Two centuries ago, the sky ripped open.
Not with thunder, nor storm, but with fire. From that fire spilled creatures of ruin horned beasts, winged wretches, towering fiends with black blood and burning eyes. The demons of the 6th Realm had come.
They poured into the world through a rift no mage could close. Nations fell in days. Kingdoms that had stood for a thousand years crumbled like sandcastles beneath a wave of teeth and flame.
Swords shattered against demon bone. Shields melted in hellfire. Magic, once humanity's pride, buckled under the weight of the abyss.
The world screamed.
And yet… something awoke in mankind's soul.
In the darkest hour, the first soul-armors were born not forged, but felt. Men and women on the brink of death heard a voice inside, not divine, but something deeper. Something themselves. From their very spirit burst armor that shimmered with power bound not by chains or laws, but by soul.
Soulbound Armor.
It changed everything.
Those who could awaken it stood against the tide. They still died. Many were consumed. For if the armor broke… the soul did too.
But it gave humanity hope.
When the world had almost fallen, the last seven temples burned together in sacred prayer. They poured their lives into one final call to the heavens.
And the sky for the second time split open.
A golden voice, ancient and sorrowful, echoed across the continent.
"This world shall bleed again. But when all lights fade, and no sword can stand…"
"A child shall fall from the sky, not born of this land."
"Upon his brow shall rest my mark."
"He shall wear armor that tears the heavens."
"His sword shall split mountains."
"His shield shall silence evil itself."
"He will rise with the dead, when none remain to fight."
The people called it The Skytear Prophecy.
And they waited.
Now. Two Hundred Years Later.
Peace returned.
Humanity rebuilt. The soul-armors became a legacy passed down in bloodlines nobles born already bonded to their power. Seven kingdoms ruled the continent. Their strength unmatched, their armies soulbound.
And among them, the Fifth Strongest Kingdom stood proud:
Valeria of the Silver Thrones.
It was a land of music, glass towers, and battle-knights whose armor danced like light. Prosperity flowed. Enemies feared it. Its rulers were wise. Its armies unmatched.
All was perfect save one thing.
Its Empress could not bear a child.
Empress Elira of Valeria was beloved.
Her reign was long, just, and full of peace.
But in her chambers, behind the silk curtains and golden mirrors, she wept.
For in all her beauty, power, and wisdom, her womb remained silent.
No heir.
No Child.
No bloodline.
She had tried magic.
Healing spells. Divine blessings. Rituals older than language.
None worked. The court smiled politely and said nothing. But she heard the whispers.
"She's cursed."
"The line ends with her."
And so, on the eve of Valeria's Silver Moon Festival, when the stars burned brightest, she walked alone into the ancient sky temple at the edge of her palace the same place where the prophecy was first spoken.
She fell to her knees beneath the moonlight, wind howling through the stone pillars.
"I have given my people peace. I have ruled with a clean heart. But my arms remain empty. I am alone."
She raised her head toward the sky, voice trembling.
"If there are gods left who still listen… I do not ask for war. I do not ask for gold."
"I ask for a child. One to hold. One to love."
"Even if he is not born of my flesh, let him be born of my fate."
And then — the sky answered.
A blinding light ripped across the heavens. Not lightning — a tear.
A jagged, blinding crack opened in the stars themselves, and from it fell a single figure, wrapped in flame and wind, plummeting toward the earth like a broken comet.
The temple shook.
Guards screamed. The Empress stood, heart frozen, watching as the figure slammed into the temple steps with an earth-splitting
CRACK.
Stone broke. Dust exploded.
And then silence.
She stepped forward, her silk robes trailing ash. The guards rushed toward the body, weapons raised.
"Your Majesty, stay back! He could be—"
But she raised her hand, eyes wide.
There, at the center of the crater, was a boy barely breathing, his body bruised and broken, his clothes unlike anything in the world.
And glowing faintly on his forehead… a sigil of pure gold — shaped like a shattered star, wrapped in runes.
The Empress fell to her knees.
Tears slid silently down her cheeks.
"He is not of this world..."
"But he is mine."
The prophecy had begun.
To be continued~