19th Era of the Great Gerhana – Jabal Al-Sawda City, Narajalle Kingdom, Lunanevfa Continent

Dusk in Jabal Al-Sawda always felt like a painting left unfinished. The stone streets held the shimmer of gold dust drifting from old steam engines, while newly lit moon-crystal lamps cast pale halos across rooftops. The smell of warm bread mixed with the metallic smoke rising from the harbor.

The great clocktower tolled seven times, its echo rolling all the way to the slopes of Jabal Al-Sawda.

The sky was too red.

Not the usual color of sunset—but the red of fresh blood.

“A double eclipse,” muttered a broad-shouldered baker, glancing toward the sea. “The blue moon covers the red sun.”

The Eclipse Sea.

A sea that was always red, even at noon.

A sea that never truly slept.

At the harbor, captains and fishermen tightened ropes and checked hulls. When the sea began to sing—a deep metallic rumble from the abyss—it meant Aurathrax was rising.

“Raise the anchor! Pull away from the shore!” a captain shouted.

Too late.

The sea bulged upward. Then something broke through.

Tentacles.

One.

Two.

Eight.

As thick as the Narajalle Lighthouse—one hundred fathoms tall—and so long their ends vanished into the sky. The color was molten gold, liquid metal sliding over itself. Every movement threw clouds of golden dust into the air.

The Southern Trade Ship vanished in an instant. Wood exploded like paper. Sailors turned into golden statues—still alive within the shell.

Panic spread. Families slammed doors, barricaded windows.

Aurathrax rose in full.

Its body was a living mountain, skin flowing like endless golden sand. Its tentacles writhed across the sky like divine serpents. Two burning red eyes swept across the city.

The harbor collapsed under one sweep.

Golden sand poured onto the streets. Houses aged a century in seconds and crumbled. Those who touched the golden dust turned into statues—but their eyes still moved. Conscious. Trapped.

On the slopes of Jabal Al-Sawda, in Zakhmar Citadel, seven ancient vampires gathered in the Blood Chamber.

“Break the seal.”

“Activate the circle.”

“Blood for blood.”

Drops of blue blood fell. A magic circle opened in the heavens—a second moon.

High atop the clocktower, Zakhmar III stood alone. Ninety years old with silver-blue hair and sapphire eyes. The moon crystal pulsed in his hand.

He stared at Aurathrax.

“You are the sorrow that never ends.”

He leapt. His body turned into a streak of blue shadow, landing before the colossal tentacle.

The crystal burst. Blue light pierced Aurathrax’s eyes.

The monster screamed. Its tentacles melted into ordinary sand, collapsing like golden waterfalls. Its vast body was dragged back toward the Eclipse Sea.

Just before it disappeared beneath the waves, Aurathrax whispered:

“I will return. Until I find her. Or until all of you become gold.”

Silence followed.

Only a massive crater remained on the shore. Hardened gold formed new stone.

Half the city was gone.

The survivors knelt in the central square.

“We are your blood.”

“You are our moon.”

Two days later, the Southern Kingdom of Lunanevfa surrendered half its territory in exchange for eternal protection. Zakhmar III accepted the golden crown of Aurathrax—warm, and faintly alive.

On the mountain slope, construction of Baho Citadel began—the throne that would one day rule the entire continent.

In his journal, Zakhmar III wrote:

“Aurathrax is a mirror. When I die at three hundred years old, my descendants will continue the duty—because sorrow that never ends becomes power that never fades.”

---

Year 219 EGG – Baho Citadel, Slopes of Jabal Al-Sawda, Narajalle Kingdom, Lunanevfa Continent

Zakhmar III died exactly at the age of three hundred.

Not on the battlefield. Not in the arms of Aurathrax.

He died in his private study, seated on the cold lunar-crystal throne. The pen remained in his hand. Blue blood dripped from his nose, hardening into tiny sapphires upon his final sheet of paper.

A single sentence, written with a trembling hand:

“Do not fear the darkness. Fear the light that shines too bright.”

The funeral lasted three days and three nights.

All of Narajalle came to a halt.

Steam engines in the shipyards were shut down one by one, their roar fading like a dying breath. The moon-crystal lamps across the high towers were extinguished, plunging the city into a deep, quiet blue.

Only the mountain winds whispered, carrying Zakhmar III’s name into the night sky.

In the city square, the people stood in lines that never seemed to end.

They did not cry. Blue-moon vampires did not cry.

But blue blood slipped from their eyes, freezing into small sapphire gems upon their cheeks—

like a hailstorm falling in the middle of summer.

Then, Zakhmar IV ascended the throne.

He was 120—young for a vampire, yet his eyes were already old. His dark, bluish-black hair fell to his shoulders, and his gaze was colder than the ice atop Jabal Al-Sawda.

Beside him stood Queen Lyralei, a blue-moon vampire of the northern bloodline—skin pale as eternal snow, voice soft as ice cracking over a frozen lake.

They wasted no time.

Two years.

That was all they needed to change the world.

The Blood Chamber beneath Baho Citadel—once a sanctum for ancient rituals—was transformed into the Crystal Laboratory.

Its walls were plated with black metal from the Morveth mines. The floor was pure crystal glass, glowing faintly like a lunar ocean.

Here, vampire blood was blended with molten metal.

Moon crystals were ground into fine dust.

The hardened sands of Aurathrax—the remnants of the battle two hundred twenty years ago—were burned in a colossal furnace until they melted into blue-gold liquid.

The result: machine crystals.

Ever-glowing.

Never dying.

Never burning hot.

A crystal the size of a human heart could power an entire city for a hundred years.

Jabal Al-Sawda was transformed.

Old stone roads were replaced with steel rails twisting like serpents of light.

Wooden houses became towering structures of living glass, walls pulsing softly like veins beneath skin.

The once-destroyed harbor became a titanic shipyard, three times larger than the old city.

Warships—longer than three city blocks—rose from the docks, powered by machine crystals, gliding above the water like metal birds.

Their weapons were not swords. Not arrows.

But Sand Cannons—crystal cylinders the length of a human arm, filled with condensed Aurathrax sand.

One shot: a city turned into gold statues in an instant.

No screams. No blood.

Only silent eternity, with eyes still moving within the golden shells.

Zakhmar IV never spoke to the common people.

He spoke in the throne room of Baho Citadel, before the twelve kings of Lunanevfa—

all except the Red Eclipse Kingdom.

One by one, they arrived.

The Iron King of Ferrumkor, now a conquered province.

The Flame Queen of Ignarath, now without her crown.

They brought maps. Soldiers. Decisions.

“Two choices,” Zakhmar IV said, his voice flat as frozen water.

“Join us. Or become gold.”

None chose gold.

In two years, Baho Citadel—once ruling only Narajalle—

now controlled twelve of the thirteen nations of Lunanevfa.

The Red Eclipse remained free, standing alone on the shores of the Eclipse Sea—

a land of pirates, a land of red wolves, a land that bowed to no king.

Across the six other continents—Ignarath, Cryovelle, Verdanthar, Ferrumkor, Auralith, Nyxumbra—

blue banners of the moon were raised above their palaces.

Not out of devotion.

Out of fear.

Queen Lyralei never smiled in public.

But on the balcony of Baho Citadel, under a full moon, she whispered to the wind:

“We have won. Yet one nation still stands apart. And one is enough to crack everything.”

Zakhmar IV stared toward the distant Red Eclipse Sea.

Now filled with blue warships—

but not a single one dared approach the crimson waters.

The sea still sang.

A song of wolves.

A song of pirates.

A song that never ended.

In the underground lab, a young vampire engineer rushed in, face pale.

“Your Majesty,” he stuttered. “The machine crystals… they are cracking. The Aurathrax sand… it’s moving on its own. Something is inside.”

Zakhmar IV nodded calmly.

“Let it,” he said. “That means he is still alive.”

That night, he opened his father’s journal.

On the final page, he wrote a new line in blue blood:

“Father feared light that was too bright.

I fear the one nation still in darkness—

and the sea that keeps singing.”

Outside Baho Citadel, Lunanevfa blazed with light—almost too bright.

Glass towers reflected blue radiance into the sky.

But far to the northeast, the Red Eclipse remained red.

And there, the sea kept singing—

a song of war waiting to begin.

The warship Blue Seraphine drifted low above the Eclipse Sea, its vast shadow swallowing the red waves beneath it like a blue storm cloud that had fallen too close to the world. From afar, the ship looked like a shard of the lost blue moon, torn from the heavens and forced to hover above the wrong sea. Its hull caught the crimson glow of the water, casting mixed reflections that made the whole harbor shimmer between cold blue and feral red.

A crystal staircase descended from the ship’s belly—alive, shifting, unfurling like a sentient spine. It solidified only when the first boot touched its surface. Then came one hundred vampires, stepping down without a sound. Their movements were weightless, too graceful for creatures built for war. The people of Sanguara watched them in tense silence; everyone understood that if these lunar beings wanted war, they would not bother announcing it.

The morning air was thick and wet. Salt from the sea blended with the wild spices carried down from the green cliffs behind the town—cliffs full of red-furred beasts and forests that changed shape when eclipses came. Behind all of that, Blue Seraphine hovered steadily, its crystal engine pulsing softly—dug-dug—like the heartbeat of a giant that had never known warmth.

The people of Red Eclipse had been waiting since dawn. They lined the wooden pier in long rows: humans and red wolf-folk standing shoulder to shoulder. The humans bore sun-burned brown skin, sculpted by wind and labor. Their hands were rough with rope scars, their eyes calm like seas hiding storms.

Beside them, the red werewolf race stood tall. In human form they looked nearly ordinary—red hair, pale crimson eyes, slightly pointed ears, and faint claw-marks on their necks as a sign of heritage. But everyone knew their truth. When the eclipse reached its peak, they would transform completely: crimson fur, dagger-long fangs, and a speed no ordinary wind could match.

Captain Vaelthir stepped forward, his sapphire cloak billowing although no breeze touched him. Tall, thin, and posture sharp as a sheathed blade, he carried a golden scroll in his right hand. His sapphire eyes swept across the crowd as though memorizing every face for later judgment.

“King Zakhmar IV and Queen Lyralei send us with an offer of eternal alliance,” he declared, his voice clear, cold, and rising effortlessly over the entire pier. “Red Eclipse joins Baho Citadel. You receive protection, crystal-engine technology, and access to all of Lunanevfa. We receive your harbor. And stability.”

The crowd murmured uneasily. Far in the distance, the sea carried faint songs from the Red Sun pirate fleet—crimson sails fluttering under the skull-wolf banner. Not a single blue lunar flag among them.

From the center of the gathering stepped Lykanor Flamfeng. Young, fierce, and alive like burning ember. His wild red curls framed his shoulders; his shirt was worn from salt and sun, his bare feet rooted firmly in the warm sand. A wolf-fang necklace glinted faintly at his throat, the mark of a born leader who bowed to no moon.

He smiled—a calm but dangerous smile.

“Welcome to Red Eclipse, moon-lords,” he said, voice deep as a tide that hadn’t yet broken. “You’ve traveled far. But this sea belongs to no one.”

Vaelthir unfurled the golden scroll. Its letters glowed softly.

“This is the same treaty your envoy signed two years ago. Red Eclipse is a part of Lunanevfa.”

Lykanor chuckled, a sound rolling across the pier like a small stone dropped into silent water.

“That signature came from a terrified envoy,” he said. “Not from our people. Not from humans. Not from red-wolf blood.”

He stepped closer, pale crimson eyes locking onto Vaelthir’s sapphire ones.

“You say alliance. Your eyes say submission.”

The vampire ranks tensed. Behind Lykanor, humans tightened their grip on nets as if they were weapons. The red wolf-folk raised their sea-spears, tips glinting dangerously.

“You brought a ship that flies,” Lykanor continued, tone now cold as iron. “We have ships that sing with the sea. You bring sand-cannons. We bring claws that rise only during an eclipse—yet sharp enough to tear the sky.”

Vaelthir snapped the scroll shut.

“You reject our offer of peace?”

Lykanor shook his head.

“We reject colonization.”

He pointed toward the sea, where hundreds of Red Sun ships rested like sleeping beasts.

“Return to Baho Citadel and tell your king and queen: Red Eclipse is not owned by the moon.”

He thumped a fist against his chest.

“We are Red Sun—humans and red wolven blood. One sea. One pulse. And when the eclipse falls, we will become your red hell.”

With a simple gesture from Vaelthir, the vampires withdrew. They ascended the living crystal stairs, entering Blue Seraphine without a single backward glance. The ship rose higher, its cold shadow fading over the crimson ocean.

On the pier, Lykanor turned to his people. The sun drifted westward, while in the eastern sky, the lunar shadow began to bite into the full moon—thin at first, then steadily growing.

“Tonight,” he said softly, “the eclipse comes. When it does, the red wolves will transform. Humans will remain human. But together—together, we stand for war.”

---

At Baho Citadel, the crystal bird returned. Zakhmar IV read the brief report. He didn’t rage. Instead, with blue blood as ink, he wrote a single line:

“The sea begins to sing again. The eclipse will open the first door of war.”

---

In Red Eclipse, Lykanor raised his eyes to the sky darkening into crimson shadow. The eclipse deepened.

And in his chest,

the wolf’s heart began to beat faster.

War had awakened its eyes.

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