Long before Shotaro Mugyiwara ever set foot on Drakastradorn, the Elvish Kingdom had already burned its name into the ledger of hell. What had begun as a feud of pride between Light and Dark Elves spiraled into something ancient—something older than memory, more eternal than history. War, in this land, had no logic. No victory. No closing credits. It simply was. It breathed. It fed. It consumed. And it left nothing behind but the smell of smoke in bones too young to carry it.
Unlike the wars of men, where at least one proud elder usually claims victory while the young are buried beneath banners, this Second Civil War had no such theater. There were no winners. No good side. Only rot. The forests bled. The rivers screamed. Even the animals—the dumb, harmless creatures of the world—were made into victims. What was once a place of song and ritual became a graveyard echoing with the laughter of broken gods.
A woman ran through that graveyard.
She was barefoot. Her knees bleeding. Her body shaking from the blood that hadn't stopped dripping between her legs. One hand clutched her side. The other trembled over her swollen belly. Inside her, something still lived—though barely. Behind her, in the dirt road, lay the remains of her beloved. He had been a Dark Elf rights activist, one of the few who believed peace might be possible. The Light Elves had executed him. Not for being violent. For caring.
They didn't even bury him. His bones were used to craft crude trinkets—lip gloss from his marrow, necklaces from his ribs. She had watched them turn her husband into souvenirs.
She didn't scream anymore.
"War has made them animals," she muttered, not out of rage, but numb acceptance. "All of them."
The dwarves would be her final hope. Far away, beyond the crags and stone-flecked valleys. Their monks were rumored to be neutral, interested only in forging and silence. She wanted to birth her child there, in the cold and unjudging heart of the mountains.
But sentience—the cruelest side-effect of creation—caught up to her first.
Thousands of dark-skinned, white-haired men surged from the trees like demons. Their eyes burned—not just with hate, but lust. She didn't even try to run when they dragged her from the wagon. Her husband's body was crushed underfoot, used as canvas for their cruelty. Her clothes were torn. Her pleas ignored. Their seed drowned her womb, over and over, uncaring of the life growing inside.
It ended when someone shoved a jagged piece of metal into her uterus and pulled the child out like it was an infection.
Her husband had told her to see the good in people.
But she was too late to understand the truth.
They weren't "good." They were just oppressed.
And had they won the first war, they would've done the same.
Such is the eternal music of violence. The melody of mankind's oldest bard.
War.
In the blackened twilight of the valley, where even morning refused to rise, a young girl awoke in sweat.
Ni Gah blinked her dark amethyst eyes, her silver-white hair clinging to her brow. The air was heavy, moist, as if the valley itself was crying in its sleep.
She poured a jug of cold water over her scalp, shaking loose the damp strands.
"The purpose... am I late?" she muttered, glancing around her moss-lined chamber. Today was the day. The march to Olivedale.
She threw on her traveling robes and ran barefoot through the dark meadows, her heart thudding like a war drum. "Father! Father, where are you?!"
Ka Gah, her father, stood near a covered carriage being packed with supplies. The moment he saw her running toward him, something inside him snapped.
He had begged her not to come.
"Ni," he said with a tired voice, "Did you not understand me when I told you not to come with us?"
"But I've never even left the valley," she protested, breathless. "Not once. Not in all my life. And I want to see Olivedale. I want to see—"
"I know, my daughter. I know."
He sighed. She was all he had left. Her mother died during childbirth. Her little brother had been born with glass lungs, dead before his first scream. Ka Gah had buried them both with his own hands.
"We're not going on a pilgrimage, Ni. This isn't a scenic trip. This is a terrorism mission. We are invaders."
Tears welled in her eyes.
"Then let me die with you," she whispered. "Let me die at your side."
Ka Gah turned his face away, fists clenched. Without thinking, his hand lashed out and slapped her cheek.
Silence.
He froze, horrified by what he'd done.
Ni didn't even cry—just stared at the ground like her soul had stepped outside her body.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."
He dropped to his knees and pulled her into his arms, her trembling body fitting into his like a shadow.
"Damn it," he muttered. "I feel like the most incompetent father in the world."
He took her with him.
Because leaving her behind would be worse.
They smuggled themselves beneath a wagonload of wheat nut. A magical blanket beneath the grain canceled the weight, letting them breathe through carved airholes as they traveled silently into enemy lands.
In Olivedale, the streets buzzed with murmurs. People spoke in awe.
Ni Gah peeked from beneath the canvas.
They were talking about a man—tall, silver-haired, olive-skinned, red-eyed. A red shroud around his waist. Boiling oil had failed to scar him. He'd walked through it unbothered. They called him The Hero of Prophecy.
Ka Gah's face went pale.
Ni whispered, "Father? What is it?"
He was already kneeling.
"They said he defeated Garm…"
The name made his throat close.
Another elf muttered nearby, "If someone like that is here… we're fucked."
Ni didn't know why, but her heart beat faster.
Not out of fear.
Out of curiosity.
They reached the Green Tower at twilight, a pillar so tall it seemed to hold up the sky. Spells surrounded it—some strong enough to tank a thousand Big Bangs. But with every incantation, there is its counter. And the Dark Elves had mastered the ancient art of Tantra.
Using a tantric portal, they tunneled beneath the barrier, slipping inside like whispers.
They crept through the underhall, blades drawn, expecting guards and alarms.
Instead, they found a woman on the throne. Alone. Drunk.
"Wait—what's happening?" she slurred, bottle in hand.
Ka Gah blinked. "What's happening?" he echoed. "Revolution, that's what."
"You stole that line," the queen hiccuped.
"I did," Ka Gah admitted, "but it still counts."
Ni Gah checked the side chamber. "Father, the council members are tied and muzzled. She's a decoy. No way she's the real queen."
The drunk woman raised a hand lazily. "No, it's me. I'm the queen. Like, a hundred percent. And I politely ask you to leave."
Ka Gah stared at her. "Lady, we're terrorists."
"Oh."
They gagged her too.
And escaped the same way they came.
Later, Ni Gah walked the palace gardens in chains. Her mind fogged with exhaustion. She saw him—the man they spoke of. Sleeping on the grass. Mango puree on his face. Silver hair. Red eyes. And a katana strapped to his waist—black hilt, red sheath, gold tang.
He looked… ridiculous.
"He doesn't look like the kind of guy who beat Garm," she muttered.
Ka Gah chuckled, "Looks like a glutton."
But when the hero stood… everything changed.
He struck the queen across the face.
Ni couldn't hear the words, only the shock. The way even the air changed around him.
Then the princess approached him.
Paliv.
She was Ni's age.
And in her eyes… hatred.
Hatred not just for the enemy—but for someone like Ni. Someone who resembled her.
Ni's hands trembled.
She prepared a self-detonation mantra, fingers curling around the sigil—
And then the hero spoke.
"No one harms them," he said.
She froze.
Was he being… kind?
Days passed.
In a stone cell, Ni Gah lay asleep beside her kin. A warm touch brushed her feet.
She smiled. "Father…"
She opened her eyes.
It was her father.
Or rather, what was left of him.
A pool of blood. A body twisted and cold. Eyes wide open.
She didn't scream. Her mouth opened—but no sound came.
Everyone she knew was dead. Burned. Cut. Executed.
She looked up and saw a man—taller than her father. A Light Elf.
In his eyes, she expected scorn.
Instead, she saw… grief.
"My name is Nyrebo," the man said softly. "Paliv ordered the executions. She… she threatened to have my son—my disabled son—killed. I couldn't…"
He stepped closer.
Ni Gah couldn't move. Couldn't even blink. Her limbs had forgotten how.
"I'm sorry, child," he whispered. "I didn't kill them. I swear it."
And then he embraced her.
He kissed her forehead. Her cheek. Her chin. Then her lips—not with lust, but with the broken tenderness of a father holding a child who didn't belong to him.
"You will live," he murmured. "I promise."
He cast a silent bubble to drown her screams and teleported her far away—to his mansion, miles from the capital. With magic, he altered the crime scene. Blood replaced by cut marks. The corpses obscured.
Just as Shotaro Mugyiwara ran toward the tower, Nyrebo ran the opposite way.
Their eyes met for only a moment.
In the mansion of the Minister of Magic, Ni Gah curled in a ball, sobbing so hard she forgot she was awake.
Then… something approached.
Small.
Malformed.
A child?
No—a creature.
Barely three feet tall, waddling on twisted legs, its eyes soft and wet like Nyrebo's. It had no genitals. Its limbs barely functioned.
It looked up at her with a broken smile and said, in a soft, warbled voice:
"F…r…i…e…n…d?"
And for the first time in hours—
Ni Gah made a sound.
She wept.