Across the far reaches of the Milky Way, hidden within a boundless galaxy, drifts the colossal planet Rdjorn. Ten times the size of Earth, it turns slowly in the void, its vast continents crowned with ancient mountains, boundless forests, and oceans deep enough to drown empires.
Yet beauty on Rdjorn is but a mask for the chaos beneath.
Here, magic breathes through every grain of soil, crackles in the air, and hums in the stones. Humans, demi-humans, elves, dwarves, and dragons share this land.
But peace has never been its nature for Rdjorn is a world forged in war. Kingdoms rise and fall like the tides, cities burn to the roar of dragons, and the sound of steel on steel is the song of every age.
The greatest threat, however, comes not from within, but from beyond. In the black skies, hidden from mortal sight, Summoned sometimes by crazed fanatics,or from rifts that twist and tear the fabric of reality.
They are wounds in the world—gates that bleed shadow. From these jagged maws spill the invaders: beings not born of Rdjorn, but of Nyxthar—the Demon Realm.
Nyxthar is no world of stars and sunlight. It is a place where the skies are choked with endless storm clouds, where mountains drip molten fire, and seas churn with the bones of the drowned.
Darkness there is not the absence of light—it is a living thing, a predator that feeds on hope itself. The demons of Nyxthar wage war without end, their sole purpose to corrupt, conquer, and consume
For centuries, the rifts have been growing—wider, more numerous. Some say it is the work of an unseen hand, an ancient evil that stirs once more. Others whisper that Rdjorn's own magic is tearing itself apart. Whatever the truth, the wars grow bloodier, the nights longer, and the shadows deeper.
Deep within Morvyn, the vast continent of demi-humans, in the kingdom of Halvendale, lies the small town of Velrith. Nestled among rolling hills and ancient woods, in a modest house that, though small, radiated warmth and safety, lived a mother and her two sons.
The cottage was simple—two bedrooms, a single toilet, and a small kitchen, a dining room and a cozy living room on the first floor where the crackling hearth offered comfort against the evening chill.
Inside, Miral, the mother, moved quietly but purposefully, preparing dinner for her boys. The scent of herbs and roasting meat filled the air as she worked, her thoughts focused on Zareth and Kaelen, her two lively sons playing just beyond the doorway.
Miral hummed softly as she stirred the pot, her hands steady from years of practice. The kitchen was modest but tidy—an iron skillet rested beside the wooden cutting board, where freshly chopped root vegetables waited their turn. Zareth," I called softly.
He came rushing into the house, his face lighting up with a big smile, streaked with dirt and dark smudges on his clothes. His rabbit ears twitched as he stood before me, eyes bright and waiting for what I'd say next.
I smiled back at him. "Go take Kaelen and have a bath before dinner."
He nodded eagerly and darted off toward the washroom.
I couldn't help but chuckle. "And make sure to wash behind your ears," I called after him.
Watching my boys hurry off, I felt a quiet warmth settle in my chest. These small moments were everything.
Zareth, dear, Tomorrow will be your fifteenth birthday—and the day of your awakening. How are you feeling? Is there a class you plan to beg the gods for?"
"Yes!" he shouted, eyes shining with excitement. "I want to be a warrior like Daddy, so I can protect you and Kaelen from demons."
Kaelen looked up from his plate, eyes wide with admiration. "I want to be a mage! I'll learn spells to help keep us safe."I reached across the table, squeezing their hands. "Whatever path you choose, my boys, remember this—strength comes not just from power, but from the love and light you carry inside. And that will always protect you."
The firelight flickered in their eyes, and for a moment, the world outside—the wars, the darkness beyond the rifts—felt far away.
But I knew the calm wouldn't last forever
As I watched my boys eat, a shadow passed over my heart. Five years had passed since their father—my brave husband—had fallen. He was a town guard, one of the first to rush toward a rift that tore open in our city. A rift that spilled demons into the streets.
I remember the day clearly—the roar of battle, the clash of steel against claw, and his final words whispered through the chaos: "Protect the family... no matter what."
Since then, I've carried his memory like a shield, teaching Zareth and Kaelen to be strong, to fight not just with weapons or magic, but with courage and love.
The rifts grow stronger each year, and I know our peaceful nights are numbered. But for now, in this quiet moment, I hold onto hope.
For my husband's sacrifice, for my sons' futures, and for the light that still fights against the darkness.
The night settled quietly over Velrith. After dinner, I helped Zareth and Kaelen prepare for bed, tucking them in beneath soft blankets. Their breathing soon evened out, gentle and steady, and I allowed myself a moment to watch them sleep—my heart full, yet heavy with the weight of what the future might bring.
Deep within the forest, a flicker of black lightning sparked in the air, pulling the surrounding mana into a swirling void.
Thak! Thak thak! echoed through the trees as the lightning crackled and spread like dark veins across the sky.
From the shadows, a direwolf cautiously approached the unnatural storm of energy, sensing the danger it brought.
Boom! The lightning erupted in a pulse of raw mana, tearing open the air itself—a rift yawning wide and bleeding darkness into the world.
From the jagged portal stepped massive orcs, towering at eight feet tall, their muscles rippling with brutal strength.
Bang! The direwolf's skull shattered under the crushing blow of a gargantuan orc's club, the beast's final howl swallowed by the growing chaos.
From behind the orcs, monstrous figures emerged—humongous minotaurs, towering so large that even the orcs seemed small in comparison. Each wielded a brutal greatsword nearly six feet long and over half a foot wide, rough-hewn and crude but deadly in their massive hands. The ground trembled beneath their heavy footsteps as they marched through the forest, tearing trees and crushing underbrush in their relentless advance.
Behind the minotaurs, four more figures appeared, even more terrifying. Standing between seven and ten feet tall, these were the werewolves—creatures built for war. Their bent hind legs rippled with muscles, their long snouts revealed rows of razor-sharp teeth, and claws longer than blades gleamed in the dim light.
"Zkar'brak kul'vamon nith'reth gor'mal Vex'thar mal'reth karzun dra'vel ush'ryn khar'ulth!" the werewolf commander, Vorath, growled in a guttural tongue.
"Go forth and spill their blood so we may summon our Lord into this world."
With a deafening roar, the demons surged forward, moving with a speed and ferocity unexpected for their colossal size, racing toward the village below.
"I sense two strong auras nearby," Vorath snarled, turning to three of his pack beside him. "Go and take care of them."
They moved with fast speed and sharp precision, weaving through the trees and disappearing out of sight in mere moments.