In an era shrouded by the mists of ruin, approximately 8 Aeons past the great war, the world trembled under the cataclysmic clash known as the World War. At its heart stood the Ansuzrīkia Empire, a colossus of unmatched might, revered as the strongest dominion ever forged. Driven by a fervent zeal to avenge their fallen deities—ancient beings now enigmatically termed "CONCEPTs"—the Ansuzrīkian war machine surged forth, its banners proclaiming a holy crusade against all who dared defy their divine mandate. Their wrath was not merely conquest but a sacred retribution, an attempt to restore the glory of their shattered pantheon, reduced to fragments of esoteric essence.
Against this juggernaut rose the Aethelmere Empire, the world's second mightiest power, whose leaders resolved to unite the disparate realms in a desperate stand. Aethelmere's clarion call rallied an unprecedented coalition, binding together factions that had long stood apart. The Empire of Beasts, Fenrath, with its primal ferocity and indomitable spirit, answered the summons. So too did the aloof and enigmatic Elves, who forged the Elysianvale Concord, a union steeped in ancient magic and unyielding resolve. Most notably, the nascent Heahcyne Empire, founded by two of the legendary Seven Heroes—champions who had once dared to challenge the "Gods" themselves in the Great War—joined the fray. These heroes, through unimaginable sacrifice, had reduced the fifty-one divine existences to a singular, omnipotent entity: the "Concept of All," a force of incalculable power that lingered as both a beacon of hope and a harbinger of doom.
Yet, for all their valor and unity, the coalition's efforts crumbled before the Ansuzrīkian onslaught. The Holy Empire's armies, imbued with divine fervor and unmatched martial prowess, swept across the continents like a tide of fire and steel. Aethelmere's grand citadels fell, their banners trampled into the dust. Fenrath's savage hordes, though fierce, could not withstand the disciplined legions of Ansuzrīkia, their territories razed and their spirit broken. Even the ethereal sanctuaries of Elysianvale, guarded by elven sorcery, succumbed to the relentless advance, their sacred groves reduced to ash. The very Sideris—mystical artifacts or celestial anchors that sustained each empire's sovereignty—cracked under the strain of defeat, their radiant power dimming as the empires' grandeur faded. Stripped of their imperial titles, Aethelmere, Fenrath, and Elysianvale were reduced to mere kingdoms, shadows of their former glory, their peoples humbled and their lands scarred by the victors' dominion.
Only the Heahcyne Empire endured, spared not by strength but by the vast, forbidding distances that separated it from Ansuzrīkia's heartland. Nestled in remote reaches, shielded by treacherous terrain and the lingering aura of the Seven Heroes' deeds, Heahcyne stood as a solitary bastion, its Sideris intact, its imperial status preserved—if only precariously. Yet even they knew that their reprieve was temporary, a fleeting grace before the Holy Empire's gaze inevitably turned their way. Had it not been for the unyielding expanse of wilderness and ocean, Heahcyne too would have shared the fate of its allies, its heroes' legacy ground beneath the heel of Ansuzrīkian conquest.
The world War thus reshaped the world once again, leaving behind a fractured tapestry of fallen empires and a singular, unassailable victor. Ansuzrīkia, though triumphant, bore the weight of its own hubris, its divine mission unfulfilled as the "Concept of All" remained elusive, a silent judge over a world forever changed by the clash of mortals and the echoes of gods long gone.
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The grand chamber of the Concordium, its vaulted ceilings adorned with intricate frescoes of councils and triumphs, resonated with the sharp, incredulous laughter of Count Dorian Veyne, the 5th seat of Althemere. His voice, rough-hewn from years as an adventurer before his ennoblement, cut through the murmurs of the assembled diplomats like a blade through silk. "How laughable!" he scoffed, his broad frame leaning forward in his carved obsidian chair, eyes glinting with disdain. "Are we truly entertaining the manic proclamations of Ansuzrīkia? Depleting resources, they claim! As if their gilded empire has ever known scarcity!"
Duke Jesteron, paused mid-sentence, his silver-threaded robes catching the light of the chamber's towering stained-glass windows. His gaze, sharp and unyielding as the sideris crystal that symbolized his unbroken imperial mandate, settled on Dorian. The contrast between the two men was stark: Jesteron, a paragon of refined authority, bore the weight of an empire unbroken for millennia. Dorian, by contrast, carried the fractured legacy of Althemere's kingdom, its own sideris shattered in the last cataclysm.
Jesteron's lips tightened, but he refrained from rebuke. He understood the root of Dorian's bitterness. The Holy Empire's recent proposal—a sweeping redevelopment plan to address what they called the "alarming depletion of the world's resources"—had ignited skepticism across the nations, but none voiced it as brazenly as Dorian. To him, Ansuzrīkia's concern reeked of hypocrisy, a ploy to extend their influence under the guise of altruism.
Dorian's retort was swift, his calloused hands slamming onto the table, rattling the crystal goblets before him. "And I thought we convened to address the war with Fenrath!" His voice dripped with contempt, his weathered face darkening as he gestured toward the diplomat from Fenrath, Lady Seris Valthorne, a Rabit beast whose icy composure barely masked her indignation. "Yet here we are, humoring Ansuzrīkia's grand schemes while our borders bleed!"
Lady Seris, her silver hair bound in a severe braid, rose with deliberate grace, her emerald eyes flashing. "Count Veyne, your disdain for diplomacy is matched only by your kingdom's reckless aggression. Fenrath has sought peace, yet Althemere's raids on our outposts persist. If you wish to speak of war, let us address your provocations first."
At the heart of the circular table, where the Five Powers convened, two mighty warriors—representatives of Fenrath and Aethelmere—stood on the precipice of verbal warfare. Their voices, sharp as drawn blades, clashed over the blood-soaked feud that had ravaged their nations for centuries. The mandate of their respective causes, each claiming divine or moral superiority, fueled their fervor, and it seemed the room itself might fracture under the weight of their animosity.
"Enough!" The command sliced through the din like a shard of ice, halting the escalating tirade. Duke Jeasteron Wiseheart, Foreign Minister of the Heahcyne Empire, rose from his seat, his presence as commanding as a winter storm. His voice, low and resonant, carried an authority that silenced even the most belligerent of tongues. Clad in a mantle of deep indigo embroidered with silver runes, his piercing gray eyes surveyed the room, daring any to challenge his decree. "I implore you both to comport yourselves with the dignity befitting this assembly. The war between your nations, grave though it may be, must yield precedence to the proposal from the Holy Empire of Ansuzrīkia."
A stunned silence followed, broken only by the sharp intake of breath from Count Veyne of Fenrath. His face, weathered by years of battle and etched with the scars of a warrior, flushed crimson with indignation. "What did you say, Duke Jeasteron?" he roared, his voice a thunderclap that rattled the crystal goblets on the table. "Do you dare suggest that the blood of my people—spilled in defense of our sacred lands—is of lesser import than some diplomatic overture from Ansuzrīkia?"
Jeasteron's lips curled into a faint, almost imperceptible smile, though his eyes remained as cold as the northern glaciers. "Yes," he replied, the single syllable echoing through the chamber like a gavel's strike. The audacity of his declaration rippled across the assembly, drawing gasps and murmurs from the delegates. The representative of Elysianvale, Lady Seraphine, who had until now maintained an aloof demeanor, lifted her gaze from the intricately carved table. Her emerald eyes, sharp with intellect, betrayed a flicker of unease. Beside her, Lord Tivren of Faunaris, a wiry man whose nation had wisely abstained from the great wars that had reshaped the world, shifted uncomfortably. Faunaris had no stake in the global conflicts—neither in the War of Divine Ruin, where gods fell like stars, nor in the Cataclysmic War, which erased three empires from the annals of history. Tivren had chosen silence as his shield, but Jeasteron's words had pierced even that.
"Duke Wiseheart," Lady Seraphine interjected, her voice measured yet laced with reproach, "your remarks tread dangerously close to insensitivity. The wounds of Fenrath and Aethelmere are raw, their losses incalculable. To dismiss their plight so cavalierly risks fracturing our alliance."
The chamber braced for the inevitable clash, but it never came. Instead, a deeper voice, resonant with the weight of unchallenged authority, cut through the tension. "Enough." Lord Arther Britannia, the First Seat of the Heahcyne Empire and the revered Martial Arts Emperor, rose to his full height. His presence was a force unto itself, his broad shoulders clad in armor that gleamed like molten silver. His dark hair, streaked with silver, framed a face both regal and weathered, and his eyes held the wisdom of one who had seen empires rise and fall. "This council will not descend into chaos. Duke Jeasteron, your point is made. Let us proceed with purpose."
Jeasteron inclined his head, though his expression remained unyielding. He knew the risk of his words—knew they could ignite a war, alienate allies, or unravel the delicate threads of the Concordium. But risk was a currency he wielded with precision. The Heahcyne Empire, unchallenged as the mightiest of the Five Powers, required a leader who could bend the will of nations without drawing a blade. Jeasteron's gambit was clear: by asserting dominance in this moment, he would secure Heahcyne's position as the arbiter of the alliance, particularly in negotiations with the Holy Empire of Ansuzrīkia, whose ambitions loomed like a shadow over the world.
Clearing his throat, Jeasteron addressed the assembly once more, his tone now measured but no less commanding. "We will turn now to the conflict between Fenrath and Aethelmere then if so desired. The Heahcyne Empire proposes the establishment of Nimrodel, a neutral territory within the contested zone."
The representatives of Fenrath and Aethelmere erupted in protest, their voices overlapping in a cacophony of outrage. Count Veyne slammed a fist on the table, his gauntlet clanging against the wood. "Nimrodel? You propose to carve our lands into a buffer state, stripping us of our rightful territories?" Across from him, Lady Seris Valthorne , her silver hair braided tightly as if to mirror her resolve, added, "This is an affront to our sovereignty! You would have us cede our birthright to a council of foreigners?"
Jeasteron raised a hand, his voice dropping to a hush that somehow drowned out their fury. "Silence." The word was not shouted, yet it carried the weight of a monarch's decree. "Consider this: your nations have bled rivers and squandered fortunes in this interminable war. Nimrodel, modest in resources though it may be, pales in comparison to what you have already lost. Cut your losses while you still have nations to salvage." He paused, letting the gravity of his words settle. "Our proposal is thus: establish Nimrodel as a buffer zone, administered jointly by the Five Powers. After a decade, it shall transition into a democratic federation, its fate determined by its people. You need not answer now—consult with your capitals. But know this: the threat of Ansuzrīkia looms, and divided, we are all prey."
The room fell silent, the delegates weighing the proposal. Jeasteron's words were a masterstroke, cloaked in pragmatism yet laced with coercion. Fenrath and Aethelmere, exhausted by war and wary of the Holy Empire's growing influence, had little choice but to consider the offer, no matter how bitter it tasted. Nimrodel, a seemingly modest prize, would grant Heahcyne access to its untapped mineral veins and strategic position—resources Jeasteron had quietly coveted for his empire. His gamble had paid off, at least for now.
Lord Arther Britannia rose once more, his voice a steady anchor amidst the storm. "Let us conclude today's proceedings. Tomorrow, when the delegation from Ansuzrīkia arrives, we shall reconvene to address their proposal. Agreed?"
A chorus of reluctant affirmations followed, and the delegates dispersed, their footsteps echoing in the vast chamber. As the room emptied, Arther lingered, his gaze fixed on Jeasteron. "You play a dangerous game, Duke," he said, his tone heavy with concern. "Such drastic measures could cost us more than we gain."
Jeasteron's eyes gleamed with the fire of a man who thrived on the edge of ruin. "And if I had not taken such measures, Lord Arther, the Heahcyne Empire might have been compromised—just as you compromised your favored student." His words were a dagger, precise and cutting. "The one with the Trait of Memory, blessed with a minor Trait of Strength. A perfect vessel for your martial arts, yet you let her slip through your fingers. Do not lecture me on risk when you have tasted its consequences."
Arther's jaw tightened, but he offered no retort. The memory of his lost protégé, a wound that had never healed, hung between them like a specter. Without another word, he turned and strode from the chamber, leaving Jeasteron alone with his machinations.