A long time ago, Earth was not only a world for mortal.

Even in days of old, when shared by humans and beings of magic—the elves, the kitsune, the vampires, and the dragons—their worlds were interconnected, for better or worse, by the forces of magic and mundane. There, magic bled into reality, and the extraordinary was as common as the rising sun.

The evil spirits that harbored ambitions wicked were, however, meanwhile, already stirring discontent. These are the last days—the twilight of an age—when the vampires, kitsune, beastkin, and orcs emerged from the shadows into the earth's suspiciously tranquil gaze.

And so in their unveiling came the earthquake upon which a new realm would be forged, a realm wrought in blood and fire.

The elves moved gracefully, toe and heel barely whispering against the ground.

The humans, bright, glib, tricky, and clumsy with steel first, forged a way for themselves with wits second. 

Thunderous hooves shook the plains as centaurs sprinted.

Dwarves, as sturdy as the mountains, carved the world above into it.

The trolls stood menacing and brutish, while the griffins circled, proud and free. And the dragons-

ah, the dragons,

the deadliest of them all, ruled the skies with fire and fury, their wings casting shadows over kingdoms.

In those days, harmony reigned, for none sought dominion over another. Knowledge blossomed, and the land was adorned with riches. But peace, though radiant, is not everlasting. Like the sun that rays the dawn, it is ever in the clutches of darkness. Hence came the dawn of change.

Thus, the Age of Revelation had begun.

...

But peace had not come without scars.

The house had been a home.

Now, it was nothing but splintered beams and blood-streaked rubble. The earth drank deep, dark pools forming beneath shattered walls, soaking into the dirt where laughter once lived.

A boy knelt in the wreckage, no older than ten. Small. Still.

His trembling fingers gripped the limp hands of those who had loved him.

A mother.

A father.

A sister.

Their warmth had already fled, leaving behind only silence.

The cold pressed in. Moonlight glazed his skin, turning him ghost-pale.

His hair caught silver in the frost-lit night.

His eyes—green as dew, bright as spring—stared through the ruin without seeing it.

Not seeing any of it.

But it was still there. The truth. The weight.

The power that had twisted inside him, corrupted by something dark and hungry.

He had felt it unravel, uncontrollable, a force far greater than himself.

He had watched it take.

And take.

And take.

The air still hummed with it. The remnants of something unnatural. A stain in the world where his family used to be.

A breath shuddered from his chest, but he didn’t sob. Didn’t scream.

He just knelt, frozen, as the night stretched on without them.

Then—

A shift.

Not the wind. Not the ruins settling. Something else.

A figure stepped through the wreckage.

No sound.

No weight.

A shadow given form, slipping between the broken things like he belonged to them.

The boy didn’t turn. Didn’t move. But he felt him, as sure as the wind clawing through his hair.

The stranger crouched beside him.

A pause.

A breath.

“Little one.”

His voice was low, almost swallowed by the wind.

“This burden is not yours to bear.”

The boy’s fingers curled, blood drying in the lines of his skin. His throat worked, but no words came.

Only silence. Only the ghosts left behind.

The stranger reached out, slow and deliberate, pressing a hand against the child’s forehead.

A ripple.

Something broke.

Not inside the world—inside the boy.

The haze lifted. The wrongness drained. The darkness inside him—inside his mind—began to slip away, unraveling like a thread cut loose.

The weight.

The guilt.

The memory.

Gone.

The boy gasped. Just a breath—sharp, startled.

Then, nothing.

His body sagged forward, light as a whisper, empty as the air around him.

His eyes, once bright with sorrow, now blank.

The stranger caught him. Cradled him. A fragile thing.

For a moment, he only watched.

The ruins. The blood. The remnants of a home erased from the boy’s mind.

No grief touched his face. No pity.

Just something old and knowing.

Then he rose. Turned. Walked away with the child tucked against his chest.

The wind whispered in their wake, dragging dust and ash through the ruins, sweeping away the last traces of a world that no longer existed.

The boy’s head lolled against the stranger’s shoulder. His breathing was soft. Steady. Dreamless.

He didn’t ask where they were going.

He didn’t wonder who this man was.

He simply slept.

Behind them, the broken home faded into darkness—like the final flicker of a dying flame.

Thus, in those last goings of a waning world, chaos came into being, and this new age was not born in the peace so dreamed of but was awoken by the bright war-knell. The ancient bonds, which were thought unbreakable, fell upon the spirit like dust, giving way to fresh feudations.

Consider the panorama: the heavens themselves seemingly could not evade the wrath reaped by the dragon and kitsune, with either fury setting the sky alight in flame and phantasm.

Down below, the children of men waged an unwrapping battle against bloodborn, for with the passage of time, fear had turned each into the predator and the prey. The elves, who in ancient times had been aloof from the follies of mortals, were at last stirred into war, when their sacred glades fell to the insatiable decrees of humanity.

In this fashion, war-kindled fires engulfed everything, sparing neither land nor life from the touch of devastation.

The elf knight opened his eyes to chaos.

Steel clashed. Explosions sent shockwaves through the battlefield.

His armor felt heavier than ever, pressing against his ribs like a cage.

Around him, soldiers lay broken—some still clawing at life, others long gone.

Enemy troops pushed forward, faces carved from death itself.

A breath. Steady. Cold rage simmered beneath his skin.

But in the midst of that darkness, a single man rose to change the course of history.

A golden light ripped across the sky.

Storm clouds cracked apart, jagged like fractured obsidian, spilling brilliance over the battlefield.

Shadows stretched and twisted, warping under the sudden radiance.

And from that celestial glow, a figure descended.

Tall. Slow. Unbound by gravity.

His áo dài, deep blue embroidered with gold, billowed as if moved by unseen currents.

Silk shimmered in the harsh wind, flowing like mist reluctant to touch the blood-soaked ground.

Strands of long black hair lifted, as though whispering secrets to the air.

His golden skin pulsed faintly—an ember refusing to die.

And his eyes… deep, knowing. Ancient.

The elf knight tightened his grip on his bow.

A measured inhale. Arrow nocked. Gray eyes sharp with distrust.

The battlefield was no place for enigmas.

And in war, there was no room for hesitation.

His fingers twitched on the bowstring—

"Enough."

A single word.

A bell tolling the death of an age.

The air cracked.

A force rippled outward, sending dust spiraling in slow-motion rings.

Flames silenced.

Swords hung mid-swing, frozen inches from flesh.

The battlefield—locked in place.

Except for him.

The elf knight staggered, breath sharp.

Not just stillness. A weight pressing against his bones, sinking into his skin.

Time itself had faltered.

The man moved through the frozen war, unhurried.

From his robe, he withdrew a pocket watch.

Gold glinted under moonlight, its chain drifting unnaturally, as if tethered to unseen threads.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Reality rippled around the watch, bending, distorting—warping between what was and what had yet to be.

Inside the elf knight, something stirred.

Not fear.

Something deeper.

Older.

A buried knowing clawing its way to the surface.

The man raised the watch.

Once.

Twice.

Then—

His fingers closed over the chain.

Time shattered.

Golden waves erupted outward, cascading in perfect ripples.

Fire hung suspended midair, flames curled like petals in amber.

Metal blurred, caught between existence and memory.

The wounded remained frozen in agony, silent screams locked within unmoving lips.

But the elf knight—

He was still aware.

His body refused to move, but his mind burned, senses screaming against the unnatural stillness.

The man spoke again, low, just for him.

"Your past is not done with you."

A pause.

Measured.

Intentional.

"When the clock turns again, seek the one who carries my blood."

The words dug deep.

Burrowed into marrow.

Irrevocable.

Absolute.

The man let go.

The watch vanished into his robes.

His expression—unchanged.

No triumph.

No sorrow.

Only the quiet certainty of someone who had seen the wheel of time turn before.

Then—

He was gone.

No flash.

No sound.

Just—absence.

Golden energy curled in the wind, scattering like dying embers.

A distant chime rang once across the silent battlefield.

And then, the world exhaled.

The elf knight’s breath hitched.

Muscles unlocked.

The weight pressing against him eased—just enough for him to know something had shifted.

Everything looked the same.

The war was still frozen in its last heartbeat of chaos.

But something had changed.

He didn’t know how.

Didn’t know why.

But he felt it.

Down to his soul.

Some called him a demigod.

Others, a divine messenger.

Yet none glimpsed what lay beneath.

He emerged in the chaos of war, wielding power beyond mortal grasp. Where he walked, steel fell silent, the cries of the fallen stilled. The fires of war withered at his presence.

But what became of the world when he turned from his watch… remains shrouded in shadow.

He ushered in a fragile peace, for the land still bore the scars of its acrimonious past. Time slowly walked by mending what had been shattered by war, and in the place of withdrawal, there arose friendship.

The boundaries that marked the difference between man and weird, mortal and immortal, began to blur as all toiled together to build a new world from lay. Gone were those cries for the dissolving of Heaven's Vengeful Ear; no longer could the rising and falling of a kingdom rest on the slaying edge of the sword.

Peace prevailed, and in its wake came the dawn of the land never seen before in history. Yet, for those who had known nothing apart from war, yet were somehow a glorious sight to behold and deeply intimidating.

Many years had passed since Nguyễn Đại Vĩ set about changing the world by his hands and will. Never again would the land wear the markings of old destruction, for it had healed, and every race—man and monster alike—flourished, growing in strength and wisdom as they walked the unknown path forged by their predecessors.

Yet his purpose, like the hour of his disappearance, remains a riddle without writing.

But mark this well: legends do not perish. They slumber, veiled in the folds of time, awaiting the hour when fate shall summon them forth once more.