In the vast expanse of the Five Cosmos, Gods and Demons waged an endless war for sovereignty, shaping the fates of mortals below—Good or Evil, salvation or ruin.

Yet far from their cataclysmic struggle, in the northern Cosmos, lay a small planet called Exar—quiet, distant, and blissfully unaware of the devastation above.

In the central region of Dawnfall, outside a small eastern village's palisade, a man stood waiting. Axe in his left hand, a stack of freshly cut logs in his right.

"Is that you, John?" called a watchman from the tower—one eye intact, the other carved out long ago by a blade he should never have survived.

I still can't believe they let a half-blind man watch the gate, John thought, shaking his head. Peace really is the death of caution.

Naturally, he didn't dare say it aloud. Instead, he raised a hand.

"It's me."

The guard leaned forward, squinting, refusing to trust anything except the one eye time hadn't stolen.

"Ah," he said at last. "It really is you."

"Yeah…" John replied dryly.

"I'll open up. One moment."

The watchman pressed a hand against the Tier-2 Earth Essence Scroll mounted on the inner wall. The formation flared, its runes pulsing. Below, the southern gate—a thick wall of compacted earth and hardened mud—rumbled as it lifted from the ground.

John stepped inside.

"Thank you."

He paused just past the threshold, letting the familiar scents and sounds wash over him: smoke drifting from chimneys, distant chopping of kindling, soft chatter from porches. A small village—but it was theirs. They had bled for this peace.

He relieved his grip, plunging the axe into the dirt to free his hand. Then he grabbed a log from his stack and tossed it back over his shoulder without looking.

The watchman's hand shot out, snatching the log mid-air—war-honed reflexes still sharp despite age and injury.

By the time he looked up to thank John, the man was already walking away, too far to hear him.

​After trudging through the village street, firewood slung over his shoulder, John rounded the final bend.

​There—

He saw her.

​His neighbor, an old woman bent like a wind-whipped oak, stood at her front door. Her gaze was fixed on the horizon, willing the fading light to summon a familiar silhouette.

​She heard his footsteps—heavy on the packed dirt—and turned. The faint spark of hope in her eyes dimmed instantly into quiet disappointment.

​"Good evening," she said, her voice as thin as the shawl draped over her shoulders.

​"Good evening," John replied, pausing at his own door. His hand reached for the latch, but the evening breeze tugged at him—cool fingers brushing his cheek, carrying the chill of the wilds beyond the palisade.

​His mind urged him onward: Home. Rest. Forget the day. But his heart, scarred and stubborn, weighed heavier than the logs.

​He sighed, a sound lost to the wind. turning back, he walked over to her and crouched down to meet her eye level.

​"Everything alright?" she asked, blinking.

​"Clide'll be home later than usual," John said gently. He rummaged in his pouch, fingers closing around a Tier 1 Fire Essence Scroll. Its runes hummed, faint but reliable.

​​"Is he okay? Do you know why he's late?" she asked, her hands twisting nervously.

​"Mhm," John replies, stacking a few of his logs near her feet and sliding the scroll beneath them. "The Lumber Shack got a last-minute call-in. He volunteered for the extra hours."

​​He tapped the scroll. Essence flared, and flames burst to life, wrapping the wood in sudden warmth.

​"If he saw you out here freezing," John added, rising slowly, "it'd break his heart. Take care of yourself, alright?"

​The old woman's lips curved into a fragile smile. "I'm sorry to worry you. I still haven't—"

​"Any man would be lucky to have a mother like you," John cut in, soft but firm. "No need to justify a damn thing."

​He knew her story all too well. Her husband's death—a lumberjack's hazard. One slip on iced bark, one brittle branch in the winter gales. Lives snuffed out like embers. For men like them—warriors whose hands knew only the swing of a blade—what other trade waited when the fighting stopped? The palisade kept the wilds at bay, but scars like hers ran deeper than any wall.

​"Thank you," she murmured, watching the flames take hold.

​John nodded, hefting his axe once more. He turned back to his door, the warmth at his back a fleeting comfort against the gathering night.

​Peace was a fragile thing in Exar—earned in blood, held by whispers. And some nights, it felt as thin as the shawl she wore.

"Papa!"

Ezmelral's voice echoed through the house like a joyful thunderclap, her little feet pattering across the wooden floor in a frantic rhythm.

John dropped his axe with a clatter, crouching just in time to scoop her into his arms. "How's my girl?" he rumbled, voice warm as hearthfire, spinning her once for good measure.

"I—"

She froze mid-sentence, golden eyes zeroing in on the noticeably lighter bundle of logs slung over his shoulder.

"Mom!" she wailed, twisting in his grip like a storm about to break.

"What is it?" Mary's voice drifted from the kitchen, laced with that patient amusement only mothers mastered.

"Dad gave away logs again!"

John's eyes widened in mock horror. He lunged, clapping a hand over her mouth. "You little traitor—how could you betray your old man so easily?!"

Ezmelral's muffled giggles bubbled out, her small hands prying at his fingers. "I don't see my present on you!"

"Over a gift?"

"It's my birthday!"

Their bickering filled the room like sunlight spilling through cracks—playful, relentless, utterly theirs.

From the kitchen doorway, Mary watched, arms crossed, a faint smile tugging at her lips. She would be lying if she claimed the doubt never crept in during quiet hours: Did we make the right choice?

Once, she had been their squad's captain—not just leader, but guardian. Her word meant life or death, her hawkish gaze the thin line between survival and the grave. And among those hardened men, John had stood out. Not for skill with a blade, but for his impossible kindness.

A double-edged sword, she'd thought then. Worry gnawed at her: one day, that soft heart would be his undoing, exploited by the merciless wilds.

But the more she watched him—the more she pulled him aside for "strategy talks" that stretched into stolen evenings—the closer she drew. Love had a way of bridging even the widest chasms, turning vigilance into vulnerability.

And with love came sacrifice.

They had left it all behind for Ezmelral: ranks stripped, careers ashes, even family ties severed by whispers of "foolish weakness." Warriors trading swords for axes, glory for hearths.

Was his kindness a burden? Sometimes. Annoying? Often—logs vanishing like smoke, favors given without a second thought.

But without it?

No them. No Ezmelral's laughter ringing through the house like bells. No home warmed not by fire, but by the unique chaos only they could weave.

So in moments like this—watching her husband come home lighter in load but heavier in heart, their bickering a melody no stack of wood could match—Mary's answer was simple, carved deep as any scar:

We made the right choice.

An hour later—after the bickering, after the laughter had settled—the house was filled with the sweet smell of baking cake and the rhythmic chip-chip-chip of an axe carving wood.

Ezmelral sat at the central table, her small feet swinging, golden eyes glued to the kitchen doorway.

"I'm so hungry!" she hollered. "When's it gonna be ready?"

"Soon, little one!" Mary called back, voice warm and musical.

Ezmelral huffed dramatically and turned toward her father. John sat hunched over his workbench, his axe—meant for splitting timber—now delicately shaving curls from a tiny piece of wood.

"What are you making, Papa? You've been at it for months."

He paused, eyes twinkling.

"Ah. That's a secret, my sprout."

"Come on! Tell me!"

"Nope."

Chip-chip-chip.

Ezmelral narrowed her eyes.

"Is this your payback for earlier?"

His silence—and the faint smirk—was answer enough.

She puffed her cheeks, folding her arms. "Fine! Don't tell me then."

Mary emerged from the kitchen carrying a golden cake steaming on a worn platter.

"Don't tease her so, dear," she chided, setting the cake down. She poked Ezmelral's puffed cheeks, popping them with one playful tap. "Don't let your father get under your skin, petal."

Ezmelral instantly betrayed her own indignation.

"Who cares about him? Cake!"

She stuck her tongue out at John.

Mary returned to the kitchen. "Hurry up—dinner's almost ready!"

"Any moment," John replied, still working at the carving.

Then—

A thwack of the knife striking wood.

Then again.

Then again.

The rhythm changed—too sharp, too fast.

Not cooking.

Not human.

John froze.

"…Seems like I'm done." He tucked the carving away and rose, forcing a smile.

"You can stop now, Mary. I'm already moving."

But the chopping didn't stop.

It didn't even pause.

John's grin faded.

"…Mary?"

A prickle crawled up his spine.

Old instincts—the kind carved in battlefields—whispered danger.

"Honey? Still mad about the logs? I said I'd chop more in the morning."

No reply.

He stepped into the kitchen doorway.

Mary stood rigid, back turned.

Drip.

A crimson bead fell to the floor.

John's breath hitched.

She turned.

Ezmelral watched her father stumble back, boots scraping across the dirt.

Her mother's skin—once warm ivory—was now corpse-grey.

Her eyes were empty pits of feral hunger.

"Mother…?" Ezmelral whispered.

Mary screeched—raw, jagged, inhuman—and lunged.

John reacted instantly.

He seized the heavy table and hurled it toward the doorway.

In the same motion, he scooped Ezmelral up and bolted for the exit.

The table split in half mid-air—Mary's knife carving through it like wet parchment.

"Mother!" Ezmelral cried.

Mary vaulted over the splintered wood, landing at the front door in a blur.

The knife flashed downward.

John threw his body between the blade and the girl—Essence flaring.

His palms struck the ground.

The earth convulsed.

Mud surged upward, hardening into a dome around them—a cocoon of raw instinct and desperate protection.

For one breath—safety.

Then crunch.

Steel punched through the earth-wall.

Blood sprayed inside, warm droplets splattering Ezmelral's face.

"F-Father?" she whimpered.

"Get back!" he roared, voice thick with blood.

Cracks webbed through the dome.

It collapsed—raining down in chunks.

John staggered upright, chest heaving.

His eyes met Mary's.

"Why…?"

She answered with a savage slash.

The blade tore across his chest.

Blood blossomed through the air like red mist.

He stumbled, vision blurring, body collapsing under him.

Mary stepped forward.

Yet even then—John's hand shot out, clutching her ankle.

"Not… her…"

His grip weakened.

Mary kicked him aside.

He slid limply across the floor.

Ezmelral trembled, stepping back.

Just moments ago—cake, laughter, joy.

How?

Why?

Tears blurred her vision.

Please… someone—anyone—help me understand…

A crack split the air behind Mary.

The back wall exploded inward—wood, straw, and dirt erupting in a storm of splinters. A root lunged through the debris, thick and fast as a striking serpent.

Mary twisted, leaping aside. Her knife flashed once, cleaving the root in two. She landed at the ruined doorway, half-turned toward the breach.

Through it stepped a man—tall, cloaked, eyes burning the color of fresh-spilled blood.

In his left hand, an empty sheath gleamed.

He didn't draw steel. He drew intent.

A vertical slash through the air—swift as thought.

The earth answered.

A root erupted beneath Mary—thick, coiled, merciless—lancing up through her chin with a wet crunch, bursting from the top of her skull and smashing into the ceiling. Straw and splinters rained down.

Her knife fell first, clattering across the blood-slick floor.

Her body hung after, limp on the root like a broken puppet.

Ezmelral stared, frozen.

Her mother's grey, vacant face dangled above her, blood dripping in slow, steady taps.

"M… Mother…" Ezmelral whispered. The word cracked apart in her throat.

A faint rasp pulled her gaze down.

"Ezmelral…"

Her father.

She stumbled to him, knees splashing in the pooled crimson. Her small hands clutched his tunic, fingers slick with his blood.

"Father! Are you okay?" Her voice shook. "Please—say something."

John forced a smile, lines of pain carving deeper into his face.

"Don't… cry, sprout."

His hand lifted, heavy as stone, thumb brushing a tear from her cheek.

"You're stronger than this."

"How can I not?" she choked. "You… Mother… you're both—"

He cut her off with a shaky breath, fumbling inside his pocket. His fingers closed around something small.

"It's… a bird," he rasped.

He pressed the wooden carving into her palm—a tiny bird, wings half-unfurled, faint tool marks still visible along its body.

"Your birthday gift," he whispered. "My… finest craft… yet."

His hand slid from her cheek, grazing her fingers before dropping, lifeless, to the floor.

"Father!"

Ezmelral's scream tore out of her, raw and jagged, as she bent over him, clutching his tunic, willing warmth back into a body that was already letting go.

Heavy steps sounded behind her, heading for the shattered opening.

She jerked her head up.

"Wait!"

The cloaked man didn't respond. He walked toward the breach, cloak trailing through dust and blood.

The ground shook.

Ezmelral spun to the side just in time to see the root holding her mother begin to twitch. It retracted, dragging the corpse down with it. Mary's body slid from the ceiling toward the floor, then beneath it—pulled into the dirt.

"Mother!" Ezmelral lunged, clawing at the ground. The root vanished. The earth smoothed over as if it had never been disturbed.

She dug anyway, fingernails scraping dirt. Nothing.

"Mother…" she whispered, the word soaked in helpless fury. Tears fell, darkening the dust.

From outside, screams ripped through the night.

Not just one voice. Many. Dozens.

The village was screaming.

Ezmelral's gaze snapped back to the cloaked man. His silhouette framed in the ruined wall, already stepping into the chaos beyond.

Her fists clenched around the wooden bird.

"I'll be back," she whispered to her father's still form, voice trembling but resolute. "I swear it. But first… I need answers."

She looped the bird onto the cord around her neck, its weight hot against her skin.

Then she ran.

---

Outside, the world was gone.

Ezmelral stumbled into the street and stopped dead.

Flames licked at rooftops. Some houses had already collapsed into smoking skeletons. Bodies lay strewn across the dirt—neighbors, merchants, guards—skin drained to that same ashen grey, eyes glassy and empty.

The air reeked of smoke and iron.

No. Her mind rejected it. Mother wouldn't… she couldn't…

There has to be a reason.

Gritting her teeth, she pushed forward, following the direction the man had gone.

As she ran, the village's last moments played out around her in grotesque fragments.

A root bursting through the ground, skewering a man mid-sprint.

A woman she recognized—the baker who slipped her extra bread—dragged under, her grey face expressionless.

A child's toy, crushed in a footprint of mud and ash.

Everywhere, roots rose and fell—impaling, dragging, erasing.

She turned a corner and stopped before a familiar house.

Berfimikol's.

The front door hung from a single hinge, broken inward.

She hesitated. Raiking—whoever he was—was getting further away with every heartbeat.

But this was Berfimikol.

Just a quick look, she told herself. I have to know.

She slipped inside.

The warmth was gone. The house was cold. Wrong.

"Berfimikol?" she called.

Silence.

She moved down the hall. Berfimikol's father was pinned to the wall by a root through his chest, grey and still, head slumped forward.

Ezmelral forced herself past him, toward the bedroom door—splintered, barely hanging on.

She pushed it open.

The sight inside hit her like a hammer.

Her stomach clenched. A strangled sound clawed at her throat. She slapped a hand over her mouth to keep the scream down.

Memories flashed—Berfimikol's laughter, whispered plans under starlight.

We'll leave this village one day.

You'll be a healer. I'll be your guard.

We'll see the world together.

Now—

Gone.

Ezmelral staggered backward, then fled, bursting back into the street. Her heart felt like stone in her chest, but her legs kept moving.

She wasn't running from the horror anymore.

She was chasing the only person who seemed to understand it.

---

The further she ran, the worse it got.

Flames chewed through rooftops. Ash drifted like black snow. The smithy was a collapsed ruin. The market stalls were smashed and empty.

Then—another root erupted ahead, spearing a fleeing villager. The body jerked once, then went limp as the root dragged it below.

"He's… over there," she whispered, breath ragged.

At the village's edge, where farmland dissolved into wild scrub, she saw him.

The cloaked man—Raiking—moved like he'd been born in the chaos. A tide of Praexers swarmed him—crawling along walls like grotesque insects, bounding from roofs, charging across the ground, all grey skin and empty eyes.

One leaped from a wall, claws outstretched.

Raiking swung his sheath in a smooth arc. A root exploded from the ground, impaling the creature mid-air. It shrieked once before being pulled under.

Another surged from the ground, jaws gaping.

A sideways sweep of the sheath—another root slammed through its neck.

From above, a third dropped toward him, a falling shadow.

He thrust the sheath upward—roots speared the creature from below and dragged it screaming into the dirt.

They came in waves.

He moved through them like a man playing out a pattern he already knew the ending to—dodge, strike, step, roots piercing in perfect response.

Ezmelral could barely track it.

One Praexer broke from the pack, lunging out of the ruins toward her instead.

She stumbled, falling backward, palms scraping against stone.

The creature's claws reached for her face.

She threw up her arms, eyes squeezing shut.

No impact.

No pain.

She opened one eye.

The Praexer hung above her, impaled mid-leap by a root through its spine, dead eyes inches from hers.

Just like her mother's.

She scrambled back, heart pounding, breath tearing in and out of her lungs.

Raiking turned away from the last impaled Praexer and walked toward the western gate, boots crunching over debris. The roots sank back into the earth behind him, taking the bodies with them.

"Wait!" Ezmelral shouted.

He didn't slow.

She sprinted, dodging corpses and embers, until she cut in front of him, skidding to a stop. Arms flung wide. Feet planted.

A small, blood-smeared barrier in his path.

For the first time, she really saw him.

Eyes like molten rubies, calm where everything else burned. Raven hair, cloak falling in quiet folds. Clothes unlike anything woven in their village—too refined, too other.

"Who… who are you?" she demanded.

Her voice shook.

Her gaze didn't.

The question wasn't just about his name.

It was about everything—

What he had done.

What had happened to her parents.

What this nightmare was.

And why he'd chosen to step into it.

Raiking halted.

​His crimson eyes met Ezmelral's—hers blazing with a fire that sought to scour the truth from his very soul. But he offered no words, no solace. He simply turned and pressed onward along the shadowed path, his voice drifting back like a cold wind.

​"If you halt me now, the agony tearing at you... others will endure it soon enough."

​Ezmelral's breath caught. Others?

​Confusion swirled in her mind. As an aspiring swordsman, she had devoured every book on beasts—drakes, wraiths, titans. But the gray-skinned horrors that had hollowed out her neighbors? Nothing in the pages matched that nightmare.

​She cast one last, heart-wrenching look at her village. Flames devoured the rooftops, casting an infernal glow over empty streets. The air choked on the scent of smoke and loss.

​Will more places end like this?

​The weight of it pressed on her chest, but it only hardened her resolve. She lowered her arms just as Raiking brushed past, his cloak whispering in the wind. She couldn't let him vanish—not when the void in her heart screamed for answers.

​Why them?

​One final vow burned in her mind: she would return only when she unraveled the cruel purpose behind their deaths. Clenching her fists, she spun on her heel and chased after him, her small footsteps pounding the earth in a defiant rhythm.

​For an entire day, they trekked without pause.

​They moved through dense forests where branches clawed like fingers and over rugged mountains that scraped the sky. No rest. No food. No water. Exhaustion gnawed at her, but she refused to yield.

​One day bled into the next. The journey stretched like an endless thread through valleys and ridges with no destination in sight.

​Where are we even going?

​Questions piled up like storm clouds, but every time she voiced one, his replies were cryptic. "Knowing won't change the tides," he'd say. "The solace you chase will only birth a deeper thirst."

​Frustrated, she fell silent. She decided on a slower siege: she would unravel him bit by bit.

​Deep in a whispering forest, she broke the quiet. "What's your name?"

​"Raiking," he replied, a low rumble that seemed to echo from the trees.

​She nodded, committing it to memory. "And those roots of yours... what are they? I've read every Essence book in the village. Fire, Air, Earth, Lightning, Water. Yours... fit none of them."

​"My Essence is... special," he said, glancing sidelong at her. "It makes me uniquely suited to confront Praexers."

​"Praexers?" The word felt foreign on her tongue.

​He nodded toward the horizon, eyes distant. "What you witnessed with your mother—she was once an Exar, like all mortals on this planet. Then she became a Praexer... the evil that festers here."

​Praexers. The name settled like a stone in her gut.

​Silence reclaimed the space between them. She knew pushing too hard would only build walls. But her immediate torment wasn't curiosity; it was the hollow growl in her stomach. Forty-eight hours without a bite. Her legs dragged, the world blurring at the edges as fatigue clawed deep into her bones.

​Meanwhile, in the quiet recesses of Raiking's mind, a voice stirred from the void.

​The girl won't survive another night like this, Eidolon noted.

​Raiking's mental response was curt. I didn't ask her to follow.

​Regardless, Eidolon pressed, you hold the answers she craves. Naturally, she'll trail you—just like she did—

​Enough, Raiking cut in sharply. I've told you before—never speak of that person.

​Eidolon fell silent for a beat, the mental hush thick as fog. Either way, do not let your hunger to hunt Praexers starve others of their lives.

​Raiking offered no reply, his thoughts a sealed vault as the sun dipped low.

​They stopped abruptly by a serene lake, its surface a glassy mirror reflecting the twilight.

​"Why've we stopped?" Ezmelral asked, voice hoarse.

​"We're nearing the next village," he replied evenly, kneeling by the water. "Entering caked in blood would only terrify the mortals.

Once I'm cleansed, we carry on."

​She blinked. Mortals.

​That was the second time he'd used that word. Wasn't he an Exar too? Maybe he fancied himself one of those aloof masters from the tales, detached from the woes of common men.

​By the time her thoughts settled, he was already scrubbing the crimson stains from his cloak. Seizing the moment, she scanned the trees. High up, clusters of ripe fruit dangled—taunting her.

​Her belly snarled. Just one.

​She circled the trunk and began to haul herself up. Inch by inch, she ascended, the prize drawing nearer... until her foot slipped on a patch of moss.

​The world tilted. She fell.

​In a blur, something rough yet gentle coiled around her waist—a root, twisting from the earth like a living rope. It caught her mid-plunge, lowering her softly to the grass. A fruit tumbled free from the branches, landing neatly in her hands.

​She stared at it in disbelief, then glanced at Raiking. He wasn't even looking her way.

​A tentative smile tugged at her lips. She took a juicy bite, sweetness exploding on her tongue, and wandered toward the river.

​"Thanks," she mumbled through a mouthful.

​He didn't look up. "Know your limits."

​The smile vanished. Just when I thought he might be kind... still the icy stranger. She huffed and cupped a handful of lake water. But before she could drink, his sheath darted out, blocking her hand.

​"Why?" she demanded.

​"Use this," he said, extending the empty sheath. "The material purifies the water."

​His mixed signals were baffling. "Why are you nice one second and cold the next?" she blurted.

​He paused, water dripping from his hands. "I just don't want you dying on my watch."

She bristled. "YOU—"

She bit the rest back. Yelling at the only person who knew what a Praexer even was wouldn't help. She filled the sheath, drank. The water tasted cleaner than anything from the village wells.

The fruit vanished quickly. Warmth returned to her fingers. Exhaustion hit twice as hard.

She slumped back against the grass, telling herself she'd only close her eyes for a moment.

The moment turned black.

---

When she woke, the ground was too far away.

Her world swung with each step. Something dug into her stomach. Boots crunched gravel ahead.

She was over his shoulder.

"What are you doing?!" she yelped, flailing. He let her slip down; she hit the ground in an undignified crouch, cheeks burning.

"How dare you!" she snapped, brushing dirt off her dress. "You could've woken me!"

Raiking looked at her like she'd complained about the weather. "You needed rest. The journey ahead would have broken you."

Before she could decide whether to punch him or argue, voices drifted on the wind—soft laughter, low chatter, clinking crockery.

She turned.

Through the thinning trees stood a town. Modest wooden walls. An open gate. Lanterns glowed along the main road, casting warm light on cobbles and passing villagers.

Children chased each other between doorsteps. Somewhere, bread was baking. A dog barked. Life.

Her chest tightened.

"Will that town…" she began, throat closing around the words. "Will it end up like mine?"

Raiking didn't soften. He just nodded once, grave and unflinching, then walked toward the gate.

He didn't look back.

Ezmelral did.

Back to the forest that hid the ashes of her village. Back to the path she couldn't return to.

Her fingers closed around the wooden bird at her neck.

I won't stop, she promised, stepping after him. Not until I understand why this is happening... and how to end it.

The town's lantern light washed over her as she passed through the gate—warm, fragile, and, if Raiking was right, already doomed.