The Duke,having lost his sword.Looking to find a new one.A sword perhaps even greater than Balmung.A sword capable of killing even the Demon King.A sword capable of releasing his power.
His sword—Balmung, once hailed as a masterpiece forged by the legendary blacksmith Trauman, shattered. Created from meteorite steel and the teeth of a fallen dragon, it had once cleaved mountains and slain giants.
He rode alone to Mount Nytheris, a place where dragons born and die. With only his pendant from Itarim's dungeon, he began his climb.
Alaric, his loyal knight, remained behind to protect the duchy
Ten days. No monsters. No bandits.
The silence was unnatural.
Like the world was watching.
On the tenth day, he arrived.
At the summit of Nytheris, the pendant began to glow—vibrant and pulsing like a heartbeat.
It pulled him forward.
To the edge.
Upon arriving at the summit, the pendant flared to life, its soft glow intensifying into a blinding beacon. It pointed—unwavering, like it had finally found what it had been searching for through lifetimes.
Without hesitation, the Duke stepped off the edge of the mountain.
Channeling his Flame Art, the Duke wrapped his hands in blazing aura and slammed them against the mountainside—each strike carving into the rock, slowing his descent..A roaring column of flame erupted alongside him, carving through stone as he descended like a meteor. The heat shattered cliff faces. Debris rained like fire.
He landed at the base of the valley, ash rising around him in swirling spirals.
The forest here was silent. No birds. No wind.Clutching the pendant, he followed its pull—through cracked stone, scorched trees, and ancient roots long since petrified. Hours passed. Maybe days.
And then… he stopped.
Before him was a waterfall, serene and glowing under the moonlight. But behind it, he felt it—a presence. An entrance.
A dungeon never marked on any map.
Hidden from the world.
He stepped forward… only to be stopped by a pulse of ancient magic rippled through the air, crackling like static.
He rose to his feet, brushing off the dirt. His eyes narrowed.
There was a barrier—weakened, but still clinging to existence..
The air shimmered with arcane residue, the scent of old spells and forgotten rituals thick in his lungs.
He reached forward, palm igniting.
"Heavenly Flame Art — First Form: Ember's Path."
Flames danced around his hand, delicate and deadly. They licked at the barrier, unraveling it thread by thread, until the seal collapsed with a sound like shattering glass.
The way was open.
And behind it…
the remains of something that once ruled the skies.
A dead dragon, its flesh long decayed, now reduced to nothing but bones—the massive structure of its frame stretching far across the cavern, a monument to its tragic end. The sheer scale of the bones was enough to leave the Duke in awe and dread. The air was thick with death.
He whispered to himself, his voice barely more than a breath, "What could kill this?"
He bent down, inspecting the shattered ground—cracks spiderwebbing outward, signs of a battle that had torn through the very earth. The mountain itself had collapsed, and the trees nearby stood barren, their life drained as though the very air had been sucked from them.
A cold realization gripped him.
Only one could wield such destruction, capable of warping reality itself.
Itarim.
And this dragon... this was no ordinary beast. The Duke's heart sank as the truth settled in.
"Lunielle. The King of Dragons,"Itarim continued.
The Duke, sensing no trace of bloodlust, moved forward with calculated calmness, his steps measured as he approached the figure cloaked in shadow behind him.
With a slow, deliberate motion, the figure discarded his robe. Beneath, an aged and frail body stood, the years etched deep in his form. Yet, even in his weakened state, the remnants of an overwhelming aura still radiated from him like a dying star's final flare.
The Duke's voice, sharp as steel, cut through the silence.
"What happened to you, Itarim?" he asked, his words heavy with a mix of disbelief and curiosity.
Itarim's greed was insatiable. Even after seizing the greatest power in the world, it was not enough. His hunger for more—more strength, more treasures, more dominance—burned endlessly within him.
In his quest for ultimate power, he faced the King of Dragons,looking for world treasure and though he emerged victorious, the battle had left its mark. Deep scars marred his body, evidence of the cataclysmic struggle. Yet, to him, the scars were nothing more then mere inconveniences—for his self-healing abilities were unparalleled.
But the true price of his victory came later.
After slaying the dragon, the protector of the world's fate, Itarim was cursed. A curse that would not allow him to escape the consequences of his actions. Though he had longevity, his body betrayed him. The curse left him frail, withered, and weakened—a physical manifestation of the punishment for altering the fate of the world.
With a few simple words, both the Duke and Itarim understood each other's pain—two souls bound by the burden of their pasts. But Itarim's path had long diverged into darkness.
His goal now was clear: to destroy the world. No allegiances, no loyalty—he cared not for the side he fought on. As long as war raged, as long as there was chaos, he would fight. The world's fate was a mere game to him now, a toy to be shattered for the sake of rebellion against destiny itself.
Instead of seeking redemption or trying to lift the curse that had crippled him, Itarim desired only one thing: to challenge fate once more—to break it, to rewrite it in his image.
Itarim's voice was low, yet the weight of his words hung in the air. "The pendant," he began, "reveals the true mana. To unlock the power of the 7-Star, one must merge with this true mana." His gaze pierced the Duke's very being as he spoke of something far beyond the comprehension of mere mortals.
As the Duke's aura stirred, the pendant—seemingly alive—responded. It pulsed with an eerie light, then shifted its direction, pointing unerringly toward the capital.
"It's the Samadhi Divine Fire," Itarim murmured, his voice tinged with both reverence and dread. "A fire that burns deep beneath the palace... it has existed since the dawn of this world. The Church worships it, but few truly understand the power that lies hidden there."
"Be cautious," Itarim's voice grew somber, his gaze sharp as he looked at the Duke. "Becoming a 7-Star is not without its consequences. Such transcendent power... the ability to alter fate itself—it comes with a curse. It will demand far more than you anticipate." His words were a warning, heavy with the weight of his own experiences.
He paused for a moment, then continued, his voice growing quieter, almost reflective. "As for me," he sighed, "I remain here... for one reason alone. It is the only place where I can reclaim the fragments of my lost youth. The power I sought... the curse I now bear, it is the price I must pay. Even a being like me cannot escape the consequences of tampering with fate."
The Duke, his resolve hardening like steel, finished the conversation and turned away. His hand reached out to the shattered remains of the King of Dragon's spinal bone, grasping it with the quiet determination of one who had seen too much, lost too much.
As he held the bone, the weight of his decision settled on him like an ancient, unavoidable fate. "I will become a 7-Star," he said, his voice low and resolute, "and with that power, I will burn away the curses that bind me."
Itarim's lips curled into a dark, knowing grin. He had seen this kind of ambition before—the reckless hunger for power, the unyielding drive to conquer even fate itself. But there was something different in the Duke's eyes—a fire, a certainty.
"So be it," Itarim muttered under his breath, his grin widening. "But remember,the brightest flame casts the deepest shadow."