*Disclaimer: This chapter contain mature scene it might disturbs the readers if you have the courage please proceed.
Beyond the mortal grasp of time, beyond the whispers of dying stars and the echoes of celestial birth, lies the vast, unfathomable expanse of Halmosian—a realm where the fabric of existence is woven from the silken threads of countless realities.
It is a world not alone, but bound in the intricate dance of the multiverse, where parallel dimensions coil and twist like rivers merging into an endless ocean of possibility. Each universe breathes, thrives, and collapses in an unbroken cycle, their destinies entwined by unseen hands.
The cosmos stretches like an endless scroll, inked in constellations older than time itself, where the stars burn with secrets only the heavens can decipher. Nebulae bloom like celestial gardens, their hues of sapphire and ember casting a spectral glow upon the void, while galaxies drift in eternal motion—spirals of divine artistry sculpted by the hand of the Unseen.
For beyond all creation—beyond the light and shadow, beyond the known and the unknowable—there exists One.
The Almighty, the Eternal Architect, the Master of the heavens and the earth, to whom all realms, all worlds, and all souls belong.
It is by His decree that the cosmos sways, that the universes breathe, that fate itself is written upon the tapestry of time.
And in this ever-shifting waltz of existence, within the cradle of Halmosian, the destinies of men and gods alike shall unfold—not by their will, but by the decree of the One who holds the quill of eternity.
In the grand expanse of Halmosian, where the past whispers through the corridors of time and the future gleams with the promise of the unknown, the land is sundered into eight sovereign states, each a tapestry woven with distinct customs, ambitions, and legacies. At the very heart of this world lies Abjannas, the centre of tradition and honour, where the echoes of ancestral wisdom guide its people like the celestial bodies that adorn their Sanjak(flag)—a crescent moon and stars, the embodiment of justice and unity.
To the east and west, the twin marvels of Arcanodole and Blogina stand as paragons of ingenuity, their skylines adorned with the symphony of gears and machinery. These realms of relentless progress bear the symbols of axe and sword, denoting an unyielding pursuit of strength and power, and the mark of technology, an ode to innovation's boundless march.
Farther still, in the northeast, the bustling arteries of Faliton flow with the rhythm of commerce, a realm where merchants weave wealth like artisans weave silk. Their Sanjak, the sigil of trade, speaks of their dominion over supply and demand, a beacon for those who seek fortune in the art of exchange. In contrast, the northwest harbours Machekwon, the verdant soul of Halmosian, where fields stretch like emerald tapestries beneath an endless sky. Their emblem, the flourishing plant, is a solemn vow to nourishment and prosperity, sustaining the land's denizens with the bounty of nature's embrace.
Yet, not all corners of Halmosian bask in prosperity. To the south, the land of Kumaruchaisan festers under the rule of tyranny, where obedience is currency and defiance invites ruin. The six-pointed star upon their Sanjak, adorned with the all-seeing eye, casts its oppressive gaze upon the populace—a grim testament to their ruler's insatiable avarice and unrelenting dominion.
And then, there is Gelobin, a dominion unlike any other, where the cold precision of artificial intelligence has supplanted mortal governance. A world sculpted by circuits and steel, where logic reigns supreme, its Sanjak is emblazoned with the visage of mechanical dominion—a stark reminder that in Gelobin, the future has already arrived.
Yet, beyond the reach of nations and empires, beyond the clutches of kings and scholars alike, roam the Dragon Clans, the indomitable spectres of war, revered and feared in equal measure. These immortal beings, warriors of an era long before parchment bore the ink of history, exist as the pinnacle of Halmosian might, their name alone enough to scatter armies and turn the tide of fate itself.
Five sovereign clans stand among them, each a force unto itself. The Ji-Gong (Weng), the dark dragons, cloak themselves in the shroud of infamy, their blades sworn to gold rather than honour, a band of mercenaries whose allegiance is dictated by coin. The Shi-Wudu, light dragons of unwavering righteousness, walk the path of justice, forever at odds with those who would wield power unjustly. The Wei-Young, enigmatic and unpredictable, tread the middle path, their allegiance shifting like the sands, neither heroes nor villains, but harbingers of chaos where order once stood. The Tai-Wan, black dragons of merciless retribution, stand as executioners of the battlefield, their name a whisper of doom in the ears of those who oppose them. And lastly, the Li-Shu, the white dragons, the unseen protectors of the weak and the innocent, their presence felt not in conquest, but in the silent salvation of those left behind. Though divided in creed and cause, these five clans remain bound as martial siblings, the eternal fulcrum upon which the balance of Halmosian's destiny teeters.
Beneath the resplendent canopy of the Weng imperial palace, where gold-dripped pillars rose like celestial sentinels and lanterns of vermilion silk swayed in an intoxicating ballet with the night air, indulgence reigned supreme. The Great Feast of Ten Thousand Autumns was in full revelry, a decadent display of opulence and grandeur. At the heart of it all, seated upon an elevated dais carved from the bones of white jade, was Emperor Weng Jin Shun, his gaze imperious, his presence like a mountain untouched by time. And beside him, basking in the splendour of his lineage, sat his son—Wei Yang Hong, a man whose hunger was not for power, nor for wisdom, but for the carnal delights that paraded before him.
The court was ablaze with mirth and music, the air thick with the fragrance of spiced wine and perfumed skin. Dancers moved like ripples upon a moonlit lake, their silken robes shifting, parting, teasing the eye with glimpses of ivory skin. Their bodies, supple as the willows in a spring breeze, wove a symphony of temptation with each measured step. And there, amidst the resplendent glow of the palace torches, Wei Yang Hong sat enthralled, his eyes drinking in their beauty like a man long deprived of water in an unforgiving desert.
He was a creature of appetite, a man whose desires were insatiable, whose soul was tethered not to honour nor virtue, but to pleasure's fleeting embrace. With a smirk that curled like the edge of a viper's fang, he raised his goblet and beckoned one of the performers forth. She came willingly, laughter tinkling from her lips like silver bells, her gaze laced with mischief. His hand reached for her, fingers tracing the curve of her cheek— but then, the heavens themselves rebelled.
A sudden gust of wind, cold and unnatural, tore through the hall, snuffing out half the lanterns in an instant. The music faltered, the dancers stilled, and a palpable dread slithered through the air like an unseen serpent. The very bones of the palace seemed to tremble as a voice, both honeyed and merciless, resounded through the chamber.
"Wei Yang Hong, your indulgence knows no bounds, your sins weigh heavier than gold. Lust coils around your soul like an unrelenting python, suffocating all that is righteous. No longer shall you gaze upon women with hunger, no longer shall you take without consequence. You shall know the suffering of those you have wronged, you shall bear the torment of your own desires. Thus, I curse you."
From the shadows, she emerged—a vision both celestial and terrifying. Yuán Nǚ Wáng (怨女王), the Queen of Resentful Women, the goddess of scorned souls. Her presence was like a gossamer blade—ethereal yet deadly, divine yet ruthless. Draped in robes woven from twilight itself, her eyes gleamed with an otherworldly light, and with a single outstretched hand, she sealed Wei Yang Hong's fate.
A pain unlike any he had ever known erupted from within, scorching his veins like molten iron. He gasped, his breath ragged, his body betraying him as it twisted, reshaped, and broke under the weight of divine retribution. Bones shifted, softened, sculpted into something new. His skin, once rough with the scars of battle, smoothed into something delicate, something unblemished. Hair spilled down his back like a cascade of midnight silk, longer, darker, more lustrous than before. His chest, once broad, swelled into supple curves, his waist cinched, his limbs grew slender yet sinuous with a grace he had never known. The fire in his gut ignited, not with agony, but with a sensation far more alien—pleasure, intoxicating, inescapable, and cruel.
The hall was silent save for the soft rustle of silk as the transformation completed. Where once sat Wei Yang Hong, now stood Shi Zhao Mei, a woman whose beauty could tempt even the gods. She was an elegant tempest, a paradox of ferocity and allure, clad in garments that accentuated every inch of her newfound form. The black and red ensemble draped over her like the night's own embrace, its golden embroidery whispering secrets of an empire long forgotten. The deep-cut halter exposed the soft, toned plane of her midriff, the delicate golden fastenings glinting under the flickering torchlight. Long, detached sleeves caressed her arms like phantoms, their crimson and gold motifs whispering of power, of seduction, of a destiny rewritten.
Her abdomen, smooth as river-polished jade, bore the mark of her damnation—a single red gemstone, nestled just above her navel, its golden frame a cruel mockery of the indulgence that had led her to this fate. And yet, as she lifted her hands, tracing the contours of her new body, an unfamiliar shiver coursed through her—a thrill, a dark, forbidden delight.
The silence shattered like brittle glass as Emperor Weng Jin Shun erupted to his feet, his expression a tempest of fury and disbelief.
"What treachery is this? What foul sorcery has befallen my son?" His voice, once the thunder that commanded nations, now cracked with raw, visceral rage. His eyes, the eyes of a man who had gazed upon countless battlefields, now burned with the fury of a father whose legacy had been sullied beyond repair. "Guards! Seize him—no, seize HER! Lock her away in the dungeon until I decide what is to be done!"
The warriors of the imperial guard hesitated, their faces stricken with uncertainty. Could they raise their hands against one who still bore the Emperor's blood, even if that blood now coursed through a form so alien, so exquisite, so... tempting? But the Emperor's wrath left no room for hesitation. The moment was fleeting—Shi Zhao Mei's newfound form had no time to bask in its allure, no time to revel in the divine irony of her punishment. Chains awaited her, cold and unyielding.
As she was dragged from the grand hall, the weight of a thousand gazes clung to her like a shroud—some of horror, some of pity, some of dark, unspoken desire. But within her, where once resided only unchecked indulgence, something new began to stir. Something venomous. Something patient. Something vengeful.
"Very well, Father," she whispered as the doors to the dungeon yawned before her like the maw of an unrelenting beast. "You have cast me into the dark... but remember, the night is where the most beautiful monsters are born."