TRANSCENDENT LOOP: Legends of Avalon
CHAPTER 1: The Throne of the Fallen
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Far back in the Age of Magic, in a land ruled by kings, fate, and blood, a lone man sat upon a throne.
His hands rested calmly on the pommel of a sword planted before him.
No one could describe the blade, its shape blurred as if refusing to be perceived,
but the throne behind him was unmistakable:
A vast obsidian seat, towering above the space, gazing down at everything.
Blood traced the floor.
Scarlet stains clung to the cracked stone walls.
The air was heavy with silence and the smell of iron.
The man did not stare at anything, yet his blue eyes glowed in the darkness,
shining with a presence that felt like it could see through all things
time, fate, destiny itself.
Outside, the chants thundered across the kingdom like rolling storms:
"ALL HAIL OUR SAVIOUR!"
"LONG LIVE THE KING!"
The king rose slowly, prepared to greet his people.
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[BUT AS YOU ALREADY KNOW… THIS WAS NOT THE BEGINNING.]
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Five thousand years earlier
long before the throne, before the chants, before the legend
magic and the supernatural were already woven into existence.
Magic existed before existence learned to exist.
But the contradictions, side-effects, anomalies, and distortions born from it
had never been resolved.
And because of that, the world descended into war.
A war with unknown forces beyond human imagination.
Cities fell.
Countries fractured.
Continents retreated under the overwhelming tide of the enemy.
With no choice left, the rulers of every surviving nation forged a final alliance.
Kings, emperors, chiefs, scholars, and high representatives
united by desperation.
Their plan?
To use the very source of the catastrophe magic to fight back.
It worked… at first.
But eventually the enemy adapted.
Magic alone could no longer secure victory.
Humanity could only hold the monsters at bay,
stalling the inevitable collapse.
But not for long.
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On the battlefield, amidst the trembling earth and the roar of abominations,
a young man stepped forward.
He stood unshaken, unfazed by the grotesque army stretching across the horizon.
Behind him was a force of ten thousand soldiers,
yet none dared to make the first move.
The young man no older than his late twenties
with mid-length blond hair and clad in polished British plate armor,
raised one hand.
The command was simple: Hold.
A commander rode up beside him, voice strained with worry.
"Young lord, please do not be reckless…
these creatures are immune to magic."
The man he spoke to was their leader.
The commander himself stood in his late thirties,
dark hair, brown eyes sharp with discipline.
"I hear you, Sir Moratta Stones,"
the young lord replied, eyes still fixed forward.
"But as one who serves directly under the king…
shouldn't you have at least a little faith in me?"
"Young lord," Moratta answered,
"My duty as head knight binds me to protect"
The young lord cut him off gently.
"We also have other forces watching over us, remember?"
He smiled softly.
"Do not fear. I intend to end this battle quickly."
Then
He launched himself forward like a golden bullet,
the ground cracking under the force of his acceleration.
"…There he goes again," Moratta muttered.
A second knight spoke from atop a horse,
his entire body hidden beneath full armor, face concealed.
"Forget it, General Moratta.
Once the young lord decides something,
not even the gods can stop him."
Moratta sighed.
"Like father, like son… they say."
The masked knight chuckled.
"Exactly."
Moratta gripped his reins tightly.
"Alright then… if that's how the young lord wants to play this"
The army surged forward.
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To Be Continued...
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