The Chaos War
The battlefield had turned into a river of blood.
Mountains of corpses, rivers of fire, endless screams…
This was the Chaos War.
Dragons, demons, and warriors of every race tore each other apart like wild beasts.
No one sought peace—
their only desire was dominion.
Only power. And destruction.
Yet some beings stood aside, some suffered under tyranny, and others fought desperately to lead their clans back to a golden age. Still, no one truly understood why everyone had been drawn into this war. Some emperors suspected the interference of external forces, yet none would stop.
But why had it come to this?
In the next moment, the heavens split open.
It was as if the sky itself had been a mirror—and that mirror had shattered.
From the black clouds came a violet bolt of lightning.
A pressure heavier than death itself swallowed the entire battlefield.
The warriors who moments ago had been slaughtering one another could no longer even lift their blades.
From that rift in the sky—two eyes appeared.
Eyes burning with black and violet fire.
Even dragons trembled before those eyes.
The entire army froze in terror.
"What… what kind of being is that?"
The ground quaked.
An enormous dragon, vast enough to block the horizon, emerged onto the battlefield.
It looked down—
and every soul that met its gaze felt paralyzed.
Some warriors tried to take a single step back; others could not even move at all.
Then the dragon's body ignited in black flames, shrinking and shifting until it took the form of a man.
Silver hair cascaded to his waist, two horns crowned his noble brow like a crown, and violet eyes blazed with divine fury.
Each step he took made the heart of the earth tremble.
The entire army fell silent.
No sword dared to stir.
The dragon drew closer.
Even the proudest dragon warriors could only stand trembling, staring.
They looked at one another and whispered:
"What kind of dragon is this?"
"Even the dragon emperors do not possess such pressure," said one of them.
In a low voice he asked:
"Do you desire victory?"
"Do you crave power?"
The dragons glanced at one another—
then, as one, they roared:
"Yes! We do!"
He smiled.
Then he bit his finger, letting drops of dark-violet blood fall to the ground.
Each drop made the world shudder.
He extended his hand forward:
"Kneel or make others kneel—which one will it be? That choice lies in your hands."
The earth split open.
The blood moved like living flame, pulsing like a beating heart.
"My blood will grant you power… but it comes with a price.
There is no way back. Forever."
The dragons stood in silence.
But greed, despair, and the thirst for dominion broke them.
One by one they stepped forward.
One by one they drank.
He whispered softly:
"Don't die… not before this world ends."
Then the shattered heavens swallowed him whole.
As his body vanished into the darkness, a single thought circled in his mind:
"Did they notice me?"
For the last time he cast a sidelong glance at the dragons below.
"I gave everything I had for you. Now raise the dragon who can take revenge for me."
The torn rift in the sky sealed shut,
and the battlefield plunged into utter silence.
A million years passed.
The world had changed.
Races vanished, empires crumbled.
Yet those who had drunk that blood still lived.
From their bloodlines a new race was born—
one spoken of in fear and awe:
The High Dragons.
Centuries passed, but Chaos never truly died.
The great wars seemed to fade, yet the world once again drowned in blood.
Every empire, every kingdom fought for the same thing—power.
Even the dragons fractured among themselves.
One mighty clan splintered into hundreds of petty realms, locked in endless conflict.
Their blood held strength—
but that same blood carried the curse of greed and dominion.
The ancient glory lay in ruins.
In such an age, in the heart of what had once been a vast but was now a small dragon empire, a child was born.
Eyes as black as the void,
hair as white as starlight,
veins glowing from within with red energy.
His name was Noa, heir to the Nuxtar Empire,
son of Emperor Zagn.
The emperor—a tall man with black hair and dark eyes in his dragon-human form—took the infant in his arms and whispered:
"This child… will one day have to fight to survive."
The baby's mother looked at Noa with worry and a trace of fear.
"We have condemned him to such a fate."
Zagn placed his hands on his wife's shoulders and said:
"There is no other way. If we do not do this, he will be robbed of his destiny."
The mother began to weep, covering her face with her hand.
"I am a terrible mother… doing this to my own son. Everyone will mock him. He will grow up weak. It's all because of me."
Zagn drew his wife close, pressing her to his chest.
"He will overcome it all. I believe that. And one day the sun will rise in our sky again."
Five years passed.
Noa loved to read, to write, and to gaze at the stars.
"One day I will conquer the world," he said,
"but I don't yet know how."
Emperor Zagn grew uneasy at those words.
Each day he repeated the same lesson:
"You are a prince, Noa.
One day you will be emperor.
Be strong. Live for battle.
My son, you must become like me. Otherwise your older brother will take the throne."
But Noa remained silent,
because within his heart burned not the flame of war—
but something entirely different.
A power born of compassion.
He would slip away to the palace gardens,
lose himself beneath the trees and stars, and for a fleeting moment become an ordinary child—
neither prince nor heir,
only Noa.
Alone with the sky.
"I don't know if my dreams are right," he would whisper,
"but I know this world will drown in blood."
Yet the laws of the empire were merciless.
Anyone bearing dragon blood was born for war.
Noa knew it. He felt it.
Because the blood flowing in his veins was no ordinary blood—
it was the blood of the High Dragon.
One night, beneath the twin lights of Ruya and Siamond,
Noa sat in the palace garden beneath a tree, reading.
"Look at the sky… how beautiful it is," he murmured.
"But someone must exist to protect that beauty…"
Noa returned to his room, thoughts tangled in silence. He lay down, pretending to sleep.
Ruya's light slowly began to pierce through the palace windows.
Dawn had not yet fully awakened, but the sky was already painted in shades of silver.
The sun had not risen—yet its breath could be felt: calm, but heavy.
Noa opened his eyes. As always—in silence.
The room was wide, but cold.
Dragon patterns adorned the walls, imperial symbols decorated the high ceiling,
and in the windows—the reflection of a sky that had forgotten its own color.
He lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling.
Then he breathed deeply and slowly rose from the bed.
He walked to the window.
Below, the training grounds blazed with red sand and the roars of young dragon warriors.
Fire burst from their mouths; every strike carried pride, fury, and power.
They were born to fight.
Noa watched them—and felt an emptiness inside.
"They love strength," he whispered. "But I don't understand it."
"What is strength? To protect? To destroy? Or… to rule?"
And who wrote this fate for the dragons? Who decided it? I hate that being, he thought.
Every day he woke, watched those preparing for war,
and then disappeared into the quiet sanctuary of books.
In the northern wing of the palace lay his favorite place—the library.
It was filled with ancient texts, forgotten legends, and secrets of mana.
Above all, it held silence.
No one shouted there.
No one spoke of "war," "power," or "glory."
He opened the door softly.
The air was cold, dust-filled, yet comforting.
The scent of old parchment reminded him of childhood—
a time before he knew words like blood, throne, or war.
He picked up a book—The Song of the Ruya Era.
It was written by an ancient dragon poet,
the only poem ever known to speak of peace.
He began to read aloud:
"They were born from fire, yet reached for light.
For light, too, is fire—but it does not burn. It soothes."
Noa stopped.
"Soothes…" he murmured. "So such a strength exists?"
At that moment the door creaked open.
A tall man with black hair and sharp eyes entered—Zagn.
"Noa," he said, voice stern. "You're here again?"
Noa lowered his head.
"Yes, Father."
Zagn stepped closer.
"Reading is good. But books won't teach you how to wield a sword.
The world survives through power, my son."
"Perhaps the world can also be preserved with the heart," Noa replied softly.
"Perhaps strength is not power—perhaps it is the heart. Can't our light in this path be hope, and our strength be the heart?"
Zagn's gaze turned cold.
"You cannot rule an empire with your heart.
You are the son of an emperor.
You were born to fight, not to read.
Look at your brother—learn from him."
The words fell heavy.
Noa did not answer. He quietly closed the book in his hands.
Zagn stood still for a moment, then turned and left.
The door shut—and silence returned to the room.
Noa looked out the window.
"I was not born to fight," he thought.
"I was born to feel what it means to live.
But in this empire… even living is a battle."
And if I become big and strong, I will change the rules of this world, he whispered to himself.
That evening Noa went to the garden.
The wind brushed the leaves gently as he sat beneath a tree,
a book in his hands, but his eyes fixed on the sky.
The twin lights of Siamond and Ruya shimmered above.
Anyone who looked at them felt as though they were staring into infinity.
"This view… it is more beautiful than war or power," he whispered.
"Why can't anyone else see that?"
He leaned his back against the tree and closed his eyes.
The wind caressed his face.
Night descended.
Over the palace, Ruya and Siamond's lights formed a quiet halo in the sky.
Noa returned to his room.
On his desk lay scattered notes, ancient fragments, and old scrolls.
He opened one titled The Legend of the Primordial Dragon Blood.
"His blood shook the world.
Those who drank it were changed.
Some gained power—others were lost to eternal darkness."
Noa placed a hand over his heart.
It beat slowly—but deeply.
"That same blood flows in me…" he thought.
"Then one day… will I change too?"
I don't want to change into something cruel and merciless…
He almost wanted to make those words his motto, yet he felt that a prince could not speak them aloud.
And in this world ruled by dominion, he still dreamed of peace.
He looked out the window.
Below, warriors still trained—fire and shouting filled the air.
Every day the same scene.
"They gain strength… but in the end they lose themselves. Only then do they reach peace, but at that moment their hearts will not be at peace."
"Warriors are born for war. Peace is as heavy for them as war is heavy for ordinary people."
Hours passed.
He did not sleep.
By candlelight he sat with his elbow on the desk.
The flame flickered, casting dragon-shaped shadows on the walls.
"Can I become strong in my current state without losing who I am?"
"No… no one would ever believe that."
"Because a defeated prince still carries the title."
He reached for a quill and wrote:
"Power is not the act of destruction.
It is the act of creation.
But to understand it, one needs a heart—not a sword."
He set the quill down.
Looked toward the window.
Ruya's light was fading, but Siamond still shone bright.
"I still feel nothing… no awakening, no voice," he thought.
"But inside me there is an empty space—waiting for something."
He sat there, listening to the silence of the night.
Outside, guards paced; distant roars echoed from the training grounds.
But for Noa—it was a peaceful night.
At last he blew out the candle and lay down.
Closed his eyes.
"One day I will change this world," he whispered.
"But not with a sword."
The scent of smoke lingered as the room sank back into silence.
Ruya's light flickered once more across the wall—
and vanished.
Noa drifted into deep sleep.
On Noa's balcony a dark silhouette appeared, sword in hand, and began to approach the room.