Nophilis—
A world forged by steel, shaped by blood, and governed by the old laws where strength alone decided justice.
Across its continents, clans rose like mountains: ancient, proud, unyielding. Their names echoed longer than kingdoms, and their legends carved deeper than any emperor's seal.
Among them, three clans ruled the old age of warriors:
The Yagurah – keepers of shadow-forged blades, a clan whose swordsmen were said to move like storms and vanish like dusk itself. Their strength was not merely muscle—it was instinct, precision, and a ruthless will passed through their bloodline.
The Varkonn – brute-fisted titans with bones as dense as iron, known for overpowering armies with a handful of warriors.
The Saelari – swift as wind, wielders of dual blades that danced like tidal waves.
But there was another truth, whispered across all taverns and battlefields:
> "To anger a Yagurah is to invite extinction."
Their wrath was cold. Calculated. Eternal.
And on one forgotten night, two rival clans broke that rule.
Aldrich Yagurah was only seven.
He remembered warmth. The laughter in the courtyard. His mother's gentle humming. His father's deep voice instructing clan warriors in sword forms older than written history.
He remembered all of it—
right up until the screams began.
"Aldrich—get inside the house!" his mother yelled, pushing him toward the sliding wooden door as shadows cut through the night with glinting steel.
"But—!"
"No questions! Go!"
She slammed the door shut.
He stumbled backward, heart thundering, confusion mixing with fear. Outside, steel clashed. A man roared. Something heavy collapsed. Fire began to spread like a hungry beast devouring the rooftops.
"Aldrich!"
A familiar voice—his father's.
He peeked from the window.
There he stood, Taro Yagurah, a mountain in human form, swinging his blade with monstrous strength. Every swing sent sparks and bodies flying. His hair—long, ash-black—whipped in the fiery wind. His eyes were cold, focused.
Yet even he was surrounded.
"Traitors…" his father growled. "Varkonn… Saelari… You dare?"
A Saelari warrior spat blood.
"This land… this era… belongs to us now!"
Then Aldrich heard the sound he would never forget:
the sound of steel entering flesh—
his mother's scream.
"NO—!"
He tore open the door too late.
He froze.
His mother lay crumpled, lifeless, her bright eyes dulling as blood spread beneath her. His father, distracted by rage, left his flank open for a single fatal strike.
"Taro!!!" someone shouted mockingly as two blades pierced him from behind.
Aldrich's legs trembled.
His breath stopped.
The world around him warped, shrinking and stretching at the same time.
The Varkonn leader bent down, wiped his sword on the grass, and grinned.
"That boy's still alive."
A Saelari assassin spoke coldly, "Leave him. Let him watch. A Yagurah's suffering is worth more than his death."
Another laughed. "Let him grow. Let him remember. It'll break him quicker than killing him."
Their boots thundered away as the clan burned behind them.
Aldrich couldn't move. Tears dripped silently, then violently. He crawled toward his parents' bodies, small hands shaking as he reached out.
"Mom… Dad… wake up… please…"
His voice cracked.
No one answered.
The flames roared. The night swallowed everything.
Aldrich staggered back inside, his vision blurry. Every step felt like wading through mud.
He remembered something—
his father once told him:
> "A Yagurah's true heart lies within the blade they forge."
He raced into his father's room.
There—
in a glass case, covered with an old black cloth—
rested the legendary sword.
The cloth bore one word, embroidered in silver:
YAGURAH
His father's creation.
A blade said to contain the spirit of every warrior of their line.
Without thinking, without hesitation, he punched the glass—
CRACK!
Blood coated his small hand, but he didn't care. He grabbed the handle.
It felt warm.
Almost alive.
He dragged it outside, stumbling and sobbing, until he stood before his parents once more. He fell to his knees. The sword's tip dug into the earth beside them.
His tears ran down his face in streaks of crimson—
because he had cried so hard his eyes burst tiny vessels.
He cried blood.
"Mom…"
His voice trembled.
"Dad…"
He clenched the sword with both hands.
"I promise…"
His voice grew louder, shaking the night.
"I'll kill them…"
The wind howled.
"I'll kill them ALL!!!"
His small frame shook with fury and grief.
"I SWEAR ON YOUR DEAD BODIES!!!"
He pressed his forehead to the sword.
"IF I DON'T MURDER THEM—
I'M NOT YOUR SON!!!"
His scream ripped from his throat like thunder:
"THE ONLY THING THAT WILL BE LEFT OF THEM… IS BLOOD AND BONES!!!
NOT EVEN THEIR OFFSPRING WILL SURVIVE MY FURYYYY!!!"
His voice echoed through the burning ruins of the Yagurah clan, a curse, a promise, and the beginning of a legend.