Fifteen Years Later
The old tree had stood there for centuries, its gnarled roots spreading like ancient fingers through the earth. Beneath its sprawling canopy, a boy sat in perfect stillness, as if he were part of the landscape itself.
His hair caught the light—silver-white strands that seemed to hold the very essence of moonlight, swaying gently with each passing breeze. There was something about him that commanded attention without demanding it, an invisible weight that pressed upon the air around him, making it feel denser, more deliberate.
His eyes were the color of blood rubies—crimson depths that glowed faintly in the shadows cast by the tree's leaves. They weren't merely watching; they were dissecting, remembering, cataloging every detail of the world before him. Those eyes had seen things that would break ordinary men.
He wore a dark cloak, black as midnight with intricate silver patterns embroidered along the edges—subtle enough to miss at first glance, but unmistakable once noticed. Beneath it, a fitted tunic hugged his lean frame, speaking of both nobility and practicality. His boots, though clean, bore the unmistakable marks of long travel, resting comfortably against the tree's ancient roots. His posture appeared relaxed, almost casual, but his presence screamed anything but ordinary.
"Even now... nothing's changed," he murmured, his voice barely louder than the wind itself.
The view stretched before him like a painter's masterpiece—open skies bleeding into distant horizons, trading routes snaking through valleys far below, the same winds that had blown across this land for millennia, the same mountains standing sentinel in the distance.
"In my past life too... I used to sit here. To think. To breathe."
He let the words hang in the air, tasting their weight.
"My name now... is Aurel Elenor."
A pause. A heartbeat. A truth heavier than the silence.
"But deep within... I'm still Vaen Solgrave—the Fang Master King of Loftus."
The Kingdom of Forgotten Kings
The kingdom where Aurel now drew breath was called Floron—the beating heart of the Seven Kingdoms, a realm that thrived on trade, glittered with gold, and pulsed with the lifeblood of power and alliance. Merchants from every corner of the known world passed through its gates. Nobles schemed in its courts. Warriors trained in its fields.
But once, long ago, this land had worn a different face.
"This used to be Loftus..." Aurel whispered to the wind. "My kingdom. My soil."
He had been born of Seraphine Elenor, the sixth queen—a woman whose beauty was matched only by her sorrow. Some called him the First Prince of Elenor, not because he was first in line by birth, but because his very name carried a legacy that others could only whisper about in darkened halls.
The king—his supposed "father"—was Elvarion Veiss, a man whose path to the throne had been paved with corpses and bathed in the blood of those who had once called this palace home. He had slaughtered the Elenor bloodline with methodical precision, then married Queen Kani to drape his conquest in the thin veneer of legitimacy.
"That's how kings are made in this world," Aurel said, his tone carrying neither bitterness nor surprise—only the cold acknowledgment of truth. "Conquer the land. Kill its rulers. Marry its princess. Own it all."
His fingers curled into the earth beneath him.
"Nothing's changed."
Some things never do.
The Nature of Power
Silence enveloped the hilltop, but inside Aurel's mind, storms raged.
"In this world, power follows only one rule—power is never free."
He gathered a handful of soil, letting it spill through his fingers as he traced slow circles in the dirt. The motion was meditative, almost hypnotic.
"There are two kinds of power here... The first—Inner Power. What we call Soul Force."
Soul Force flowed from within, a force as natural as breathing yet as mysterious as dreams. It was deeply connected to the very roots of one's soul, spreading through the body like invisible veins of light. Every person possessed their own unique flow, as distinctive as a fingerprint, as personal as memory.
"Soul Force is what allows us to form contracts with Fangs. And when a Fang becomes yours... you gain its abilities, its senses, its instincts..."
But power always demanded payment.
"If the Fang dies... its pain strikes directly at your soul."
Aurel had seen it happen. Men and women who survived the death of their bonded Fang, still breathing, still moving—but shattered completely on the inside. Empty vessels wearing human faces.
He brushed the remaining soil from his palm.
"The second kind is Outer Power, which we call Aura."
Unlike Soul Force, Aura didn't spring from within. It was drawn from the world itself—absorbed from the sky, the earth, the wind, the very essence of existence surrounding every living thing.
"Through cultivation, through training, through pain—you fill your body with Aura. Whether it's to strengthen your muscles, sharpen your senses... or form an invisible shield—Aura does it all."
Warriors used it to strike with devastating force. Defenders shaped it into armor that no blade could pierce. Scouts channeled it to move with inhuman speed.
And yet...
Something always felt incomplete.
The Birth of Magic
"The real game begins when someone learns to control both—Soul and Aura—at the same time."
Aurel's eyes gleamed with knowledge hard-won.
"That's when Magic is born."
Magic was a lost art, a path so treacherous that few ever survived attempting it. Those who tried to master both forces simultaneously often destroyed themselves in the process—their bodies unable to contain the warring energies, their minds fracturing under the strain.
"Those who master both can cast spells... bend elements to their will... rewrite the very fabric of combat."
But surviving that path...
That was nearly impossible.
The Ninth Kingdom
Far to the east, beyond the reach of any traditional kingdom, stood a single tower that pierced the clouds—Arcanis, home of those who had walked the razor's edge between Soul and Aura and lived to tell the tale.
"Magic users never took part in any war. They built a single tower—Arcanis. It may be small... but no kingdom can survive without them."
Every kingdom depended on the potions brewed within those walls, the enchantments woven by those hands, the knowledge hoarded in those libraries. No army had ever been foolish enough to march against it.
"And that's why—without a king, without an army—they became the Ninth Kingdom."
Aurel smiled, a thin expression that held no warmth.
"The smallest... but the most powerful."
He tossed the last of the soil into the wind, watching it scatter and disappear.
"So remember... Soul Force is the mirror of your soul. Aura is your weapon. And Magic... is the force that moves everything from behind the curtain."
The Mystery of Fangs
"Fangs... are creatures whose origins are still unknown to this world."
The question of where they came from haunted scholars and warriors alike. No one knew if they were born, created, or summoned from some dimension beyond comprehension.
What was known was this: Fangs were found deep inside the oldest, most mysterious dungeons—places where reality itself seemed to bend and twist. But they weren't wild monsters prowling through darkness. They existed in a state between life and death, sealed inside crystals that glowed with power ancient beyond measure.
Breaking those seals wasn't something just anyone could accomplish.
"Only one thing can shatter those seals—a person's Soul Power."
When someone poured their Soul Power into one of those crystals, the seal would crack, splinter, and finally shatter. In that moment, the Fang would form a contract with the person who freed it—a bond that transcended words, agreements, or oaths. It was written into the very essence of both beings.
Once that bond was made, the user could access the Fang's abilities, senses, and sometimes... even its instinct—that primal knowledge that predated thought itself.
But every Fang was different.
Some were tiny, barely visible—like a snake made of mist that coiled around its master's arm. Others were massive, their single footstep enough to make the ground tremble and crack.
Some were masters of poison that could kill with a touch. Others commanded fire, healing, or illusion with equal ease.
"A single dungeon can hold multiple Fangs... and each one hides a different world inside itself."
The Seven Tiers
Aurel had studied the classifications carefully, committing them to memory as one might memorize prayers.
Fangs were ranked by their power and rarity into seven distinct tiers:
Normal – Basic-level Fangs. Weak but useful for early training. Most warriors began with these.
Common – Slightly stronger. Good for beginners who had proven themselves capable of handling the responsibility.
Uncommon – Rare to find. Carried some unique traits that set them apart from their lesser cousins.
Unique – Often only one existed in an entire dungeon. Their powers were unusual and deadly, defying easy categorization.
Mythical – Spoken of in legends. Sighting one was considered a miracle. Surviving a contract with one was even rarer.
Legendary – Documented in kingdom records. Powerful beyond measure, but dangerous to handle. Even master warriors approached them with caution.
Divine – The rarest. Forming a contract with a Divine Fang always came with a sacrifice. Always.
The Exceptions
"But some Fangs... don't follow any rule."
These were the anomalies, the outliers that defied classification.
Shadow Fangs – They formed contracts but never revealed their true form. Once their purpose was fulfilled, they vanished forever, leaving no trace of their existence.
Unseen Fangs – Could not be seen, sensed, or tracked by any means known to man. They activated only when their user had crossed the edge between life and death—when their very existence began to fade from reality.
"Fangs are not just weapons of power—they are ancient gates to a forgotten world... and not everyone is worthy of opening them."
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Why did the king call him... after 15 long years?"
"Is everything really the same as before... or has something changed beneath the surface?"
> [Author's Note: These aren't part of the dialogue. They're reflective questions meant to stir curiosity — a hint that something deeper is waiting to be revealed.]
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