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Rakia
Far northeast of the Alf Forest, nestled claustrophobically between two unforgiving geographic giants, lay the kingdom of Rakia. To the south, the looming Beol Mountains choked off the warm sea breezes; to the north, the jagged peaks of Mount Elsos stood as a fragile shield against the freezing gales blowing in from the Death Lands—a desolate wasteland where monsters roamed unchecked.
Rakia was a nation forged on a single, brutal principle: War.
Under the absolute rule of Ares, the God of War, the entire country functioned as a massive, bloodthirsty machine. Conscription was mandatory for every citizen, and every scrap of grain, metal, and gold was funneled toward the military. At the heart of this martial empire sat the capital city of Diomedes, named after Ares most favored mortal. Though King Martinus technically sat on the throne, the people held zero respect for him. To the citizens, he was nothing more than an idiotic puppet who danced whenever Ares pulled the strings.
Inside the obsidian walls of the castle's throne room, Ares lounged. He bore the visage of a man in his early twenties, possessing radiant golden hair and blood-red eyes that gleamed with chaotic excitement. Draped in crimson armor, he radiated arrogant divinity.
"As the Empire promised, we have delivered the batches of magic stones and raw materials you required, Lord Ares," the female envoy spoke. Her voice was flat, clinically masking any trace of emotion.
"Good! Keep them coming!" Ares barked with a feral grin. "I'll make sure those long-eared bastards burn!"
The envoy offered a sharp, silent bow and retreated from the room, her footsteps echoing down the long corridor.
"Phobos! How is the weapon production progressing?!" Ares roared, turning his attention to the shadows of the room.
He wasn't alone. Standing near the pillars was the goddess Phobos. While she appeared to be the same age as Ares, her jet-black hair and piercing blue eyes held a depth of cold displeasure.
"Everything is moving according to schedule," Phobos replied, her voice tightly controlled. "But I only have two children in my Familia capable of forging at that level. As I have told you repeatedly, ten weapons a we—"
"TOO SLOW!" Ares interrupted, slamming his fist onto the armrest.
Phobos closed her eyes and inhaled slowly to maintain her composure. "That schedule already requires them to slash their resting time. If you push them any further, you won't get weapons. You will be left with two corpses from overwork."
"Tch! Excuses, always excuses..." Ares sneered, pacing the floor. "What about that brat, Welf? He has the gift too, doesn't he?"
Phobos's expression remained perfectly still, but beneath her robes, her knuckles turned white.
"He is five years old, Ares," she spoke, a dangerous hint of sharp anger finally piercing her calm demeanor. "Do you truly expect a five-year-old to wield a hammer?"
Ares clicked his tongue in annoyance. Refusing to argue further, he turned on his heel and stormed out of the chamber.
"How stupid he can be," Phobos muttered to the empty room.
Exiting through a side door to escape her frustration, Phobos nearly ran into a blonde woman waiting anxiously in the corridor.
"Ophelia," Phobos said, pausing. "You heard everything?"
"I did," Ophelia replied, her eyes heavy with dread. "Unlike my husband, I actually care about the future of Rakia."
"There is little we can do," Phobos sighed, walking over to a nearby window. She cast an empty, tired gaze out at the sprawling military camps below. "Neither Ares nor Martinus will stop to question why the Empire is suddenly feeding us such valuable materials. I can only try to minimize the casualties and protect my children as best I can." Her expression darkened. "Welf is so eager to prove himself to his father... I fear he will only find regret when he sees what the future of this war actually looks like."
Ophelia nodded grimly. "The Empire's gambit is transparent. They want us to weaken the Elven kingdom for them, marching our troop's right to their doorstep for the world to see. If this continues, the fire of war will spread and consume countless lives." She stepped closer to the goddess. "This war won't be like the ones before. Phobos, did you find anything regarding that elven knight?"
"No. He vanished like sand in the wind," Phobos admitted. "Why do you ask?"
"I discovered something troubling. Lately, every single one of our scouts trying to infiltrate the forest has disappeared without a trace."
Phobos frowned. "Spies get caught, Ophelia. That is the nature of the game."
"No, you don't understand," Ophelia countered, her voice dropping to a whisper. "The elves have a magical barrier to detect intruders inside their borders. But these scouts are vanishing outside the perimeter. This has never happened before."
A heavy, suffocating silence filled the corridor.
"Ares hasn't noticed, or he simply chooses to ignore it," Ophelia continued. "But we cannot. We are stepping on a sleeping beast's tail. I suspect the Empire knows exactly what is lurking out there, and they are using Rakia as live bait to draw that knight out."
Phobos stared at her for a long moment, her mind racing. Finally, she made her decision.
"I am going to Orario," Phobos declared.
Ophelia's eyes widened. She opened her mouth to protest, knowing the sheer chaos that would erupt if Ares discovered a fellow deity deserting their post, but the desperation in Phobos's eyes silenced her.
"I understand, Goddess Phobos," Ophelia said softly, bowing her head. "I will do everything in my power to cover your absence. Please... be careful."
"Thank you, Ophelia."
====x====
North of the capital city of Rakia stood a towering workshop—the home and forge of the Phobos Familia. Inside, swallowed by deep shadows and blistering heat, a young boy wrestled with glowing iron.
Sweat stung his eyes, and the roaring furnace scorched the back of his neck, but he refused to stop. His small, soot-stained hands gripped the heavy hammer, fighting against his own clumsy, exhausted frame.
Clank!
Spiky red hair whipped through the air with every strike. Welf hammered the hot metal, relying entirely on the muscle memory of watching his father work, pouring every ounce of his childhood strength into the anvil. As the iron finally flattened into the rough shape he wanted, he stepped back and slammed his foot down onto a floor pedal.
A massive, mechanized trip-hammer—three times his size—groaned to life. Welf quickly slid the glowing blade onto the central altar.
CRACK!
With a single, thunderous slam, the metal erupted into a brilliant crimson light, completely engulfing the dark room. For a brief second, the forge looked like it was caught in a magical sunrise. But as the glare faded, the reality on the altar was revealed: a small dagger, jagged and zigzagging with sharp, violent points, etched with an abstract red pattern that pulsed like trapped lightning.
Welf picked up the dagger. The moment his fingers brushed the hilt, his face fell into a deep frown.
"Not good enough."
With a frustrated sigh, he tossed the magical blade onto a massive scrap heap of identical, failed weapons.
"It's not even close to the level of Father and Grandfather," he muttered bitterly.
He turned back toward the pile of raw materials sitting dangerously close to the roaring furnace. Before he could pick up another iron bar, the rhythmic sound of footsteps echoed from the wooden staircase. Welf glanced up, and the frustration on his face instantly melted into a warm smile.
"Goddess Phobos."
"Welf," she called out, her voice carrying a gentle but tired weight. "I see you aren't following my wishes again." The goddess let out a soft exhale, though she maintained her kind demeanor.
"I'm sorry, Goddess, but I have to," Welf insisted, his eyes flashing with sudden intensity. "This is my purpose—to make the greatest magic sword this world has ever seen! It's in my blood!"
Phobos stepped closer to him, her expression softening even more. "Let me see your back," she commanded gently.
Understanding her intent, Welf nodded. He pulled off his sweat-stained white shirt, tossing it onto a nearby sofa, and exposed his back to her. Phobos looked down at the intricate divine crest tattooed across the boy's skin—the Falna.
Status Update
Level: 1STR: O 10END: O 8DEX: O 2AGI: O 3MAG: O 1Magic: —Development Ability: Blacksmith (I)Skill: Crozo Blood
Looking at the newly updated parameters, Phobos frowned, a complex wave of pride and fear washing over her. His stats were improving far faster than she had anticipated, which explained how his small body was suddenly able to swing such heavy smiting hammers. But that skill... Crozo Blood. It was a heavy burden for a child to bear.
"How is it, Goddess Phobos?" Welf asked, turning around with a beaming, hopeful smile.
"You have improved, Welf. Truly." A thousand warnings and worries rushed to her tongue, but seeing the pure excitement in the boy's eyes, Phobos refrained from speaking them. Instead, she shifted the topic. "I have to leave the kingdom for a while."
Welf's smile faltered. "Where?"
"Orario. Our Familia needs rare crafting materials, and they can only be found there. Is there anything you want me to bring back for you?"
Welf went completely silent. The bright energy that had filled his face just moments ago completely dimmed. He looked down, a heavy hint of loneliness bleeding into his voice.
"I... just have a safe journey. That's enough."
Phobos reached out, gently patting his messy red hair. "Be strong, Welf."
With those final words, Phobos turned and left the workshop. The door clicked shut, leaving the young boy entirely alone in the quiet dark, save for the crackling embers of the forge.
====x====
Orario
Riveria sat in a silence so profound it felt as though the world itself had stopped breathing. Her eyes scanned the parchment in her hands, widening with every passing line. Her grip tightened, her knuckles turning white, nearly tearing the fragile letter in two.
Normally, news of Rakia stirring up trouble wouldn't cause her a single sleepless night. Like everyone else, she had grown weary but accustomed to their relentless warmongering; they took any excuse to spark a conflict. With Ares leading them—a god as foolish as he was arrogant—Riveria had always been confident that her father and the elven forces could easily repel the invaders.
But this time, an icy dread clawed at her heart.
The Empire was backing Rakia. Not with troops, but with rare, volatile materials supplied directly to the Crozzo family.
Riveria's breath hitched. Crozzo magic weapons.
In the hands of regular soldiers, those terrifying armaments allowed even the most mundane infantry to unleash mid-tier magic. In her mind's eye, a horrific vision flashed: her beloved homeland, the sacred forests, swallowed by an inextinguishable wall of flame, reduced to nothing but ash and cinder before she could ever return.
Then, her eyes locked onto a single, cryptic line at the bottom of the page:
"Share any information about the silver knight."
Spelling out the name in her mind sent a shiver down her spine. Images of that dreadful night rushed back to her—the night her entire understanding of magic and true power had been turned completely upside down.
She had been quietly digging for information on this mysterious entity for weeks. Her research had revealed that the Artemis Familia had crossed paths with him in Tein Town, where the knight had single-handedly annihilated an entire monster horde. Yet, Artemis had been infuriatingly tight-lipped, offering only the barest details. It was obvious the goddess was purposely hiding something.
"Did Father try to contact that knight for help?" Riveria murmured to the empty room. "No… he's an elf. He would never resort to—"
She cut herself off. The scattered pieces of the puzzle suddenly violently snapped together in her mind.
"That's it…" A cold sweat broke out on her brow. "I see it now. That's why the Empire is artificially inflating Rakia's military strength."
But the revelation only birthed a deeper, more disturbing question: Why?
The Empire had to know how profoundly dangerous the Silver Knight was. Why bait him? Supporting Rakia was a reckless gamble, but then again, Ares was a god completely devoid of foresight or intellect. He cared nothing for political schemes or long-term consequences; he only cared about the thrill of the slaughter. If a plot benefited his desire for war, he would gladly play the puppet.
"Father must have realized this too," Riveria thought, her brow furrowing deeply. "There is a dangerously high chance the knight will show himself on the battlefield. But what does the Empire hope to achieve by drawing him out?"
The true leaders of the Empire remained shrouded in mystery, their ultimate endgame hidden in the fog. Realizing that speculating further would only breed paranoia, Riveria forced herself to take a slow, steadying breath. For now, all she could do was watch, wait, and protect her people from afar in any way she could.
====x====
"Interesting."
The single, melodious word drifted through the lavishly appointed room. At the absolute apex of Babel, within the private quarters of the Freya Familia, the Goddess of Beauty reclined gracefully upon her velvet chaise. Her silver hair cascaded like a waterfall of moonlight as she listened to one of her executives read the latest intelligence report.
"War is imminent between the Kingdom of Rakia and the Elven Kingdom," the executive stated, his voice steady but deeply respectful. "Furthermore, the Empire has openly declared its support for Rakia. Yet, the Elven King has not retaliated."
Of course they haven't, Freya thought, a faint, knowing smirk playing on her lips.
For months, her divine gaze had drifted toward that secluded woodland realm. She had a singular, consuming purpose: to catch even the faintest glimpse of her Odr—her destined soulmate. Yet, to her mounting frustration, the Elven Kingdom remained stubbornly sealed away, isolated from the mortal world by a massive, impenetrable magical barrier that shielded the forest from even a goddess's eyes.
A spark of silver excitement suddenly gleamed in her eyes. This war could change everything. A conflict of this scale would surely force her Odr out of hiding and onto the grand stage, where she could finally claim him.
But just as quickly, her eyes dimmed, shadowed by a cold reality. The current balance of power within Orario was fragile. The dark sect, Evilus, had been gathering strength in the shadows. If those parasites smelled even a hint of vulnerability within her Familia while she was distracted, it would endanger her throne atop the labyrinth city.
How utterly tedious, she mused internally, though her outer expression remained perfectly serene.
"Have the rats of Evilus made any notable movements?" she asked aloud.
"They have initiated minor skirmishes, Freya-sama," her child replied promptly. "Though, true to their cowardly nature, they are only targeting smaller, weaker Familias."
"Rats indeed," Freya murmured, her voice dripping with cold, solemn disdain.
"What are your orders, Freya-sama?"
Freya shifted slightly, and the atmosphere in the room instantly grew heavy. The sheer weight of her divine majesty expanded, filling the space with a suffocating, intoxicating pressure.
"The elves and Rakia have their war. We shall have ours with Evilus," she said, her voice dropping to a dangerous, velvety purr. "In the end, conflict boils down to a simple truth: it is a contest of who possesses the sharpest fangs and the toughest neck. Do you understand what must be done?"
The executive's breath hitched. The fanatical devotion in his heart flared like a wildfire under her gaze. He bowed deeply, his face flush with a manic, eager excitement.
"Perfectly, Freya-sama."
He turned and swept out of the room, ready to ignite the flames of war. Like all of Freya's children, the man left with fire in his eyes, desperate to prove his love through absolute strength.
Left alone in the quiet splendor of her chambers, Freya sighed softly, her pink lips curving into a breathtaking, melancholic smile.
"What a pity... none of my children can ever truly touch my heart."
Her gaze wandered back toward the window, looking past the city walls and into the distant horizon.
"My Odr... how will you dance in this upcoming storm? Ah... I can only hope to witness the majesty of your soul blazing on the battlefield once more."
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