkness — boom! — a shockwave burst outward, scattering petals and dust across the garden.
The four resting siblings covered their faces from the gust.
One of them murmured, "They're going at it again…"
But then, a sudden silence swept over the garden.
A tall man in white and gold robes approached, his steps calm yet filled with authority. The four immediately stood and bowed their heads low.
"Father has arrived…" one whispered.
Yet the duel continued — Voltaris and Shruken were still mid-air, locked in a fierce clash, neither giving way. Lightning wrapped around Voltaris' blade like a serpent of light, while a black spiral of energy surrounded Shruken's sword, warping the space around it.
The man merely lifted his hand.
In an instant — thud! — both were stopped midair, their magic sealed effortlessly.
The two landed softly on the grass, kneeling before him.
"Good morning, Father," they said together, heads bowed.
The man's stern gaze softened into a faint smile.
"A beautiful morning to you all, my sons. Tell me—how goes your training?"
He turned, addressing each of them in turn.
"Lunaris — the calm hand of nature, bearer of grass magic.
Pyronis — tranquil as the seas, master of water.
Aetheris — swift and unseen, the dancer of wind.
Solaria — fierce and bright, the flame of fire.
Voltaris — wielder of lightning, the storm of light itself.
And Sruken — manipulator of darkness and dimensions, shadow of the unknown."
The six sons of the ruler of the Three Realms stood before him in perfect silence — each powerful, each gifted beyond measure.
But all eyes, even their father's, fell upon the two at the center.
Unlike the others, Voltaris and Sruken were not just the eldest —
they were the strongest among the six.
And deep within the garden's stillness, beneath the gentle morning light, a quiet truth lingered:
The day was fast approaching [10 years later ]—
when the ruler of the Three Realms would decide his successor.
Who would inherit the throne —
the light of Voltaris, or the shadow of Sruken?.
Time passed within the walls of the White Palace — days melting into weeks, weeks into months.
The six sons continued their training beneath the same radiant sky, their strength growing, their powers evolving.
But beneath that bright surface, something had already been decided.
Though it was not yet declared before the God Realm, within the palace halls the truth was known — the ruler had chosen Voltaris, the blue-haired child of lightning, as his successor.
The next sovereign of the Three Realms.
The decision was quiet, spoken only among a few, but it carried the weight of eternity.
Servants whispered. Generals nodded with pride. Even the palace itself seemed to hum faintly with the approval of fate.
Voltaris accepted it with humility, his heart steady as a clear sky.
He did not boast, nor did he smile. He simply vowed to protect what his father had built — the peace among realms.
But not all hearts shared his calm.
In the silent corridors of the eastern wing, where the moonlight fell pale and cold, stood Sruken.
His red hair burned in the dim light like an ember refusing to die.
His blade rested beside him — untouched, but humming faintly with dark energy.
He stared out across the garden where he once trained beside Voltaris.
His reflection shimmered faintly in the glass — a reminder of the brother who had surpassed him.
"Chosen… him?"
His voice was soft, but it trembled with the storm hidden inside.
For years, Sruken had fought to prove himself. To his father. To the world. To fate itself.
But fate had turned its gaze elsewhere — to Voltaris.
A quiet resentment grew, coiling like a shadow behind his eyes.
Scene: The Announcement Day
Then came the day — the day the heavens themselves were to bear witness.
The banners of the God Realm rose high, their colors blazing gold and silver.
Messengers had already begun to spread the word —
that the official ceremony would take place at dawn.
Tomorrow, Voltaris would be named the next ruler of the Three Realms.
The entire palace was alive with preparation — holy bells rang, light crystals shone across the marble halls, and songs of blessing echoed through the air.
But as dusk fell, something changed.
The sky dimmed too early.
The wind turned cold, carrying a silence that felt wrong.
Then — the news came.
At first as a whisper. Then as a scream.
"The ruler… the ruler is dead!"
The words spread like wildfire. Through the palace corridors, through the gardens, up the sacred towers — and soon, across the entire God Realm.
Shock. Confusion. Fear.
The throne room doors were sealed. Guards stood frozen.
The six sons were summoned, but none could speak.
And standing there among them, expression unreadable, was Sruken.
The golden day that was meant to crown a new ruler had turned into a night of mourning.
The throne of the Three Realms — once the symbol of eternal order — now stood empty.
And far in the silent garden, lightning flickered once…
and faded into darkness.
His blue hair shimmered faintly with arcs of lightning. His expression, however, was cold — far too calm for the weight of the tragedy that had just unfolded.
Then he spoke.
"I know who did this."
The words cut through the silence like a blade.
Every god in the hall turned toward him — eyes wide, whispers rising like wind.
Voltaris' gaze didn't move. His voice deepened.
"It's you… Sruken, isn't it?"
The red-haired son, standing near the far side of the hall, lifted his eyes slowly.
For a moment, his expression was unreadable — emotionless, even peaceful.
But Voltaris' next words trembled with fury.
"If you wanted the throne so badly,"
he said, lightning beginning to spark around his hands,
"you could have told me. I would have given it to you willingly.
But you… you killed our father!"
The hall shuddered.
From outside, thunder rumbled across the divine sky.
Bolts of lightning cracked through the clouds, striking the palace spires and shaking the heavens themselves.
The gods could feel it — the sheer pressure pouring from Voltaris. His anger was no longer just emotion; it was power made flesh.
Then — the air warped.
Dark shadows spilled across the marble floor behind Sruken.
The temperature dropped, the light dimmed.
From the shadow rose three colossal forms — non-human, fierce, alive.
The first towered in flames — a beast of fire with fangs of molten stone.
Ashenfang, the Flame Beast.
The second emerged with waves trailing from its body, eyes as deep as the ocean.
Aqualis, the Beast of Water.
The third descended from above with wings vast enough to darken the hall.
Aerynox, the Sky Beast, master of wind and storm.
And standing before them, calm and resolute, was a man cloaked in darkness — his aura ancient and sharp as a blade.
Magnus.
One of the loyal men of Sruken — and now, Sruken's protector.
They moved, forming a barrier before Sruken as Voltaris' lightning flared brighter, ready to strike.
Gasps filled the throne hall. The gods drew back.
From the crowd, one elder god whispered in disbelief:
"The Six Spheres of Death… are here."
Voltaris "Lightning Magic: Storm Judgment."
The moment the words left his lips, the heavens roared.
A storm unlike any seen before formed above the palace — not of clouds, but of raw divinity.
Thunder spiraled, bolts weaved together, and the sky itself seemed to bleed light.
Wind howled through the halls as Voltaris raised his sword high, ready to strike—
—but before he could release it, four flashes of silver cut through the storm.
Slash— Slash— Slash— Slash—!
He froze.
A sharp pain tore through his body.
He looked down — four blades, each piercing his divine armor, glowing faintly with the energy of betrayal.
Voltaris' breath hitched.
Blood — pure, radiant gold — dripped from his lips.
Before him stood his four younger brothers, their weapons trembling in their hands, their eyes filled with something between guilt and resolve.
"You…" he whispered, voice breaking.
"You too?"
No one answered.
Only silence — and the distant rumble of thunder mourning its master.
The lightning storm shattered above, crashing into the palace.
And in that instant, the Battle of the Gods began.
Scene: The War of the Divine
It lasted not minutes.
Not hours.
Days.
Days of endless storms, burning oceans, collapsing skies.
Mountains split, heavens crumbled, the sacred rivers of magic turned red with divine blood.
The God Realm, once the symbol of eternal order, fell into chaos.
One by one, the gods — proud, immortal — perished under their own wrath.
Until, at last, only two figures remained.
Beneath the shattered skies, surrounded by ruins of what was once paradise, stood Voltaris and Shruken.
Both drenched in blood — brothers, yet enemies — each barely able to stand.
The wind was silent now.
Even the lightning hesitated to strike.
Voltaris coughed, a stream of blood staining his lips, yet his eyes burned with the same divine fury as before.
"Now… now it's your end, Sruken."
"A man like you — a curse to the world itself.
So even if it takes my life… you must die."
Sruken's breathing was ragged, but his eyes still gleamed with hatred.
Dark energy twisted around him, desperate, unstable.
Voltaris raised his sword — the last time he ever would.
"Lightning Magic: Lightning Life Rewritten — Seal."
The world turned white.
The light swallowed the ruins, the sky, even the screams.
Every living god — conscious or not — felt the tremor in their soul.
Sruken's voice echoed in defiance:
"No…! You can't—!"
And then, silence.
Only the sound of two blades falling to the broken ground.
Clang… clang…
When the blinding storm faded, nothing was left of their battle — no palace, no throne, no gods.
Only a hollow wind whistling across the ruins of eternity.
The once-mighty God Realm was gone.
And so ended the first war between brothers —
a war that would one day shape the fate of the Human Realm itself.