A silence.
Unreal.
As if the world itself was holding its breath...
And then, everything exploded.
The wind howled — a rabid beast sweeping through with shards of sand and shattered dreams.
The sea, once calm, enraged under the force of the lunar eclipse.
The crimson shadow of the moon spread over the land, turning the sky into a sea of blood and fire.
Ancient songs, once sung in harmony and peace, were now nothing but desperate echoes, drowned in the turmoil of war.
The sacred beach of Arobi — where the first Marrons once vowed never to kneel — trembled beneath unholy boots.
This was the ground of their ancestors.
Now it was becoming a grotesque battlefield.
Then the assault began.
Dimensional gates burst open with a dull roar.
The Holy Knights of the Divine Order — SCOD — emerged from the void like living shadows.
Their silver elven armor shimmered under the crimson moonlight, like carapaces forged in the abyss.
Their banners rose high — symbols of death, ready to brand the world with their bloody creed.
Zérak the Purifier — a towering colossus with hollow eyes — crushed an elder beneath his heel
The impact echoed like thunder through the chaos.
The first Creolin defenders, caught off guard by the sheer force of the assault, fell like dry grass under a storm. The SCOD blades struck with merciless precision, slicing through shields and flesh as if through melting wax.
A Creolin cry pierced the night — a war-prayer began but never finished.
His jaw was sent flying in a spray of red.
SCOD knights did not kill. They executed.
Another warrior — exhausted, defiant — raised his shield in a final act of courage.
But the blade cleaved through it like paper, sending the man flying into the sand in a dance of despair.
The arrows of beast-women archers ricocheted harmlessly off their enchanted armor, like insects bouncing against steel.
The ritual weapons of tribal warriors shattered on impact.
All that remained were lifeless bodies, scattered across the beach like broken offerings.
At the heart of the chaos, Cello and Marie France stood side by side — hearts breaking as they watched the enemy's inexorable advance.
Their only hope now lay in their son.
William had to survive.
Marie France whispered, her voice cracked but resolute:
— "They won't survive this…"
She turned to her husband, her eyes filled with despair… and love.
— "Do you remember? We wanted to name him Kairos, our son.
Because he would be born when the world needed him most…" she breathed.
Cello, eyes shining with invisible tears, took the Ring of Creation and, in a final act of love, fastened it to a chain.
He gently placed it around his son's neck.
His hands trembled as he passed on the sacred symbol of the Marron legacy.
He whispered, with a voice as heavy as the moment:
— "This is not goodbye, my son… but a passage."
The Dimensional Veil trembled — like a wounded beast sensing its mistress's fear.
It tore itself from Marie France like flayed skin, wrapping around William in glowing strands.
A blessing. And a curse.
A legacy of power… and pain.
Madame François and Balthazar stepped forward with the Elders.
Their trembling hands passed into William the wisdom and strength of countless generations.
They prayed he would survive the darkness to come.
The wind screamed louder — a final warning of what was about to be lost.
The tribes still fought, but victory was slipping further and further away.
Cello turned to Marie France, resolve burning in his gaze.
— "It's time, Marie. Now."
A scream ripped through the battlefield.
Cello stepped forward — his body between his family and the approaching storm.
Sword in hand. Heart set.
— "Run! Now!" he roared to the Elders.
Then he charged into the fray.
His daggers danced — a final defiance in the face of the unstoppable.
Each strike carved through darkness.
Each breath was warm.
But the SCOD knights did not falter.
They were machines.
Cold. Precise. Inevitable.
A deafening crack rang out as Cello was struck.
A knight's blade — gleaming like a bolt of lightning — crashed down with divine force.
In a scream of agony, Cello fell.
Marie France collapsed to her knees, clutching her child.
Tears mixed with blood and dust on her cheeks.
She knew her husband's sacrifice would not be in vain.
Not as long as William lived.
The cries of the dying, the clash of steel, the roar of war —It all faded into a single murmur of defeat.
Then…
A blinding light tore across the sky.
The red moon — silent witness to the slaughter — gazed down like an unfeeling god.
The war had only just begun.
But in chaos, a faint light remained.
Fragile. Flickering. But alive.
A legacy of power… and pain.
Ready to be reborn in the darkness.