In Varta, power has always been measured, named, and categorized so that mortals do not mistake sparks for stars. The lowest recognized tier is the Novice, the average ranking warrior or mage who has learned to shape mana rather than be shaped by it, capable, disciplined, but bound by ordinary limits. Above them stand the Zenith, elite Sword masters and Archmages and mages whose control sharpens into instinct, whose strikes split stone and whose spells silence battalions. Beyond that threshold are the Masters, those who have tasted enlightenment, whose inner worlds have expanded, whose mana wells deepen until they can stand against kingdoms alone and tilt wars by their presence. And at the summit stand the Grand Masters, the transcended few, beings who have stepped beyond mortal ceilings and whose existence alone bends the balance of nations.
In the present era of Varta, humanity struggles beneath its former glory. The current generation has thinned, diluted by complacency and fractured ambition. Among humans, there exist many Novices, a scattering of Zeniths, a rare handful of Masters, and only two Grand Masters whose names are spoken carefully in courts and councils. Power exists, yes, but it is uneven, fragile, and dependent on individuals rather than lineage.
The elves are different.
They are not simply another kingdom among many. They are a civilization grown from mana itself, a race whose first breath was taken in forests already ancient. Where humans learn mana, elves remember it. Where humans cultivate it, elves resonate with it. Their bodies are not merely vessels for mana, but conduits, and the air around them responds as if greeting kin.
Long before the current kingdoms rose and fell, before borders were drawn in ink and blood, there was a war that never made it into human epics in full truth. It was not a war of conquest but of intrusion. The skies tore not with dragons but with rifts, and from those fractures poured the forces of another world, an army serving a will that did not belong to Varta. The name Armageddon was whispered only after the first cities fell, after the world blackened where foreign power touched it, after mana itself recoiled in unfamiliar pain.
Armageddon did not descend. It did not need to. Its forces crossed dimensions like a tide through broken stone, and the battlefield became the fabric of reality itself.
In that era, humans and elves stood side by side, though they did not stand as equals. Humanity brought numbers, invention, and desperate courage. The elves brought dominion. At that time, their mana reserves were oceans compared to human rivers, and their warriors moved like extensions of the world. Forests answered their call, rivers shifted their currents, and the wind sharpened into blades at their command.
The Zenith of the elves did not simply duel; they orchestrated battlefields. The Masters among them shaped terrain with gestures, sealing breaches in reality while fighting off entities that defied natural law. And when the first Grand Master of the elves stepped forward, the sky itself steadied. It is said that six of them rose during that war, their lifespans already stretching beyond centuries, their consciousness threaded deeply into the pulse of Varta.
The war became known not for a single decisive clash but for endurance. Dimensional gates opened and were shattered. Cities burned and were reclaimed. Human Grand Masters fell buying time, while elven Masters sealed tears in the world with rituals that cost decades of their own life force. The Sky Palace descended then, not as conquerors but as guardians, divine warriors clad in radiance, striking down invaders whose very forms corroded the air. Together, elves, humans, and the divine legions held the line against the spreading dark.
Armageddon itself never crossed into Varta. The war remained a dimensional siege, a clash at thresholds, a battle fought on the seams of existence. When the final rift was closed and the last foreign general fell, Varta did not cheer. It exhaled.
Centuries followed, and humanity fractured into empires and rivalries. The elves did not fracture. They withdrew.
Having seen how fragile the world could become, they chose guardianship over dominion. They grew their hidden kingdom beneath a barrier woven from mana older than any current crown. They became the keepers of the world's seals, custodians of ancient prisons that predated even the war. While humans built walls of stone, elves tended walls of reality.
Time favors them. They live for thousands of years, watching generations of humans rise and fade like seasons. Knowledge accumulates instead of being lost. Techniques are refined rather than rediscovered. In the present age, the elves of Varta hold thirty Masters within their borders, six Grand Masters whose names are known only among their own, and over a hundred Zeniths whose blades and spells could silence kingdoms. The remainder, even the so-called Novices, wield mana with a grace that would place them above many human elites.
They do not boast of this power. They do not march upon human capitals. Their strength rests coiled, integrated into forest and root and sky. Mana swirls through their homeland as naturally as breath, and their warriors train not for conquest but for preservation.
Among the races of Varta, they stand apart. Not merely stronger, but older in spirit, closer to the fundamental rhythm of the world. They guard the seals that bind horrors beneath soil and sea. They monitor fluctuations in the flow of mana like physicians reading a pulse. They remember the dimensional war not as legend but as a lived experience.
And so, in the current era where human Grand Masters number only two, where kingdoms posture and scheme, the elves remain the quiet apex of Varta. Hidden, harmonious, and immeasurably dangerous to any force that would dare test the boundaries of their world again.
The forest kingdom laughs, celebrates, and sings beneath lantern-light. But beneath that joy stands a lineage forged in dimensional fire, veterans of a war most mortals have forgotten, guardians of a peace maintained not by weakness, but by overwhelming, disciplined power.
Beneath the vast breathing canopy of the Great Forest, beyond the reach of elven wards and hidden from the soft currents of living mana, there existed a wound in the earth that did not belong. It was not carved by time nor shaped by roots. It was hollowed by intention. A dungeon, buried deep where light forgot its own purpose, where stone walls sweated and the air tasted metallic and wrong.
Cries echoed through its corridors, thin and exhausted, blending with the low growls of chained beasts. The floors were slick with old stains layered over older stains, dark patches of dried blood from creatures and humans alike, the marks of experiments rather than battles. Cages lined one side of the chamber, iron bars thick and unyielding, holding children from distant lands, their eyes hollow with fear, their hands clutching each other in silence broken only by soft sobs. Opposite them, larger enclosures held beasts bound in heavy chains, wild eyes rolling in the dim torchlight, muscles straining against restraints etched with suppressing sigils.
Men moved through the dungeon like workers in a grotesque workshop. Aprons soaked in blood hung from their shoulders. Blades and hooks were cleaned in basins of cloudy fluid. Glass containers bubbled over low flames, mixtures of extracted essence and liquefied mana swirling together in unstable colors.
"To think you would be put in such a state," a man in stained garments murmured, his voice calm despite the carnage surrounding him. His clothes were layered with dried crimson, his hands steady as he polished a long, thin blade until it reflected the flicker of torchlight. "I wonder… is the Prince of Varta capable of wielding such firepower?" he added with quiet fascination, stepping toward a stone table at the center of the chamber.
Upon it lay what remained of August Frost.
His body was barely recognizable as human. Skin had melted and fused in places, peeled raw in others, revealing muscle scorched and blackened. The scent of burnt flesh lingered even through the thicker stench of blood. His face was distorted beyond identity, yet his chest rose faintly, stubbornly, refusing death.
"You're alive right now not because of your will… but because of what you carry in you," the man said softly, placing gloved fingers against August's abdomen. He pressed lightly, feeling the faint pulse beneath charred skin. "You're alive because of your mana core," he whispered, voice tinged with reverence. "Right here… you have quite the amount. This… this will be interesting."
August did not respond. His body trembled involuntarily as another spasm of pain rippled through exposed nerves.
"Don't worry," the man continued, selecting a syringe filled with viscous, shimmering liquid. "I will fix you. Make you anew. Whole. You will be reborn." A thin laugh escaped him, not loud but sharp, slicing through the chamber as he drove the needle into ruined flesh and depressed the plunger slowly.
The fluid spread beneath the skin like fire meeting oil. August's body convulsed violently against the restraints, chains rattling as muffled sounds forced their way past burned lips. The man watched with fascination rather than concern, eyes gleaming.
"Where are the two servants I sent to fetch an elf child?" he asked suddenly, straightening without looking away from his patient. His tone shifted, curiosity sharpening into irritation. "Why have they not returned?"
A servant nearby flinched, wiping blood from his hands onto already ruined cloth. "W-we don't know… they should have been here by now."
"Don't tell me they have been caught," the man replied slowly, turning his head just enough for torchlight to catch the edge of his smile. His gaze was not loud or explosive; it was worse. It was clinical.
"We… we don't believe so. They are not average novices," another muttered quickly.
"Go," the man said, voice dropping into something colder. "Go look for them. They are not weak enough to be caught by elves so easily. Find them. And bring me an elf."
The servants bowed hurriedly and scattered down branching corridors, their footsteps echoing against stone slick with grime.
The chamber settled again into its grotesque rhythm. Glass clinked softly. Liquid bubbled. August's breathing rasped unevenly as whatever had been injected into him began its slow invasion. Beneath the dungeon, far below the main hall, something stirred.
There were sounds in the lower dark that did not belong to any single creature. Scraping. Shifting. Heavy bodies brushing against one another in confined spaces. Chains dragging across stone. Low, overlapping growls that blended into a single unsettling chorus. It sounded like dozens of beasts gathered together in a place too small for their hunger.
The stench thickened as air flowed downward through hidden vents, carrying with it the scent of blood and fear. In the darkness below, unseen shapes moved restlessly, reacting to the mana fluctuations above, to the foreign essence now spreading through the body of a prince who should have died.
And in the center of it all, the man in bloodstained garments stood over August Frost, watching carefully as flesh began to twitch in ways that did not belong to healing.
Morning unfolded over the Elf Kingdom like a quiet hymn. Light filtered through layered canopies of silver-green leaves, scattering across terraces grown from living wood. Bridges of braided roots hummed faintly with mana as elves moved across them in graceful rhythm. The air carried warmth, fresh dew, and the subtle shimmer of power that never truly left this land.
Training grounds echoed with the soft clash of wooden blades and the sharp hum of controlled spells. Young Zenith candidates practiced precise footwork under the watchful gaze of Masters whose presence alone steadied the mana in the air. Children darted between archways carved from ancient trunks, laughter ringing clear as bells. Elders sat beneath flowering arches, discussing currents of mana like scholars reading weather patterns.
From a high chamber balcony grown outward from a colossal tree, Indura observed it all.
He leaned against the smooth railing, golden eyes tracking the movement below. Elves passed through the streets with effortless poise, their skin luminous in shades of pale ivory, sun-kissed bronze, deep bark-toned hues that seemed carved from nature itself. Hair flowed in colors rarely seen among humans—silver like starlight, moss-green, lavender mist, copper flame. Their long ears bore delicate ornaments shaped like leaves and constellations, subtle marks of lineage and rank.
Indura descended the spiral path from the chamber and wandered without a destination. Eyes followed him wherever he stepped. Some were cautious, most curious, many openly admiring. A pair of younger female elves whispered behind their hands as he passed, glancing at his golden gaze before quickly looking away. "His presence feels… different," one murmured. "He stands like someone used to the sky," the other replied softly.
Children spotted him and waved enthusiastically. "Young Master Indura!" one called out boldly. He grinned and waved back with theatrical flair. "Good morning, tiny warriors," he replied smoothly, earning giggles in response. He moved with casual charisma, as though he had always belonged among polished wood and living branches.
He paused near a stream that flowed directly through the heart of the city, kneeling slightly to watch how mana drifted above its surface like silver mist. The currents were visible here, weaving through air and water, brushing against skin like gentle warmth. He closed his eyes briefly.
How beautiful this land is.
He straightened slowly, gaze lifting to the layered canopy above. Compared to the stone-heavy human empire, rigid and loud with ambition, this place breathed. It did not resist him. It did not demand proof. The mana in the air felt alive, responsive, welcoming. Even though he could not draw it in, could not absorb even a fraction of it, he felt surrounded by something familiar.
I can feel it everywhere. It's thick… stable… refined.
His fingers curled slightly at his side.
I will restore my body, reclaim my mana, and rise again. The skies are where I belong.
The thought lingered like a promise as he resumed walking. He imagined the weight of wind beneath wings, the horizon bending to his will, the sky parting before his ascent. The forest kingdom was breathtaking, yes, but it was not the ceiling. It was ground.
Mid-step, movement shifted ahead.
Elves began to part along the path, their conversations lowering to hushed reverence. Flowers were gathered hastily from nearby branches and scattered across polished root-walkways. Mana subtly concentrated, forming an invisible current of respect. Whispers traveled faster than footsteps.
"The Queen…"
"Her Majesty…"
Indura slowed, gaze sharpening.
Through the parted crowd emerged a figure whose presence altered the air itself. She walked without haste, yet each step carried weight. Her hair flowed like liquid moonlight down her back, threaded with faint strands of pale gold. Her skin held a faint radiance, not glittering, not ostentatious, but luminous as if mana itself preferred to linger upon her. Her eyes were deep emerald, ancient and calm, holding centuries within their stillness.
This was not merely royalty by title. This was lineage refined through millennia.
Syphon Eldia, Queen of the Elves, High Elf of the First Line.
Flowers settled gently at her feet as she approached. Warriors bowed low. Elders inclined their heads deeply. Even the playful children grew quiet, sensing the shift in gravity.
Indura did not move.
He stood where he was, shoulders squared, golden eyes locked onto her approach. The crowd formed a wide circle around them, anticipation thick in the air. Mana currents swirled subtly between them, reacting without instruction.
She stopped a step away from him. For a moment, there was only silence.
Her gaze examined him carefully, not as one looks at a stranger, but as one confirms something long known. There was recognition in her eyes. No surprise. Not curiosity. Recognition.
"You've grown well, Indura," she said gently, her voice carrying clarity that reached every ear without effort. "How have you been?"
The world seemed to freeze. Gasps rippled through the gathered elves. Whispers broke out instantly.
"She knows him?" "How is that possible?"
Indura remained still, mind momentarily emptied of every prepared word, every polished response. Golden eyes widened ever so slightly.
"What..?"