The world was small, but it wasn't simple. Not when you lived on Thalvoria, a planet that felt like the universe's idea of a cruel joke—a single landmass surrounded by an ocean so vast and vicious it might as well have been alive.
It wasn't just water out there; it was teeth, tentacles, and scales glinting under the sun, lurking inside the waves. If earth had its sharks and whales, Thalvoria had nightmares with fins.
From above—or at least in the old maps drawn by explorers who dared to venture too close to the shoreline—the land looked like a misshappen leaf floating in endless blue.
Forty-five percent of the planet was solid ground, a patchwork of forests, rivers, rolling hills, and golden sands. But don't let the balance fool you. That remaining fifty-five percent? A liquid labyrinth teeming with creatures that could swallow ships whole or drag entire villages into their watery abyss.
And yet, life clung to this tiny oasis, as if daring the sea to try harder next time. Two mountains stood sentinel over the land, one in the north and one in the south, each stretching from horizon to horizon like ancient scars carved into the land.
They weren't just majestic peaks crowned with snow, no—these were jagged, brutal things made of black rock that seemed to absorb sunlight rather than reflect it. Locals called them the Spines, because they looked exactlly like what they sounded like: the rigged backbone of some colossal beast buried beneath the soil.
Dragons and wyverns ruled these heights, their massive forms cutting through the skies like living storms. To see one soar overhead was both awe-inspiring and terrifying, for while they never interfered in the affairs of those below, their presence was a constant reminder of how fragile mortal lives truly were.
Between these towering monoliths lay everything else: fertile plains where farmers grew crops faster than the wind could scatter seeds, dense jungles thick enough to lose yourself in for days, and rivers that snaked lazily through the terrain before spilling into lakes so clear you could see your reflection staring back at you. Or maybe not you.
Some claimed the waters held spirits though most dismissed such tales as bedtime stories meant to scare children away from swimming alone.
But the edges of the land? Those were different. To the east and west stretched beaches so pristine they almost looked fake, like someone had painted them onto landscape with carefull strokes of white sand and turquoise waves.
Almost beautiful—if you ignored the fact that those same waves carried death closer to shore every day.
Fishermen told stories of monstrous shadows lurking just beyond the shallows, watching, waiting. One wrong step, one misplaced oar, and you'd find yourself face-to-face with something that didn't care whether you screamed or not.
This vast land was divided among eleven kingdoms, each claiming its own territory and struggling to maintain dominance over its borders. Seven of these kingdoms, fell under the rule of the demon race, their banners marked with symbols of fire, darkness, and unyielding ambition.
The other four belonged to humans, who fought fiercely to protect their lands from encroachment. These two races dominated Thalvoria, though scattered throughout the land were remnants of older civilizations: orcs huddled in craggy caves, goblins scheming in shadowy woods, trolls guarding bridges and ruins, lizardfolk patrolling swamps, and beastmen prowling the untamed wilderness.
Each group had carved out niches for themselves, surviving alongside—or most of the times against—the dominant powers.
At the far eastern edge of the land lay the Kingdom of Sanctora, between the towering spine of the east and the monstrous seas, a place so wholesome it could make a goblin feel guilty about its life choices.
The kingdom was a picture-perfect vision of peace, humility, and piety, with streets lined by charming stone paths that wound through parks bursting with flowers and fountains so artistic they looked like someone had hired an overly enthusiastic sculptor on a caffeine high.
Houses here were simple yet warm, resembling old-time european farmhouses: white walls accented with soft blues and golds, red-tiled roofs, and wooden doors often carved with religious symbols or, occasionally, what appeared to be very questionable attempts at drawing sheep.
It was as if the entire town had been designed by a committee of angels who moonlighted as interior decorators.
Sanctora's bay, a shimmering expanse of azure waters framed by jagged cliffs and lush greenery, is one of the kingdom's most treasured resources. It teems with small, healthy, and remarkably tasty fish that have become a staple in the diets of its citizens.
These fish are not only abundant but also resilient, having thrived in the bay for generations despite the lurking horrors of the open sea. The secret to their survival lies in Saint Felix's ingenious creation: the Light Net.
This magical barrier, woven from enchanted crystals and ancient spells, repels the monstrous creatures of the deep, preventing them from entering the bay.
However, the net poses no threat to the harmless marine life within, allowing schools of fish to flourish undisturbed. Fishermen, well aware of the dangers beyond the protective glow of the Light Net, never dare to venture past it.
Doing so would mean encountering the ravenous sea beasts that prowl just beyond its borders, ready to devour anything—or anyone—that crosses their path.
The fishing community has developed clever techniques to maximize their catch while staying safely inside the confines of the bay. Nets designed specifically for the smaller fish ensure minimal disruption to the ecosystem, preserving the delicate balance Saint Felix intended.
Over time, these practices have fostered a symbiotic relationship between the people of Sanctora and the bay itself—a harmony rooted in both necessity and respect. Master Marcus often reminds his fellow fishermen, "The bay gives us life, but we must give back care."
His words echo the unwritten rule of Sanctora's waters: as long as they honor the boundaries set by the Light Net, the bounty will continue to sustain them. For now, the bay remains a sanctuary—not just for the fish, but for the entire kingdom relying on its gifts.
To the west, the demon-controlled kingdoms loomed like a storm cloud on the horizon, their influence spreading like tendrils of smoke across the land.
Their cities were dark and imposing, filled with spires that pierced the sky and streets paved with obsidian. They worshipped strength above all else, viewing compassion as weakness and conquest as destiny.
Rumors whispered of rituals conducted beneath blood red moons, of pact made with entities older than the spine themselves. Whether truth or exaggeration, one thing was certain: the demons wanted more. More land, more power, more control. And standing in their way were the fragile alliances of humanity.
Yet despite the looming threat, there was hope. Hope flickered in the embers of resistance, in the quiet determination of farmers tending their fields and mothers teaching their children songs of courage.
Hope lingered in the tales or maybe it's more fit to be called a prophecy, tales so old that has been passed down from generation to generation, about a hero, a savior, who will lead the fight against the oppressor, the chosen one that has been bestowed the power by the supreme being, the creator, God.
It has been told that this power is like a cheat-key to turn the tides of war, to end the suffering the human race suffered from the powerfull, mighty, and cunning demon race.
It was a delicate dance, livin on Thalvoria. One misstep, and the sea would swallow you whole. Another, and the demons would overrun your walls. But stay stead, and you might carve out a life worth fighting for.
That balance—that fragile, infuriating, beautiful balance—was what kept the people going. Hope wasn't just a feeling here; it was a weapon, forged in firelight and tempered by the crash of waves against stone.
As dawn broke over the kingdoms of human race, painting the sky in streaks of orange and pink, the villagers stirred to life. Somewhere out there, beyond the reach of light, lurked mysteries older than the Spine themselves. Wars brewed on the horizon, monsters prowled the seas, and the line between survival and destruction grew thinner with each passing day.
And somewhere in the heart of this fractured world, a story was about to begin—one that would test the limits of courage, challenge the bonds of loyalty, and remind everyone that even in the darkest times, hope can burn brighter than any flame.