The Spirit of Darkness — Krovin

The Caspians were the greatest lineage living in the shadow of royal power. They were no ordinary nobles. They were the living embodiment of sanctity itself. Every generation, every child, was born with a divine blessing: the magic of light or water. These powers granted them not only respect, but also fear.

And then… he was born.

Lucian.

His birth was celebrated with joy. But as the years passed, celebration turned into doubt.

While other children grasped a sword as if it were an extension of their own arm, Lucian felt its weight not on his shoulders—but on his soul.

He fell.

He stood up again.

And fell once more.

Eventually, people turned their backs on him.

But Lucian did not.

Deep within, he held onto a single hope—magic.

Fifteen years old.

The day of the sacred ritual.

The hall was built of pure white marble. Sunlight streamed between towering pillars, painting the air in gold. Priests chanted in an ancient tongue, and the atmosphere began to tremble.

Lucian stepped forward.

His heart pounded—hard, uneven.

"Please… just one chance…"

The light descended.

But it was not warm.

It was cold.

His hands began to freeze. His breath turned into pale mist. Ice spread across the ground beneath him.

And then everyone understood.

This was not light.

Nor was it water.

This… was ice.

Whispers filled the hall.

Then silence.

And silence… was judgment.

From that day on, Lucian became the shame of the Caspians.

Years passed.

And he changed.

His sword no longer trembled.

His strikes became as sharp as a winter wind.

And in his eyes—there was no warmth left.

At nineteen, he joined the Silver Knights.

At thirty-four, he became a captain.

And on the battlefield, he earned new names:

“The Cold Death”…

“The White Crow.”

But his fate was far from over.

Night.

Darkness.

Even the wind seemed afraid to make a sound.

Lucian stepped outside the camp.

Footsteps followed behind him.

“Captain…”

He turned—

Pain.

A blade pierced his back.

Warm blood dripped onto the cold ground.

“You cannot lead us…” the soldier said, his voice filled with hatred. “You were never a true Caspian.”

Another strike.

Another betrayal.

More soldiers emerged from the shadows.

All of them… against him.

Lucian laughed.

But it was not the laugh of a man.

It was the sound of something breaking.

He fought.

Wounded.

Alone.

But without stopping.

Every strike—rage.

Every step—hatred.

But in the end… he fell.

The ground was cold.

His blood began to freeze.

His eyes slowly closed.

And he whispered:

"I… will return…"

He died.

But that was not the end.

Darkness did not consume him.

Instead… he consumed the darkness.

He was reborn.

No longer Lucian.

He was hatred.

He was vengeance.

He was darkness itself.

The Spirit of Darkness — Krovin.

A black shadow drifting across the sky, Krovin began to rain death upon the world. Wherever he moved, the sky darkened, the earth shattered.

Cities vanished.

People disappeared without a trace.

His existence was a catastrophe.

And at last…

Someone stood against him.

The great sorcerer—Dururuk.

When the battle began, the sky itself cracked apart.

Their magic clashed like lightning. Krovin’s darkness sought to devour the world, while Dururuk resisted with light and sealing spells.

In his hand, Dururuk held a black ring.

Necrium.

A cursed metal.

“You do not belong to this world…” he said.

Krovin gave no reply.

For he had already gone beyond human words.

The battle raged on.

At last, Dururuk risked his life and activated the ring.

The darkness began to compress.

A scream—

Not of a human.

And then… it was over.

The ring fell silent.

But inside it… something still lived.

It was given a name:

Kremona.

But one day…

It disappeared.

And Krovin became a legend.

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