The sky, ever changing, never constant. Sometimes veiled in darkness and illuminated by the moonlight, other times its radiant glow would color valleys and offer light to even the darkest of pathways. But now, it shrouded the atrocities committed by the three great Heraos and the world's enemy, the Scaga Empire.

  “AAAAAAAAAH!!!”

  “AAAUGH!”

  Shouts of anguish and blood-curdling screams were drowned out by the clashing of swords, the sound of falling rubble, the relentless footfalls, and the deafening war cries. This was no mere battle; it was a tragedy masked as war, a sight etched into the soul. Though few had succumbed completely, countless others lay sprawled across the crimson-veiled ground, their wounds deep and hope fleeting.

  Severed limbs, headless torsos, and spilt entrails littered the battlefield, but the warriors pressed on, averting their eyes from the carnage. To falter, to feel, meant death.

  In this battle, the three Heraos—Kalvas, Dopra, and the newly emerged Buland—had begun at a disadvantage, their numbers dwarfed by the Scaga Empire's pyromancer army. At their helm stood Cyril Rookwood, The General, a master of fire and strategy. Yet, against all odds, the Heraos had triumphed, their cunning and resolve overcoming the empire's might.

  But that victory felt distant now, a faint echo swallowed by the bloodlust of the present. All logic, all strategy, had been consumed by the primal chaos of war. Men no longer thought; they only fought, driven by a singular, savage instinct—to kill the enemy before them.

  <- - ->

  A few weeks earlier, under the bright sun of Dalhester, the world seemed at peace.

  Birds chirped as sunlight bathed the bustling streets of the Dopra kingdom's capital. Dalhester, the heart of pyromancy, was a city of contrasts—a thriving haven for those once hunted, yet burdened by the ghosts of its past. Its recent emergence had brought freedom and unity, but its culture, still young, bore the marks of its fragmented history.

  Despite this, the herao exuded a sense of liberation, having broken away from its history and become an autonomous part of the world, eager to enjoy and flourish within its own culture. A thriving community for persons who had previously been hunted and enslaved.

  Amid the lively streets, a young man moved with hurried steps. His short, sharp dark hair clung to his damp forehead, his face a canvas of anxiety. He adorned a dark cloak and his leggings were covered in leg wraps, the bulky wear hindering his agility. In his trembling hands was kept an almost scrambled piece of paper.

  The young man headed towards Dalhester's heart where the Lowell Castle, home to many great individuals, stood. One of which the fort was named after, Lowell, The First Exarch.

  Inside, Lowell laid on his side by a sunlit window, his gaze fixed on the horizon. His long and coarse silver hair shimmered in the light, a testament to his years, yet his posture remained unyielding. The weight of countless battles and centuries of knowledge rested on his shoulders, yet his presence was anything but frail. Time, however, was a foe even he could not defeat.

  “Grrrr-rrrr-rrrrrr”

  Time and well, hunger.

  Lowell's stomach growled with agitation loud enough to be heard along the corridors. He tightly clenched his stomach with his scruffy looking hand and hoisted himself with the other. He sat upright with a groan, crossing his arms in defiance of his own hunger.

  “Mmm… LAURENCE!!!! MEAT!!!”

  His voice boomed through the corridors, shaking dust from the rafters. The entire castle felt the sensation produced by the tremendous sound that quickly resonated in everyone's head, but the one whose name was uttered felt it the least.

  “Po-pow… Pop-Pow… Pow!”

  Lowell's ear caught wind of a familiar sound: a series of consistent but small explosions that grew louder with the passage of time. Those little sounds appeared to be emanating from down the halls, behind his back.

  “Pow! Pow! POW!"

  The sputter grew louder, now appearing to be originating from just down the corridor, yet Lowell did not turn to face the source. Instead, he stood still with his arms still crossed, his countenance betraying a sly smirk on his face.

  Lowell opened his mouth to speak, addressing the invigorator of the noise that stood a few metres behind him. “Ah, Laurence! You finall-” His call remained short-lived; interrupted by the force of his mouth closing shut with force equivalent to that of a kick, oddly at the back of his head.

  The same dropkick sent him tumbling forward from his cross-legged stance, colliding into the wall that was decorated by the sunlit window he stood idly by. His face finally opposing that of the person's that he called for, albeit upside down.

  “Get it yourself, you lazy geezer!” Laurence spoke in an agitated but furious tone. Meanwhile the sputter of explosions that covered over any sound that had been made so far happened to be originating from his naked feet, and upon thorough observation, the noise didn't exist from naught.

  What his feet were producing were an array of steady bursts of miniature short-lived explosions that held enough power to keep him elevated off the ground.

  He swiftly made one more surge with both of his feet, which were comparatively larger than the others, and flipped backwards. First landing into a handstand then pushing himself off the ground and landing on his feet.

  Standing up, the young guy was able to fully display his athletic physique; being of tall stature, his head was crowned with curly short black hair, he wore no shirt, and his figure was defined by the numerous severe battles and training regimens that had preceded this moment. His lower half was outfitted with black braies and no additional footwear.

  Lowell rose from his ludicrous position, briefly patting off any dust that may have befallen on his shoulders. As he lifted himself, his legendary reputation was evident in his numerous battle-worn scars and his tremendous figure; somehow managing to tower over the already statuesque Laurence who stood a few steps in front of him.

  He stood by the window, his white cloak shifting like smoke in the evening light. The fabric bore the marks of countless journeys, its charred edges a testament to battles fought and won. His tunic, wrapped tightly around his lean frame, acquired an accent of red, grey and mainly yellow. His lightly bearded face bearing a smile once more upon laying his eyes on the one he called for.

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  “Laurence! Finally arrived I see!” He states in a loud but gruff tone, followed by an audible giggle. However, his delighted grin immediately faded, preluding his next words, "Where's the meat?" He enquired, scratching his beard with his leather-gloved hands.

  Laurence stared at the old man, his calm demeanor at odds with the faint veins that surfaced on his temples and the deep furrow of his brows. “You know,” he began, his voice steady but edged with exasperation, “maybe you’re going deaf—it happens at your age.” He paused, letting the jab sink in, before his tone sharpened. “But I already told you—go get it yourself!”

  Lowell's placid demeanour contrasted sharply with Laurence's rage, which seemed like night and day. Regardless of the tension, Lowell couldn't help but giggle at this circumstance as he approached Laurence to give him a shoulder pat, “Alright, alright, I will get it myself, my disrespectful pupil!”

  There was an air of foreboding whenever Lowell and Laurence stood side by side because, despite his height, he still towered over Laurence. And yet Laurence couldn’t help but grow a sly blush on his cheeks after the pat on the shoulder, his respect overpowering his emotions.

  Lowell had not stopped and calmly walked past him, his every step carrying purpose. From his mouth echoed his words down the hall and eventually falling back to Laurence’s ears, “How about some grub? You and m-” His inquiry would fall on deaf ears, as it would be abruptly halted by a distressed man crossing the opening that harboured both of them.

  The fatigued man’s gaze fell upon Lowell’s unique figure, causing him to make a sudden break in his run. Immediately his head fell lower and with both he grabbed his knees, as a wave of exhaustion washed over the man; unable to overcome his profuse panting and swiftly make his intention known, he simply stood until he recovered his breath.

  During this brief pause, the two tall men were able to observe the guest’s unusual attire. On his back he carried a woolen dark cloak, while underneath he bore a blue tunic that was pressed by a leather belt, bearing strange symbols intertwined with one another; the belt also helped hold the woollen pants in place. The last item that stuck out were his fur-coated boots, which contrasted sharply with Dopra's warm temperature.

  The tired man eventually lifted his dampened head, coming face to face with a man of legendary status. The pressure was immense, and would only deepen as Lowell’s complex mien mirrored back at him. It felt as if his tiredness never subsided.

  “Ah? A guest…” Lowell spoke with a low tone, almost questioning the odd appearance. His visage, once again, contradicted his confused state of mind, portraying a sense of intimidation to the poor man, and the next words that he would hear would not assist them either.

  “What do you think we should do with him, gramps?” Said Laurence, without bearing a second thought. Given further reason to be concerned, as if he had inadvertently crossed some imaginary border, he was certain it meant his demise. His face turned deathly pale, and his youthfulness washed away in mere seconds, as his mind raced over all the feats the great Lowell accomplished and which of them would be applied to him.

  “PFF-” Lowell’s spit-take served to relieve some of the tension in the atmosphere before he broke out laughing, “HAHAHA! Do not phrase it like that!” He said in a loud, gruff voice. “Need not be afraid, messenger of the Kalvas Kingdom! Please join us for lunch, we shall discuss there.”

  When the Kalvas man heard Lowell's soothing and welcoming voice, his eyes brightened up, as if he had been granted a second opportunity of life. However, the sensation of bewilderment lasted throughout, and even increased when he realised Lowell was aware of his origins.

  “Sir, I-” The messenger tried to speak but to no avail, as Lowell simply stormed off, leaving behind Laurence and him. The man,out of alternatives, turned to confront Laurence,his desperation being the lone feature that reflected on his face.

  He could only respond with a hefty sigh.

  - - -

  The tranquil sunset touched Dalhester, and the two were in perfect harmony, bathing the city in warm light. As the busy streets quieted and the bustle subsided, a few tiny areas of the town lit up, and those who did go out congregated around them. One noteworthy location was a little stand nestled away from the major roadways on the sidelines. There stood three distinct-looking individuals, serviced by a single standkeep.

  “Crunch-munch-crunch”

  The one who stood the furthest left of the stand and seemingly taller than the others that gathered around it, was Lowell, he bit down on a skewer with a loud crunch, tearing off a hunk of fried chicken and chewing it noisily.

  “Crunch-Crunch”

  *Translation: You two finally arrived?

  “Oh? Yoeh twof finally arrived?”* Lowell said, chunks of chewed meat shooting out of his mouth. Laurence and the messenger could only watch Lowell's nasty demeanour before realising what they were witnessing. The two remained unfazed, although for different reasons.

  “Truly, the great are unshackled by manners,” Thought the Kalvas messenger, a hint of admiration and awe in his gaze.

  “The old man doesn’t give a shit.” Thought Laurence rationally, an accumulation of his past experience.

  The messenger bent his knee, lowering his head to confront the man of legendary status properly this time around. Despite his exhaustion washing away earlier, his fears remained persistent and were now bubbling to the surface as he was ready to say his next words. Perspiration began to wash down his forehead once more.

  “Lowell, First Exarch, innovator and lord of many, thou who hast shaped the course of men’s fate—I, Osgar Haige, emissary of Kalvas, chosen by the will of my people, do beseech thee. The lords of Kalvas call upon Dopra’s royal attendance.” He said and slowly closed his mouth, his mind becoming free of any more doubts.

  Lowell chewed one more chunk of meat before consuming it fully and responding accordingly, “That’s great Sir Osgar.” He said, pausing briefly to swallow his passing food thoroughly, “But I do not hold a position of power in this herao.” Lowell said, nonchalantly.

  The man lifted his head in shock, his frowned expression betraying any and all emotion he felt at that moment. Laurence had observed the man’s attempt at a formal request and could not help but sigh, his gaze carrying a hint of irritation. He boorishly let agape his lips and spoke in a passive-aggressive tone, “I already let this man know that you were not part of any of that.” He said, giving Osgar a mean look, “But he wouldn’t believe it unless he heard it from you old coot.”

  “That so..” Lowell responded briefly, before being handed a small ceramic cup with a transparent liquid within, resembling water. He gave a pithy look to the man who ran the stand and raised an eyebrow, “What is this? Is there a drought?” His unamused tone cut through the man.

  However, the standman responded simply and concisely, “This is sake sir, a beverage made from the fermented crops of this land.” He smiled and softly added, “Have a try.”

  Meanwhile, Osgar, still distraught, decided to inquire from the pair, bits of information. “And who m-may I contact?” He sheepishly asked, still haunted by his previous embarrassment. In response, Laurence gave the messenger one last angry gaze, his furrowed eyebrows revealing his inner thought process.

  However, he refused to let the poor man go so easy, so he simply added, “Before I tell you, why don't we sit and have a chat?” He remarked with a phoney smile, adding, “You already wasted so much of my time walking you around, we might as well spend the rest of the day together!”

  “That’s a great idea Laurence! Howe will return by sunrise, so might as well.” Lowell exclaimed gleefully before downing the cup that he held in his hands, and giving off the noise of satisfaction. “There are many things I would like to inquire about, Sir Osgar.” And with that, the two menacing figures that loomed above him sealed his fate.

  In hopeless retaliation, Osgar omitted, “A-as you please…” His head sank once more, this time again for a different reason: defeat.