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Prologue (I): The First Legendary War

History was said to repeat itself. If that were true, did this mean it had all happened before…? 

A thousand years ago, when the world was largely at peace and united under fragile treaties, a sudden war erupted. Forgotten Lords of the Lands — ancient beings once revered as gods — began to claw their way back into existence, bringing with them an army of mystical beasts and ancestral horrors. It marked the advent of the First Legendary War, when humankind, faced with annihilation, chose to resist. They awakened dormant bloodlines and latent abilities, rallying together once more as a singular species against oblivion. 

Four ancient and formidable bloodlines stepped forth to lead the defence. 

From the West rose the Dragon bloodlines. 

From the East, the towering Titan bloodlines. 

From the North came the unmatched and unscaled Samurai lineage. 

And from the South ascended the Seraph bloodline — beings of ethereal light and divine prowess. 

Together, they turned to confront the enemies that had emerged at the heart of the world, bearing an army of over a million. The skies, once azure and dappled with clouds, darkened into a swirling storm of portals, from which otherworldly entities descended. Each bloodline mustered its legions, numbering in the thousands, until the battlefield was crowded with millions. Every major city either pledged allegiance to a faction or was swiftly reduced to smouldering ruins. 

Upon the final battlefield, the sheer scale defied comprehension. The plains stretched beyond the horizon, with neither side able to glimpse the other's end. Siege engines bristled along the distant hills. Mages, primordial dragons, towering titans, katana-wielding samurai, and radiant seraphic entities assembled in solemn formation — ready to defend their world from collapse. 

Across the field, monstrous cavalry and airborne abominations gathered. At their core stood the Forgotten Lords themselves — towering figures clad in black, wielding long spears that emitted rays of eclipsed, malevolent light. 

It was the greatest, and perhaps final, war the world would ever witness… and its odds of success had never been lower. 

When mankind's warhorns sounded, the earth itself trembled. Armies surged forward with deafening cries, crashing upon their foes like an unrelenting tide. Steel clashed with steel; sparks cascaded like falling stars. Sword techniques unseen by mortal eyes carved rifts in the earth and decimated entire waves of the enemy. Samurai unleashed arts that shattered the land, while dragons bathed the sky in fire. Some shed their beastly forms, appearing as human figures adorned in scales and wings, wielding grand swords to join the fray. 

Magic illuminated the darkened heavens, offering fleeting moments of light. Seraphim descended like spears of radiance, obliterating anything that so much as twitched. The war dragged on — weeks became months, months turned to years. Countless lives were lost; few ever beheld sunlight again. Warriors felt no warmth but the searing heat of infernos, and knew no grass beneath their feet but the brittle soil of death. 

The dead amassed in mountainous heaps. Soldiers climbed over corpses to continue fighting. Ordinary men, conscripted in desperation, perished upon their first sunrise at the front lines, leaving no survivor to tell their tale. Supply chains crumbled. Magic fields destabilised. No one could discern which side held the upper hand. The battle raged on — an endless descent into extinction. 

Some began to wonder if the Final God, the Almighty, had forsaken them entirely. 

In the end, it scarcely mattered who dealt the final blow. Legends differ — some claim a lone Samurai-blooded warrior felled the tyrant king of the enemy's fourth wing and bore a final, unspeakable curse. Others whisper that a primordial dragon, lost to history, fought alone until dawn broke at last. None could attest to the war's ultimate end. The only certainty was that when the bloodshed ceased — eighty-nine years later — the world was unrecognisable. 

All the great bloodlines had been extinguished. Cities lay in ruin. Kingdoms vanished from every map. The few surviving humans, too broken to rejoice, buried what bodies they could find and abandoned the remnants of their old world. 

Thus, it earned its name: The First Legendary War. Though in whispered conversation, most referred to it as The First and Final. For it was known that should a conflict of such scale ever arise again — especially in an age without its ancient guardians — the world would fall within a week. 

Centuries passed. The rise of industry and technology brought a new age: modern warfare, gleaming cities, and delusions of invulnerability. None dared imagine such horrors returning. If records remained of that ancient war, they were lost — purged, forgotten, or deliberately erased. The sky grew beautiful again, and the earth became a place where children played and lovers picnicked in meadows. 

Until — inevitably — things began to unravel again. 

***

"...The Last Legendary War."

"It said First, not Last! For God's sake, put emphasis on the bloody sentence. Yes, it's been a thousand years since the last one. Improvements made and all that, but time to prepare for another… or stop this one before it starts... Cloud."

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