Interlude: Story of Tarronia

Long ago, mankind knew only stone and shadow. They huddled in caves, fearful of beasts, their lives as crude as their chipped tools. Survival was a daily hunt, ignorance their constant companion.

Then came the Strangers.

From the skies they descended—not monstrous, but unsettlingly familiar. Their forms mirrored man’s, yet a gulf as wide as night and day burned within: intelligence that soared, mastery of the written word, the spark of civilization itself. No chronicle tells from where they came, nor what compelled their arrival. Only their name endured, whispered through ages: Denominos—“The Named Ones as Devil,” as mankind called them. But among themselves, they were the Tarrons.

Under their hand, humanity was lifted. Caves grew into towns, tribes into communities, hunger into harvest, fear into knowledge. The world bloomed—but every gift was bound in chains. For the Tarrons possessed what no human could: magic. With it, they ruled as masters, and mankind as slaves.

Thus began the long Dark Age of Oppression.

Time and again, men rose in defiance. Time and again, their resistance was crushed. Though the Tarrons walked in human guise, their sorcery was absolute. Their lifespans matched man’s, yet their arcane command placed them beyond reach. To them, humanity was as cattle—useful, inferior, disposable.

But men were no cattle. Equal in form and high in intellect, through suffering they grew equal in will. Oppression forged resilience; chains tempered iron resolve. From that crucible rose one man. He bore no magic, yet his mind was sharper than any spell. Where Tarrons conjured sorcery, he conjured invention.

He forged weapons—over a hundred Wonder Weapons, each a relic of terrible might, mankind shattered its yoke and carved out an age of its own.

Thus dawned the Age of Freedom.

Wars raged still, freedom forever contested. Humans sought dominion over their former masters, while Tarrons fought to reclaim their lost throne. Neither could prevail. A stalemate stretched across centuries—uneasy, but enduring. Only when a Tarron of great power arose did the balance shudder, yet always the Wonder Weapons of that one man repelled the storm.

And the name of that man is—

The narrator’s voice stopped suddenly, expecting an answer, but none came.

The narrator asked louder:

“The name of that man is…”

Again, no answer.

The voice belonged to Master Gilbert sitting on a study desk and across the desk, head buried in folded arms, lay Ayan.

His dark brown hair fell carelessly over his face, catching the pale lamplight. His expression, even in sleep, was carefree, as if he bore no fear of the world. Yet his face held a guileless warmth, a sincerity so disarming it shone through his slumber.

The old man’s voice rang out, frustration spilling into it:

“Answer me, Ayan! The name of that man is—”

Ayan, stirred, blinking drowsily, lifting his head. Instead of shame or excuse, his first words carried earnest concern.

“Master Gilbert… is the lesson over already?” He yawned.

“Over yes yes, its been over before it even started?” Master Gilbert replied with sarcasm.

“Really? Why didn’t you wake me earlier?” He stood up and was about to walk.

“Sit down you fool?” Master Gilbert shouted.

Ayan obediently sat down

“No Stand up!,” Master Gilbert corrected himself.

Ayan stood up obediently

“Oh heavens… what am I to do with this boy? At least learn to read the mood,” Master Gilbert muttered, visibly frustrated.

“Master, how can I read something that isn’t written?” Ayan asked curiously.
“If only you weren’t so obedient,” Gilbert sighed.

“But isn’t obedience a good thing? Why would you wish against it?” Ayan said, genuinely puzzled.

“So that I could punish you,” Gilbert replied dryly.

“But if I’m in the wrong, you have every right to punish me. Obedience has nothing to do with it,” Ayan answered earnestly.

“You may go” Gilbert in a low voice

“Are you sure Master” Ayan asked expectantly

“Yes”

“Thanks for the lesson master, please take care.”

He left the study at brisk pace saying “Time for some adventure”

“How can I even get angry at such a pure-heart, obedient boy” Master Gilbert exhaled

NOTE: I wanted to give you a glimpse into the history of Tarronia, but writing it plainly felt… well, boring. So I turned it into a little fun engagement between Ayan and Master Gilbert instead! I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Don’t forget to like, follow, and comment—I’d love to hear your thoughts! And remember: curiosity, courage, and a bit of mischief can turn even history into an adventure.