History Written in Blood
The world we were born into is ancient, older than the names we call it. A land of gods and men, of kings and beasts, of betrayal and war—where power is never given, only taken.
Six great nations rule this continent, each a kingdom in its own right, divided by the natural barriers of the world. The Amazzi Ocean, vast and unmerciful, devours the southern shores. The Mer Sea churns violently in the north, where storms last for weeks at a time. The Hav Sea swallows the east, while the great Jaf Desert stretches endlessly in the west, its heart still unexplored.
But at the center of all things, where the bloodlines of kings are oldest, stands Loistava.
It was the first.
And like all first kingdoms, it was built on bones and fire.
The Dawn of Loistava
Before Loistava, there was nothing but warring tribes, endlessly killing, endlessly bleeding, endlessly consuming one another like starving wolves.
No rulers, only warlords.
No laws, only hunger.
No peace, only death.
Then came Morier Leighann.
He was not born into power. He was not born to rule. He was the son of a mere chieftain, raised in the dust and the filth of constant war, a boy who had seen too much blood and too little mercy.
Yet, from birth, he was marked by something greater. His eyes burned gold, the color of a dying sun—the mark of La, the Sun God.
The tribes called him the Blessed One, but Morier rejected their worship. He had no interest in being a god. He had seen what power did to men—how it rotted them from the inside out.
He wanted peace.
He spoke of unity, of a future where the tribes stood as one, where men could build instead of destroy. Some listened. Some laughed.
But slowly, they came to believe.
For the first time in history, the bloodshed ceased. Warring clans laid down their arms. And where there was once only smoke and ruin, a city was born.
A kingdom.
Loistava.
For a time, it flourished.
For a time, it was good.
But nothing lasts forever.
The Night of Betrayal
It is an old story. A story whispered in the dark, told by trembling mouths, feared even by kings.
They say the night the world changed, Morier was away, settling a border dispute. They say he was meant to return by dawn, victorious.
But before the sun rose, his home was already burning.
The warlords who had once sworn loyalty to him, who had once called him friend, had grown afraid of his power.
And so, they struck.
Not as warriors. Not as men.
But as cowards.
They came in the dead of night. They did not meet his people on the battlefield—they butchered them in their beds.
His wife—slain, her body torn open, her crimson womb staining the earth like molten gold.
His children—dragged from their chambers, their tiny bodies fed to the flames.
His people—hunted, slaughtered, left in pieces at the gates of their own city.
And on the charred ruins of his home, they left a single message, carved into the scorched stone.
"Your peace is a lie."
Morier returned at dawn.
He did not weep.
He did not scream.
He only stood there, among the corpses of his kin, as the sky above him turned gold.
And then—the world burned.
The Birth of the Conqueror
Morier hunted them down. Every last one.
The warlords who had betrayed him?
He let them watch as their cities burned, as their children were torn from their arms, as their people screamed.
And when they begged for mercy,
Morier did not listen.
"Your peace is a lie."
That was the last thing he said before he set their world on fire.
For decades, Loistava thrived. It grew into an empire. The golden bloodline reigned unchallenged.
But gods do not favor mortals forever.
Before Morier took his last breath, he left behind a prophecy.
"One day, my power will return. A child of my lineage shall rise. And when he does—the world will burn once more."
The Rotting Kingdom of Logan Leighann
That was centuries ago.
Loistava is still ruled by a Leighann, but there is nothing golden about him.
King Logan Fermi Leighann sits on a throne of rot.
He was never meant to rule. His brother, King Willard Leighann, had been Loistava’s rightful king—a ruler of diplomacy, who had kept the balance between the five great kingdoms.
But Willard was assassinated in the dead of night. His concubines and children were slaughtered. His queen fled with their only daughter, vanishing into the shadows.
And Logan took the throne.
Under his rule, Loistava became a kingdom of suffering.
The nobility drowned in luxury, while the streets drowned in blood and hunger.
The poor were sent to work until death in the Ouro gold mines.
Women were sold, bartered, used.
Men were forced into endless wars.
Education, medicine, dignity—all things of the past.
And yet, the prophecy lingers.
Some say Willard’s true heir still lives. That the rightful bloodline will return. That Morier’s fire will burn once more.
Logan does not sleep soundly.
Because he knows—his greatest enemy may not be a king, nor a kingdom.
But a ghost from the past.
The Kingdoms in the Shadows
Beyond Loistava, the world watches.
The Jaf Desert stretches in the west, a land shrouded in mystery. A place where men vanish without a trace, where no kingdom has ever claimed its heart.
And beyond it—the Inci Queendom.
A land ruled not by kings, but by queens. A matriarchal empire, its existence a direct challenge to the power-hungry kings of the world.
It was once untouched, unchallenged.
But Logan sent an army.
And the Inci Queen sent back her daughter.
Princess Kaira Enozi Leighann, Logan’s new queen. A woman who came to Loistava not to submit—but to wait.
For what?
No one knows.
But the world is shifting.
And somewhere, in the shadows of a forgotten land, the golden eyes of the past are opening once more.
A Whisper in the Classroom
The old master gazed at his teenage students.
They stared, wide-eyed, as if the ghosts of history might reach out and drag them back into the past.
"Master… do you believe the prophecy?"
The old man exhaled slowly.
He glanced at the ruined streets, where the golden carriages of King Logan Leighann trampled over the mud.
And then, he spoke.
"I believe it is no longer a question of if."
"Only when."
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