If someone were to ask which was the greatest city, clan, or kingdom on the continent, there would be no definite answer. Each land was unique in its own way.
To the north of the Varenthion Empire, the Valtair Clan ruled over lands of eternal ice and snow-covered mountains. Their cities, rather than relying on roads, were connected by water canals, forming a frozen kingdom of shimmering beauty.
To the east, the Ventaryn Clan lived in harmony with nature, their settlements built atop towering trees and floating upon vast lakes. At the heart of their domain stood an ancient tree, its branches reaching toward the heavens—a legend whispered to hold divine blessings.
To the west, the Stonehelm Clan carved their home into rocky mountains and steep cliffs. Their fortress city was said to be the strongest defensive structure in the empire, an impenetrable bastion standing against the test of time.
And in the south, there was the Ignisborne Clan, the rulers of flames and war. Unlike the other regions, their land appeared the most normal—no frozen mountains, no floating cities, no grand fortresses. But what they lacked in spectacle, they made up for in power. The strongest warriors of the empire were born here, wielding unmatched martial and weapon arts. It was said that no army could rival their destructive might.
At the heart of the empire lay Varentis, the Capital, a golden city filled with history and grandeur. And as midnight approached, the empire's fate would shift, for the Avatars would be revealed—the four chosen by the gods.
The Avatar of Water from the Valtair Clan.The Avatar of Wind from the Ventaryn Clan.The Avatar of Earth from the Stonehelm Clan.The Avatar of Flames from the Ignisborne Clan.
Each would rise, and their names would be etched into history.
But far from the empire's golden capital, in a city by the ocean's edge, despair loomed.
The City of Vermaris, once a paradise of cascading waterfalls, thriving trade, and adventure, now stood on the verge of ruin.
Its streets, once filled with laughter and joy, were now haunted by the wails of the desperate.
Soldiers and adventurers worked tirelessly to evacuate the citizens, but the truth was undeniable.
Not everyone would escape.
Not everyone would survive.
And in one hour, everything would burn.
Atop the city's highest tower, a muscular man with graying brown hair sat in the governor's chambers, sipping from a glass of alcohol.
This was Draven, the lord of Vermaris.
Thirty years ago, he had arrived in this land as a mere adventurer. With his wits, will, and relentless effort, he had built Vermaris into the jewel it was today.
And now, all he could do was watch it crumble.
He had known about the prophecy. The central empire had sent him orders—
Do nothing. Let fate take its course. Let the tragedy unfold, as it was preordained.
Draven had ignored them.
He ordered an immediate evacuation. He personally requested aid from the empire, the four major clans, and the adventurers' guild.
No one responded.
No one offered a hand.
And yet, he refused to run. If his city was to fall, he would fall with it.
The door burst open.
A young woman entered, dressed in a crisp secretary's outfit, her brown hair tied in a tight bun.
"Father, have you still not changed your mind?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.
Draven let out a deep sigh. "Dahlia, you need to leave. I arranged for someone to escort you to the next city. You still have time."
She crossed her arms. "I'm not abandoning you."
A small, tired smile tugged at Draven's lips. He had expected as much.
Dahlia straightened. "I came to tell you something. Six more adventurers answered our call. They just returned from the dungeon. The Bloodwolf Party has agreed to help the citizens."
Draven raised a brow. "Brave or foolish… hard to tell the difference these days. Is that all?"
Dahlia hesitated. "One of their members, the porter, asked me to deliver something to you. He also requested an audience."
Draven chuckled. "Adrian? That kid always comes up with weird ideas. What does he think he can do, save the city?"
His laughter faded as he took the small package she handed him. Inside, nestled in velvet, was a small emblem.
His fingers froze.
His breath hitched.
This… this couldn't be.
A symbol long forgotten, one that belonged only to a single person in the far south of the empire.
His hands trembled.
"Dahlia—!" His voice came out hoarse, unsteady. "Hurry! Bring him to me! Now!"
For the first time in decades, a flicker of hope burned in his chest.
"young master?"