The Beginning in the End

Atreus then turned to face his enemies and roared with a thunderous voice: "I am Atreus, twentieth king of the Randra dynasty, Keeper of the Balance, standing before you today. Know this - if you stand aside, you shall live; if not, you will die most gruesomely. And you four kings... you would do well to reconsider your folly, for this battle will shatter the world's equilibrium!"

Draxenius bellowed in fury: "The buffoon is you, Atreus! Look around! You stand alone with a thousand men against our ten thousand. Do you truly believe you’ll prevail?! And you fancy yourself Keeper of the Balance?! What a splendid joke! Your Legend race is the true disruptor of equilibrium! I’ll not suffer a single one of your cursed kind to live—to drag this world to ruin!"
He roared skyward, unleashing a plume of crimson breath, then commanded his soldiers: "Hear me, noble soldiers! Engage in slaughter! Grind their bones! Teach this fool the fate that awaits his ilk!"

The battlefield trembled with soldiers' roars and the flight of weapons. Twenty dragons swooped down from the skies as the glint of blades and enemies' teeth illuminated the field.
Atreus cast a fleeting glance at his soldiers—those Legend warriors with blue eyes ablaze with fury. He knew today would be etched in history's chronicles... but on a torn-out page.

He drew his longsword from its scabbard—a yellow halo engulfing the blade—and with a single rotation, Atreus cleaved the air around him. With slow, resolute steps, he advanced toward the enemy. Behind him, his soldiers readied their weapons to spill their foes’ blood.
Atreus struck first: he swung his sword, and with but one motion sent countless heads rolling. Then he slammed his fist into the earth, shattering the ground beneath him to disrupt the enemy formations.

The cloying stink of blood and death thickened the air. Dragons and enemy elf-archers fixed wrathful gazes upon Atreus, converging on him with their full might.
Pre-set traps sprang to life across the battlefield’s periphery, seizing any chance to halt the blood-drinkers’ deadly strikes. Within this maelstrom, a cataclysmic war erupted. Earth writhed in agony from the battle’s wounds; Sky itself recoiled from the cacophony of clashing magics and blades.

Atreus’s magic blazed across the sky like lightning—for an instant, the world seemed to hold its breath.

 Arcane rifts tore through the air as his sword strikes, shifting the battle’s tide like formidable earthquakes. Yet the enemy, Draxenius most of all, refused to yield. With a roar steeped in fury and resolve, he commanded his forces to charge.

The Legend forces, with faith in Atreus burning within them, advanced with full might. In this historic confrontation—amidst ruthless warfare—the fate of two worlds rested on warriors battling for faith and honor.
As Atreus fought at the battlefield’s heart, Andreas stood at its edge wearing a cryptic smile. He murmured to himself: ‘Just as I suspected... weakened. His power wanes—but why?’ Then he signaled his remaining forces and bellowed: ‘All forces, attack! Now is the moment to unleash our true strength!’

At Andreas’s command, the war surged to its brutal peak. The battle raged for hours; unexpectedly, the Legends had gained the upper hand. The power of their faith and Atreus’s courage drove them to fight to their last breath—yet it proved insufficient.

Time crawled as the field’s vileness and violence persisted, the stench of decay choking the air. Atreus fought valiantly, but paid a grim price for his bravery: defending a comrade’s flank, he sacrificed his left hand. Blood gushed in a maddening torrent. Alone, he had slain a thousand foes—but against destiny itself, no victory could be won.

Now, he stood utterly alone—body riddled with wounds, armor stripped of its silver sheen—encircled by some 8,000 enemies. All his comrades lay slain. Exhausted and bloodied, he faced this final trial alone.
Atreus looked back and saw the Sacred Tree on the horizon. A heavy silence engulfed him while inside, his soul screamed. He witnessed defenseless infants, women, and children butchered by vile sorcerers. Nothing remained within those fiends; not even mercy for the smallest victims—children torn limb from limb.

Andreas sneered at Atreus in that moment: ‘Who’s the fool now, hah, Atreus?! Look around you! Your people are dead—your wife, that little child of yours—and only you remain. If we can even call this wretched state "alive"!’
Then, with a savage motion, he sliced off Atreus’s legs. Gritting through agony, Atreus collapsed defenseless to the ground. Andreas dragged him toward his queen’s coffin—a casket woven from branches of the Sacred Tree, symbolizing Atreus’s devotion to her.
Cradled against the queen’s lifeless corpse lay an infant. A dead child. But Atreus jolted with realization: This was not Arian. This babe belonged to a Legend mother who’d staged this sacrificial ruse to shield the true prince.

Raxelius gazed toward the Sacred Tree and sneered at Atreus: ‘I know you’re aware why they call this the Sacred Tree, aren’t you? Because the first Legend was born here. Your child would’ve been the last... but sadly, he’s dead. Now I’ll destroy this tree—so no Legend is ever born again.’
With those words, Raxelius unleashed corrosive magic upon the Sacred Tree. It began to wither and decay, its life-force draining with every throbbing pulse of the spell. That tree—symbol of life and hope for the Legend race—died by increments. As it perished, the earth trembled beneath Atreus. He felt his world collapsing... and not his alone—the entire planet was tearing itself apart.

But this was not the story’s end. In its wake, Andreas—eyes blazing with infernal malice—severed Atreus’s head. He believed he had eradicated the last Legend, that this was the extinction of a race. Yet the truth was far more intricate than he fathomed.
In a woodland cottage, the infant Arian, cradled in Zynarefil’s arms, suddenly burst into tears. Zynarefil, whose hope had never wavered, clutched him tighter. Tears welling in her eyes, she whispered to the child: ‘So you felt it too, my son?’

Zynarefil knew hope still lived in this darkened world. She held an unshakable belief that Arian, son of Atreus, was the emblem of the Legend race—and all the dreams this land thirsted for. In her heart, she felt that even in the bleakest hours and most desperate straits, a light would endure to guide their return.
History would forever preserve the tale of Atreus and the secrets buried within the Legends' bloodline.
Seven years had passed since that day... and now Arian...