Toki held the ancient, cracked book in his lap — The Myth of Creation. The leather was warm from the fire, its gold-embossed title flickering like a star in the gloom. He opened the book slowly, reverently, fingers brushing across the old pages.
And then, as if the words were not his own, as if someone — or something — had reached into his lungs and found the story buried deep in his soul, Toki began to speak.
His voice was calm, steady, and strangely distant — like an echo from another age.
"Long ago, before the shaping of stone, before time knew its name and space had found its shape, there was only silence.
And then, in that endless stillness, He awoke.
The First One.
The Primordial Father.
His awakening was not quiet. It tore through the void like thunder beneath the skin of reality, and from the force of His breath, the universe unfolded — vast and endless.
He looked upon the infinite nothingness and wept.
Tears of starlight fell from His face and bled into the black. And from those tears and from His blood, he fashioned seven beings — His children. Two daughters, five sons. The first generation of gods — the Primordial Seven.
But though they lived, they were not whole. Their forms towered across galaxies, luminous and terrible, and yet they were hollow, incomplete. In their hearts burned a sadness too vast for words.
The Father, seeing their sorrow, knew what he must do. In love and grief, he tore soul from flesh.
From their bodies, he shaped the world.
From Moonlight's bones, he sculpted the Moon, pale and watchful.
From Radiantlight's lungs, the Sun, eternal and blazing.
From Andromeda's spine, the stars — scattered and shimmering across the black.
Solmir's flesh became the land, vast and unmoving.
Thalos' blood surged into oceans, deep and dreaming.
From Kivar's marrow, beasts rose and breathed — scaled, feathered, fanged.
And from Orien's heart, man awoke — curious, flawed, and burning with a need to understand.
But their souls... their souls did not vanish.
From them came the Second Generation. New gods, born of sacrifice and shaped by what had been made.
Moonlight, the goddess of the Moon, silent and silver.
Radiantlight, god of the Sun, proud and ever-burning.
Andromeda, goddess of Stars and destiny.
Solmir, god of stone and land.
Thalos, god of the oceans, keeper of memory.
Kivar, the Lifebringer, father of beasts.
And Orien, the Flamebearer — creator of humanity, the most unpredictable of all.
Toki paused to draw breath. The room had grown still. Even the fire seemed quieter, as if listening.
He continued, the story flowing from him as though passed down in his bloodline.
"These Second Ones were powerful but distant. They watched the world from high places, shaping and whispering, but never walking among the mortal realm.
And from them came others — children of children, gods of rivers and winds, of love and war, of hunger and song. Titans, too, were born — twisted remnants of divine energy that refused to take form properly. Some were worshipped. Others were hunted.
The world changed through ages. Kingdoms rose and crumbled like sand beneath waves. Temples were carved in the bones of mountains. Languages were born and forgotten. But always, the memory of the gods lingered — a whisper, a flame, a name scratched into stone.
It is said that the falling stars — the meteors we call manacore — are shards of these gods. Slivers of their being cast down to guide or judge us. Manacore crystals pulse with ancient energy — red, blue, violet. Each hue tied to a divine essence long since faded from the world.
Some believe they are gifts.
Others say they are punishments.
And I... I believe the gods grow bored. That they toss these fragments like bones to starving dogs, just to see what we will do with them.
In the mountains of Atherra, priests once claimed to summon visions through manacore. But they died in madness. In the desert ruins of Yelmar, it is said a warlord drank liquid manacore and became a beast of fire and shadow.
Star-Collectors roam the realms, hoarding manacore in secret halls. They whisper that the stones speak. That they dream. But those who hold too many lose their minds — or worse, their memories.
And somewhere, beneath all of it, perhaps the gods still watch.
But they do not intervene.
Not directly.
Not anymore.
But not all the gods remained distant. In the First Era of Flame, five among the Second Generation took mortal shape — not to rule as gods, but to guide the scattered tribes of man.
They walked as kings and queens, sages and warriors, bound to mortal frailty yet glowing with divine insight. From their union with the world, five great bloodlines were born. Each settled in a distant land, forging realms that mirrored the essence of their divine forebear.
From Orien, the Flamebearer, descended the Crimson Dynasty of Velmoras — a kingdom of fire, steel, and innovation, where the forge is sacred and the sword is law. Their rulers are said to carry Orien's fire in their veins, their eyes glowing amber in moments of passion or rage.
From Thalos, the god of oceans, came the Pearl Coasts of Nareth. Nestled across archipelagos and deep harbors, the Narethians are mariners, seers, and traders, guided by tides and dreams. Their kings wear crowns of coral, and their temples are sunken halls that breathe with the sea.
Solmir's lineage gave rise to the Highland Clans of Borandor — a realm of stone, wind, and unwavering tradition. Builders, masons, and shepherds, the Boran are a proud people, their oaths sealed in granite. They believe that to break a promise is to crack the world.
The children of Andromeda founded Lumirith— the Celestial Kingdom protected by the Dragons — built upon starlore, prophecy, and the study of fate. Their magisters are born beneath constellations, and their oracles walk barefoot under moonlight. To them, history is a constellation always shifting.
And finally, Kivar's blood runs through the green valleys of Sylvara, a kingdom of beasts, druids, and eternal spring. The Sylvaran speak with animals, tend ancient groves, and believe that every soul reincarnates through root, claw, and feather.
These five realms — Velmoras, Nareth, Borandor, Aelyria, and Sylvara — are the Five Pillars of the Mortal Age. Each carries a shard of the divine, hidden in their rulers, rituals, or relics. And through their war, trade, and change, none can sever the bloodline that ties them to the sky.
He closed the book gently.
Tora's voice was soft. "That's... beautiful. And tragic."
Wiliam grunted. "You've got the bones of it right. Most folk just remember the names. You've remembered the weight."
"But Lumirith, for all its ancient wisdom... is young."Toki said.
Wiliam looked up: "What do you mean?"
"It was only founded four hundred years ago. By Rindal. A seer-warrior. A prophet and a builder. Some say he was Andromeda's own blood."
Tora raised a brow. "That's impossible. The other kingdoms go back thousands of years."
"Exactly." Toki's voice lowered. "And that's what troubles me. Rindal claimed he didn't build a kingdom — he rebuilt one. In his journals, he writes of discovering ancient ruins in the starlit hills. Ruins older than anything seen in the Western Realms. He believed they once belonged to a forgotten starborn empire. And he raised Mahoken — the capital — atop those ruins."
"So you think there was an older Lumirith?"
"I don't know. But why would Andromeda wait millennia to raise her realm? Unless... something wiped it out. Something silenced it. And only fragments remained — until Rindal picked them up again."
Toki looked down at the worn cover of the book. "I studied this in the Hall of Winds. Before it burned.
He didn't finish.
Tora reached out, brushing his hand. "Why did you stop believing?"
Toki stared into the flames.
"I think the gods forgot us," he said simply. "And if they didn't forget... then they don't care."
Silence followed.
Wiliam broke it. "You're wrong."
Toki glanced at him, surprised.
The smith's voice was low, rough, but not unkind.
"They care in the way fire cares. Or steel. They test. They push. They break what's unworthy. But if you survive — if you rise — they see you."
He knelt by the forge, stirring the coals.
"And maybe... just maybe, they reward those who bleed with purpose."
Toki sat back, silent.
The flames flickered higher.
And from the bench beside him, the book glowed faintly — just for a moment.
"I'm sure there are many things we don't even know, Maybe the creation myth is not complete, we will see what awaits us in the future." Toki says more like a whisper
The forge roared, a beast of fire and breath, as if stirred awake by destiny itself. The heat no longer bit Toki's skin — he had grown used to it, as one grows used to the whisper of fate following them. The blade lay across the anvil like a sleeping serpent, its edge glinting red-hot, waiting for the final rite.
Wiliam stood still for a moment, staring into the flames as if he saw something beyond them. Then he spoke, his voice steady, grave.
"This is it," he said. "The last time we temper the blade."
Toki swallowed. "It's ready?"
Wiliam gave a slow nod. "Almost. But now it needs more than heat and hammer. Now… it needs you."
Toki looked puzzled. "Me?"
"The steel," Wiliam said, picking up the tongs with reverence, "was forged in dragon flame. That kind of metal doesn't just drink heat. It craves soul. Magic. Mana."
Tora stepped closer, wiping soot from her brow. "It's why the metal resisted your earlier strikes. It's not just metal, Toki. It's alive in its own way. And it's hungry."
The young man stepped forward, drawn to the pulsing warmth of the blade. "So… what do I do?"
Wiliam gestured toward the forge. "Stand here. Close. Let the blade feel your mana."
Toki hesitated only for a breath. Then, slowly, he reached into his coat and withdrew a small mana crystal — cloudy blue, etched with faint lines of silver that pulsed like veins. "I kept this from the trials," he said softly. "It's full of my own mana. I thought maybe... one day, I'd need it."
Wiliam nodded. "That day's now."
Without further ceremony, Toki tossed the crystal into the heart of the flames.
There was a moment of silence.
Then the fire erupted.
It whooshed up like a column of golden wind, licking the ceiling with a roar that sent cinders dancing. Tora staggered back, shielding her eyes.
"Hold!" Wiliam barked. "Keep your hands close, Toki! Let it drink!"
Toki, face bathed in firelight, extended his hands toward the forge. He felt it immediately — a tug, deep in his chest, like the forge itself had wrapped ghostly fingers around his heart.
He gritted his teeth as his mana poured into the blade. Not in a torrent, but in a steady stream, as though the sword was tasting him, measuring him.
The flames began to shift.
From gold to orange.
From orange to crimson.
And then, finally, to a deep, shimmering red — like fresh blood under moonlight.
"It's ready," Wiliam said, voice hushed. "It's done."
He pulled the blade from the coals with reverence, steam hissing as it kissed the cold air. The metal no longer looked like steel — it shimmered with the depth of color and light, shifting as it moved. Alive.
Wiliam laid the blade on the anvil one final time. "While it's still hot... do you want a symbol?"
Toki blinked, surprised by the question. "A symbol?"
"Every blade like this has one," Wiliam said. "Something to tell the world whose it is. Your soul's in this thing — mark it. Claim it."
Toki thought for only a second.
"A butterfly."
Wiliam looked at him, one brow raised. "A butterfly?"
Tora stifled a laugh.
Toki didn't waver. "It's her sign. Utsuki. The lady I'm meant to represent at the Selection."
Something softened in the smith's eyes. He nodded. "Then a butterfly it is."
He took a small branding tool and pressed the shape carefully into the molten edge, just above the guard — a graceful, stylized butterfly with open wings. The blade hissed once more, and then it was done.
Wiliam handed it to Toki with both hands.
The sword was unlike any he had ever seen. Thin and slightly curved like a katana, yet rigid and unyielding, its edge so fine it seemed to hum when it moved. It felt light, almost too light — but with every swing, Toki could feel the immense destructive potential locked within.
Near the base of the hilt, a single rune glowed softly, the same color as Toki's mana. It pulsed faintly, warm to the touch.
Wiliam grinned, proud. "She's yours now. The best I've ever made. Has personality, that one — and an appetite to match a dragon's. Every vein in that steel was forged from your oxidized blood. You earned her."
He leaned close. "If your soul hadn't been pure, she would've shattered. But she didn't. She accepted you."
Toki looked down at the blade. "She doesn't feel like a weapon."
"She's not," said Wiliam. "She's a part of you now."
Tora smiled, eyes wide with awe. "What will you name her?"
Toki looked at the butterfly sigil, then up toward the evening sky. "Kochō," he said. "It means butterfly. For Utsuki. For what I have to protect."
Wiliam stepped back, wiping his hands on his apron. "If you need anything else, you know where to find me. And good luck, boy. I'll be rooting for you in the Royal Selection."
Toki nodded. "Thank you… both of you. Truly."
He strapped the blade to his side, feeling its weight settle naturally at his hip.
Then he looked toward the horizon, where the last rays of sun were vanishing into twilight.
"We should hurry," he said. "Dinner's soon. I promised Utsuki we'd be on time."
Tora grinned. "We're not letting you be late to that."
The three stepped out into the cooling evening air, the scent of metal and fire still clinging to them. As the door of the forge swung shut behind them, the blade at Toki's side shimmered once — like a sleeping god opening one eye.