At the height of noon, beneath the unforgiving eye of the sun, a boy was born into the world , branded by divinity itself. Upon the upper left of his brow, the mark of Bellamy: an eight-pointed star, blazing like fresh iron against flesh.
A symbol of power. A symbol of destiny.
The world whispered of his future. A prodigy. A conqueror. A king among kings.
His father, the Sun-King, believed it. For a time, he cherished the child as his rightful heir, parading him as proof of his divine favor.
But reality was cruel. The boy was talentless. His sword was clumsy, his body weak, his magic scattered and wild. The king's admiration rotted into scorn. The king cast his son aside like a dull blade, pouring his ambitions into the boy's half-siblings instead.
And yet, the boy endured.
Not out of pride. Not out of duty. But out of a desperate, aching need , to be seen, to be loved, even if only for a moment longer.
Years passed. He trained in silence. He bled where no one would see. Laughed at by his siblings. Ignored by his father. Until one day… something changed.
The boy's body brimmed with Essentia, endlessly, ceaselessly, until its abundance surpassed even that of the Sun-King himself by the time he was ten.
The king, at last, turned his eyes back toward his forgotten son.
And seized him.
What followed was not fatherhood , it was forging. The King trained the boy personally, relentlessly. Day after day. Blow after blow. His swordsmanship surpassed even The Order's highest commanders. His Essentia grew monstrous, volatile, a living warhead wrapped in the body of a boy.
But what the world saw as a miracle… the boy understood as a curse.
He sat alone on a hill at dusk, the sky painted in blood-red light. All his life he had chased his father's gaze. Now that he had it, he realized the truth , his father no longer saw a son. Only a weapon.
The last warmth of the sun vanished beyond the horizon.
And the boy's body ignited in agony.
He collapsed, writhing in the dirt, clutching at his heart as though it were trying to tear itself from his chest. The pain tunneled through him, spiraling downward , and locked itself into his right arm.
When he looked… he saw them.
Shackles.
Two ancient shackles bound by a length of sun-scarred chain, seared into his flesh. Upon the upper shackle, a sigil , radiant and malevolent , an unmistakable echo of the sun.
Danger.
Power, yes. But power shaped like a cage.
The boy didn't tell his father. Not at first. How could he explain what even he didn't understand? But his father's fury was patient. When the king demanded his son's presence, there was no choice but to obey.
At first, the king dismissed the chains as another ploy for attention. Until he tried to remove them. Until he realized… they could not be removed.
Scholars, priests, and warlocks alike scoured the land for answers. They found it carved into an ancient tablet , words left by The Lord of All Under The Moon.
Sol's Shackles, the binding chains of an inner god.
The Sun King did not see a curse. He saw a throne. He saw domination.
And the boy?
He saw the end of whatever childhood he had left.
From that day forward, the king trained his son without mercy. There were no more rare moments of fatherhood. Only orders. Only blood. Only war.
The boy fought back against it for years. He argued. He screamed. He refused. But his father did not care. A weapon that talks is still a weapon.
And then, one day… he vanished. Without sound. Without trace.
Until now.
Until The Tournament of Dawn.
Where the world watched, and Greyoll Rakiel saw his greatest weapon walk the earth once more.
Loretta Rakiel.
Lazarus, The Devil Among Angels, had been sent to the country of Ceto to retrieve Loretta.
Erenyx stood frozen, barely blinking, as the story sank in.
The soul of an Inner God? Greyoll's greed? So many truths jammed into her head at once, all she could do was stare.
Azmiel chuckled softly.
"You look surprised. Had he never told you any of this?"
Erenyx only shook her head, still lost in thought. Still trying to process it all. When she finally managed to speak, only one question escaped her lips:
"How the hell do you know all this?"
Azmiel smiled, like she'd been waiting for that question.
"I am Azmiel Rakiel , one of Greyoll Rakiel's two wives."
What? Could this woman be,?
But before Erenyx could ask, Azmiel answered anyway.
"And no, Loretta isn't my child," she said. "I had two boys. Twins. I pray they're doing just fine without me."
Something in Erenyx snapped.
Her palm slammed down hard against the table.
"How the hell could you leave your kids behind like that , while you ran!?"
Azmiel's smile faltered. Just for a second.
She slid her glasses off, her violet eyes glowing , bright, violent , as her voice dropped.
"Don't speak on things you don't understand, girl."
The weight of her words hit like Agheel's roar , heavy enough to rattle Erenyx's bones. But she stood her ground.
"Then help me understand!" she shot back , raw, from the heart.
Azmiel sighed. It was tired. Heavy.
"My boys… they wanted strength. When I tried to take them with me that night, they refused. They wanted to stay with their father." Her voice wavered , just barely. Close to breaking. But it didn't. "I didn't have a choice."
She gathered herself.
"You won't get him back as easily as you think."
Erenyx was already moving. Already walking away.
"I know," she said , without looking back.
And by the time Azmiel glanced toward the doorway, Erenyx was gone.
Vanished the moment her foot crossed outside.
...
Things happen on Conravia every day.
Some small.
Some that change the world forever.
The thing is… you never really know which is which.
Coming back to Father?
I don't know if it's either one of those.
All I know is… I was weak.
Yagura put me through hell. Broke me down. Built me back up. And still , I couldn't lay a finger on Lazarus.
He toyed with me.
Used my own anger against me.
Embarrassed me.
Not a single punch landed.
And yet he left me with a scar I'll never forget.
What the hell was all my training for?
Just to end up like this?
…No.
No, I can't think like that.
Think like him.
Be connected with the earth.
Never strike first.
Read your opponent.
Don't kill.
Loretta exhaled slow, stepping into position.
Hands behind his back.
Face blank.
Emotionless.
His sparring partner was already charging , fast, wild, telegraphed.
But to Loretta?
It was slow. Almost pitiful.
He shifted his weight at the last possible second, letting the blow pass him harmlessly.
Then ,
Crash.
An axe kick, vicious and clean, came down like judgment , the top of his foot slamming into the man's back, folding him to the floor.
Loretta's hands never moved from behind him.
His expression never changed.
Without a word, he turned away, walking slow, calm, back toward his rest spot.
The fight was over before it even began.
...
A man with long, jet-black hair sat perched atop an old, rotting church , a devil counting blood money.
Bill after bill slid between his ring-clad fingers, his grin stretching wider with every stack.
God, I love this.
Maybe now I'm starting to get it…
Maybe I'm starting to understand why Ely-
His smile twitched.
No.
You're better than him, Kaku. That bastard's a ghost. Let him rot.
Kaku stood.
His look was new. Mean.
Long midnight-black hair trailing down his back, the tips ghosting into bone-white.
Cocky eyes. Judgmental glare. Skin pale like polished ivory.
Baggy jeans, torn and dirty like they'd survived hell itself.
A mostly white bomber jacket, stained with old sins.
Silver rings wrapped around every finger , some stacked two deep like he wanted you to see them coming.
Kaku inhaled deep, slow , then tipped himself forward without hesitation.
Like a falling star.
Like a curse.
He dived from the church roof, arms twisting and jerking mid-air in ways that weren't human.
Flesh warped , bone snapped , until his arms weren't arms at all.
They were snakes.
Long. Pale. Writhing.
The ground split beneath him as he landed hard, the white serpents launching from his sleeves like spears.
The old priest barely had time to drop his offering.
Wide, terrified eyes locked with Kaku's unblinking stare.
"D-DeSilva…?" The priest croaked.
Kaku's grin only sharpened.
"No."
"Worse."
The snakes coiled tight around the priest's body , tighter , tighter , until bone groaned beneath the pressure.
The man screamed.
High. Broken.
Veins popped like overripe fruit across his face. Blood poured from his nose, his ears, his bulging, desperate eyes.
It wasn't slow.
It wasn't merciful.
It was ugly.
It was final.
And when the snakes squeezed just a little more , the priest burst.
His body exploded in a wet, grotesque spray of red mist , coating the walls, the ground, even the empty church steps.
Kaku's snakes slithered back into his sleeves like nothing had happened.
Rain started to fall.
But not fast enough to wash him clean.
Not before Kaku tilted his head back, letting the blood patter against his face , dragging his tongue across his cheek like it was just another Tuesday.
He knelt down, grabbing the priest's fallen money.
"Tch."
"Wasn't like you were gonna use this shit for anything important."
He pocketed the cash, flipping through the bills without a care in the world , until his body froze mid-count.
"…Shit."
"I forgot the mask."
A pause.
Then he laughed , that low, cocky, deadbeat laugh.
"…Not like he's tellin' anybody."
Hands laced behind his head, his once-white jacket soaked in blood, Kaku hummed to himself as he wandered down the empty street.
No shame. No guilt.
Just a monster walking home.
...
Rakiel. The richest of the four great clans. The largest. The loudest.
Ceto, led by Agheel Ceto, though his real name is whispered like a curse behind closed doors.
Yami, ruled not by one, but by many , shadows wearing faces.
Ala, silent and still , under the iron demonic hand of Nos Ala.
But Rakiel… Rakiel was different.
Its cities were gilded lies. The closer you stood to the king's throne, the more gold covered your eyes. The capital itself outshone any dream , marble towers, sapphire rivers, streets paved so clean you could eat from them.
But take one step outside.
One step beyond those sunlit gates.
Rot.
Entire districts left to choke and starve in the dark. The "Unlawful Zone," they called it , a wasteland so godless even the Order of the Sun dared not patrol its corpse-ridden streets.
Here, hunger was sharper than any sword. Children curled in gutters like discarded things , bones visible beneath paper-thin skin, ribs like prison bars. Disease crawled like rats through every cracked home. And the missing… oh, the missing.
Every year, hundreds gone. No search parties. No questions. No bodies found.
But worse than vanishing… was returning.
Once every month, the people of the Unlawful Zone knew to hold their breath.
Because the Twins were coming.
They were only rumors until they weren't.
Two figures, walking the dead streets like harvesters in a rotting field.
He looked fragile , beautiful in a way that mocked beauty itself. His skin was so pale it was nearly translucent, like stretched porcelain left to dry and crack. Beneath that fragile mask, his veins webbed in sharp, unnatural clarity, like fault lines threatening to split him apart at any moment. His hair was brittle, white like bone dust, short and flaky, strands falling unevenly to just kiss the nape of his neck , as though growing hair was too exhausting a task for him to finish.
His eyes were always shut, his lashes faint but long, like wilted spider legs clinging to glass. And yet, even sightless, he moved unbothered , as if dreams whispered every step to him. His mouth hung in a soft yawn near-constantly, not out of rudeness, but as if the world itself bored him. As if life was a waiting room he'd long grown tired of sitting in.
like a priest at the world's funeral.
He was draped in what might've once passed for casual wear , now a ghost of normalcy clinging to something far from human. A loose, sun-bleached plaid shirt hung from his frail frame, its fabric thinned and fraying at the edges, sleeves unevenly rolled like he'd forgotten or never cared to finish the job. His jeans sagged low on his narrow hips, cinched tight by a cracked leather belt , its buckle shaped like a grinning skull yellowed with age. His boots were a muddied ochre, scuffed raw at the toes, their laces dragging like veins spilling from tired skin. Around his neck, an iron cross dangled, its metal dulled and stained from constant touch, thumb always pressing into it like it was the last thing tethering him to consciousness. At his hip swung a golden censer, crusted with soot and blackened incense stains , a priest's relic bastardized into a weapon.
Sleep.
Where his brother looked asleep, he looked embalmed. His skin was cold marble , faintly grey, unnervingly smooth, but never quite still. It shimmered faintly beneath the moonlight like polished stone , clean, but not alive. His hair, the same corpse-white, hung jagged around his ears, cut as if by broken glass rather than shears. Not neat , just ended.
His eyes were his truest horror. Black , not in color, but in presence. They were endless pools of still water at midnight, swallowing light whole. Looking into them didn't feel like staring into darkness. It felt like staring at the absence of being. It wasn't a threat. It was a fact.
And still, he moved with a strange grace. Deliberate. Careful. Like a priest during a funeral procession , only this one had long since buried God.
The Brother of Death dressed like a shadow forced into shape. His black sweater hung loose on him, sleeves swallowing his wrists, the fabric coarse and sun-faded, like ash had seeped into its threads. Around his neck was a long, tattered scarf , the same faded plaid as his brother's shirt , knotted lazily, trailing behind him like a hanging omen. His jeans were just as baggy, charcoal black, torn in places like claws had raked across them in his sleep. He wore the same boots as his brother, but his were darker, stained by things the earth itself wouldn't wash away. Everything about him felt incomplete, like death halfway through its own process. No jewelry, no relics , save for the crow circling overhead, its feathers gleaming slick like wet obsidian.
Death.
They dressed like commons. They walked like kings.
The streets tonight were quieter than ever. Not a child cried. Not a mother whispered. People played dead in doorways, stacked atop each other like plague corpses, praying their stillness might fool the Brothers.
It rarely did.
In the heart of the square, they stopped.
Sleep lifted his censer. The gold caught what little light there was , a dying shimmer in a city long past dead.
And then , spores.
Like dust from a long-forgotten tomb, they scattered. Floating. Invading.
Breathing them was breathing death slow.
Bodies collapsed like marionettes with cut strings. Some fought. Some clawed at their own throats, choking on nothing. Others simply went limp, slipping into dreams they would never wake from.
But one young beastfolk boy remained.
Small. Filthy. Alone.
his eyes burned with something close to hate.
Death crouched before her.
"This one will please Master Lazarus," he said, voice like wind over a grave. "Brother, come."
Sleep knelt beside him, his glassy eyes opening slow , revealing not eyes, but fractures. Endless fractures, like staring into a mirror shattered beyond repair.
The boy, strong as he was, could only stare.
And then… sleep took him, too.
Without gentleness, Death gripped his collar, lifting him like old laundry.
Together, the Brothers of Sleep and Death turned into the black veins of the city , swallowed by the night.
Behind them, the Unlawful Zone stayed silent.
Waiting its turn.
Rakiel was hell.
Not for everyone , just for most.
If you were fortunate enough to be born within the capital, or the three great cities cradling it like a jeweled crown, life could almost feel normal. But for the rest , for the millions left to rot in the outer rings , Rakiel was little more than a graveyard waiting to fill itself.
Change was a fantasy here.
Rebellion was a bedtime story told by the starving to their dying children.
But still… there were always those who dreamed louder than they feared.
Two figures approached the checkpoint , ghosts wrapped in sand-browned cloaks that clung to them like dried skin. The taller one moved with that effortless patience only seen in dangerous men. The smaller figure stayed close to his side, steps light but unflinching.
They reached the desk.
No words at first , just the quiet scrape of two IDs sliding across splintered wood.
The taller figure spoke, his voice calm, but iron-weighted.
"Sorin Leos."
The smaller followed, more casual, but not careless.
"Ryai Leos."
The worker barely glanced at them. Barely cared. He looked at the names, looked at the faces , maybe noticed the way their shadows stretched just a little too still beneath the flickering checkpoint light.
But then , a slow nod.
The IDs slid back like nothing had happened.
"Welcome to Rakiel."
As they passed through the gates, swallowed by the choking dust of the outer city, Sorin's voice cut through the quiet.
"Did you have to use my last name?"
Ryaihan gave a low, dramatic sigh , the kind only the young could make sound annoyed and amused at the same time.
"Not like I could've used mine. Besides, I panicked."
Sorin chuckled under his breath , dry, like sand grinding against old bone. His large hand dropped briefly to Ryaihan's head, ruffling it without thought.
Then , like that , they were gone.
Two shadows slipping beneath the dying lights of Rakiel.
But far above them , unseen , another shadow moved.
Watching.
Waiting.
Smiling.