For countless centuries, the realm of Orano thrived beneath the protection of balance. It was a vast land of breathtaking wonder—endless emerald forests whispered ancient secrets to the wind, mountain peaks kissed the heavens, and mythic creatures walked the world freely. Though tensions simmered between the many races—elves, beastkin, dwarves, humans, and countless others—there existed an unspoken equilibrium, upheld by tradition, territory, and the long shadow cast by the most powerful beings of all: the Ancient Dragons.

  These dragons, majestic and fearsome, were the oldest of Orano’s inhabitants, beings born from the world's primal energies. For millennia, they remained distant—aloof titans who cared little for the affairs of mortals. Some were worshipped as gods. Others slumbered in the deep places of the world, dreaming of the time before kingdoms rose. They were revered, feared, and—until that day—left undisturbed.

  But peace, like all things, is a fleeting dream.

  Without warning, the dragons stirred. The skies blackened with the beating of colossal wings. Entire regions awoke to the thunderous roars of creatures long believed extinct or content in isolation. The ancient dragons no longer wished to dwell in solitude. They had watched as the lesser races carved borders into the land and declared dominion over valleys and skies that once belonged to the wyrms. And so they rose, not in unison, but with terrible purpose—to reclaim Orano as their own and reign as its supreme mythics, the uncontested rulers of the world.

  Their onslaught was nothing short of apocalyptic.

  With flames hotter than the heart of a volcano, they reduced towns to ash. With claws the size of ballistae and teeth that shattered stone, they tore through armies as if they were paper. Each dragon possessed immense magical power—elemental control over flame, storm, frost, and more. Some bent time, others minds. But most terrifying of all was their ability to shapeshift, taking on humanoid forms to infiltrate, manipulate, and destroy from within. Even in these smaller guises, they retained their physical prowess and magical might, making them nearly impossible to detect—let alone defeat.

  Kingdoms fell. Mythic clans vanished. Once-proud cities became hunting grounds for draconic warbands. The dragons were not chaotic beasts—they were conquerors with strategies, hierarchies, and cruel intelligence. The more the people fought back, the more brutal the retaliation became. No fortress was high enough. No spell was strong enough. The world seemed destined to burn.

  And yet, when despair had all but consumed Orano, a new force emerged.

  From the shadowed fringes of legend came a mysterious people—a race unknown to history, unseen in diplomacy, unmentioned in even the most ancient scrolls. They arrived not in legions, but in scattered handfuls. Their origins were whispered, their purpose unspoken, but their presence on the battlefield was undeniable.

  Dragon Slayers.

  They were not many, but each one wielded strength that defied belief. Their bodies brimmed with arcane energy unlike anything the world had seen. Their weapons shimmered with enchantments that pierced even the toughest dragonhide. Some channeled magic through ancient runes inscribed upon their skin. Others bore bloodlines so potent they could summon storms or freeze fire itself. But all shared one terrifying truth:

  They could kill dragons.

  Truly kill them.

  Where kings had failed and armies had perished, the Dragon Slayers stood tall. Their battles were legendary—duels between titans that shook the earth and split the skies. They did not fear the dragons; they hunted them. And the dragons, for all their arrogance, began to fear in return.

  To the people of Orano, the Dragon Slayers became living miracles, saviors whose names were spoken with awe and reverence. They did not ask for wealth or power. They came for one reason: to bring the ancient wyrms to heel and end their tyranny. Each fallen dragon was a victory not just of arms, but of hope—a sign that the world need not bow to fire and fang.

  The war between dragons and slayers raged across the land like a storm without end. For four years, Orano was torn apart by fire and steel, by wings that darkened the skies and blades that shimmered with arcane vengeance. The Dragon Slayers, few though they were, became symbols of resistance and wrath, carving a path through ancient wyrms with strength that defied belief. And at the center of their rise stood one man—their leader.

  His name is lost to time, deliberately obscured in every record, spoken only in reverent whispers by those who study the old histories. He is known only as the Dragon King, not because he ruled dragons, but because he defied them.

  It is known that he stood alone against draconic forces that could reduce cities to ash. Nobody knows the extent of his abilities as he would fight with nothing but his blade, strength, and speed. His armor was said to be made from scales taken from the first dragon he ever slew. His strength rivaled that of titans, and his speed made him a blur of vengeance on the battlefield.

  As the war reached its crescendo, the dragons responded with greater fury. They fought in both dragon and humanoid forms with no holding back. They unleashed dragon fire indiscriminately, cast powerful spells, and tore through armies with their bare hands. Then, as if summoned by the fact they were at a stalemate which was turning into losing ground, she appeared—the Dragon Queen of the West.

  She descended from the volcanic peaks with a wingspan large enough to blot out the sun and magic that bent the air with her presence. In both her draconic and humanoid forms, she was the embodiment of elemental destruction—fire hotter than the sun coiled in her breath, and with a mere sweep of her wings, she unleashed the wings of a hurricane. Her eyes burned with immortal fury. She was beauty and annihilation intertwined, and even the most seasoned slayers fell before her like wheat to a scythe.

  And yet, the Dragon King did not retreat.

  When all others faltered, he rallied the races once more. From the far reaches of Orano, he called upon the greatest champions of their kind—spellcasters who wielded forbidden magicks, smiths who forged weapons from fallen stars, warriors whose names were etched into the bones of the world. Elves, dwarves, beastkin, mythics, and so many other mythics—he bound them to a single cause.

  But his greatest triumph of unity came not from magic, nor strategy, but diplomacy. The orcish clans, once powerful warriors who had turned inward during the early years of the war to protect their own territories, were known for their unshakable pride and unmatched ferocity. The Dragon King journeyed into their strongholds alone, facing trial after brutal trial to prove his worth. It is said he battled their strongest in single combat for three nights without rest before they finally relented.

  The orcs joined the war under his banner, their hulking strength, armored hides, and unrelenting rage becoming the iron hammer to the slayers’ sword. With their arrival, the tide of war began to turn. The united races surged across Orano like a wave of divine retribution, retaking cities, freeing any prisoners that they may find which was still very few, and driving dragons back for the first time in decades.

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  Still, the queen remained.

  She was not merely another foe to be conquered—she was the storm’s eye, the war’s beating heart. And so, the Dragon King challenged her alone.

  Their battle remains the greatest and most mysterious confrontation in Orano’s history.

  No mortal bore witness to its full fury. The moment they clashed, the land around them split open. Skies turned black. Rivers boiled. Entire mountain ranges were shattered by the force of their blows. Those as far as Darvon’s Iron Halls in the west and the torun islands in the far east claimed they could hear the distant rumble of their war. For three days and nights, the world trembled beneath their fury. Lightning turned red. Flames became blue. The very laws of magic warped under the weight of their power.

  And then—silence.

  When the dust finally settled and the smoke parted, the battlefield had become a vast crater, stretching miles in every direction. The land was scorched black, the skies eerily still, as if the world itself was holding its breath. Soldiers, slayers, and dragons alike looked on from afar as they ceased their fighting to see the outcome, unable to move, speak, or even comprehend what they were about to witness.

  From the heart of the crater, two figures emerged.

  The Dragon King, his armor cracked and scorched. The Dragon Queen, her scales dulled and wings tattered. They walked not as enemies, but hand in hand, eyes only for each other. Something had happened in that battle—some revelation, some exchange beyond power and pain. What began as a duel meant to decide the fate of Orano had become a union that no one could have foreseen.

  And then, just as suddenly as it had begun… the war ended.

  The dragons vanished. Not just the Western broods, but all of them were gone. One by one, they disappeared from the world, as if they had never existed. So too did the Dragon Slayers. The mysterious warriors who had once carved their names into legend simply faded into myth, their weapons buried, their legacies scattered.

  Only two remained.

  The Dragon King and the Dragon Queen, now forever changed. In time, they would found a kingdom together—Lothara, a sanctuary for mythics, mortals, and all who had suffered through the war. The King took no other title but ruler, and the Queen, never again donning her draconic form, walked among her people as a beacon of peace rather than power.

  Thus began a new era.

  One born not of conquest, but of love strong enough to end a war.

  Many years passed after the final clash that ended the Dragon War. Cities were rebuilt over the ruins of scorched stone, and forests gradually returned to the charred lands once scarred by fire and fang. But though the land mended, the hearts of men did not. The fear the dragons had once inspired never truly vanished—it merely shifted focus.

  With the dragons gone and the slayers vanished into myth, the lingering question remained: what if it happens again? The world had seen what magic could do—what mythics were capable of when united. To many human rulers, the answer was simple.

  Suppress them before they rise.

  And so, quietly at first, then brazenly, humanity turned on the very races who had once fought beside them. Mythics—beings of magic and ancient blood—were hunted across the realm. Not for crimes, but for existing. They were captured, chained, and stripped of their names. Enslaved, dissected, and sold. Some were farmed for their unique traits—horns ground into dust for alchemy, siren voices bottled and sold to nobles, beastkin muscle harvested like cattle. Others were simply butchered, their meat sold on black markets beneath the cities of men.

  Entire families vanished in the night.

  In time, the mythics fragmented. There were too many races, too many gifts, too many philosophies to unite under a single banner again. And so, they scattered—some forming their kingdoms of power, others banding into tight-knit clans, and many simply fending for their own. Distrust replaced unity. The old alliances faded like dreams at dawn.

  One group, however, responded differently.

  The orcs, long feared and hated even before the war, descended into savagery. With no unified enemy to fight, many clans turned to brutality and bloodlust. They raided settlements, burned villages, devoured the flesh of the fallen, and took what they pleased. Tales of their atrocities spread across the realm like wildfire. Even among other mythics, the orcs became monsters.

  And yet, rumors persisted. Whispers of orc clans who had rejected the blood frenzy—who wandered the wilds as nomads or settled into peaceful isolation far from the eyes of man. But such tales were dangerous to believe, and few dared to seek proof.

  As the world plunged deeper into fear, one kingdom stood apart.

  Lothara.

  A land carved from war, forged in the love between the Dragon King and the Queen of the Western Dragons. Under their rule, Lothara became more than a sanctuary—it became a symbol. A nation where mythics of every kind could find refuge. From orc to mermaid, centaur to dryad, arachne to beastkin, they were all welcomed—not as slaves, not as tools, but as citizens.

  Humans who rejected the cruelty of their kin found shelter there as well. Scholars, mages, farmers, craftsmen—those who saw the future in cooperation, not conquest. And through this mixing of blood, talent, and magic, Lothara thrived. Dwarves built wonders of stone and steam. Elves etched spells into the roots of trees. Sirens became popular entertainment. Arachne wove silk strong enough to halt a blade. Even the succubi formed their own brothels where they were treated with respect. And together, with the blessings of both dragon and slayer, they built a kingdom no army dared to test.

  It became the most powerful and resourceful nation in the known world.

  And yet, it stood alone.

  The human kingdoms feared it—feared the ones who ruled it, whose names had become legend. They remembered the Dragon King’s wrath and the Queen’s fire. They whispered of magic that could level continents, of a ruler who had never aged a day. And so, they did not strike.

  But neither did the mythic realms offer alliance. As grateful as they were for Lothara’s protection, they knew that standing beside the dragon-blooded kingdom was a risk they could not afford. The wrath of man was a fire they were not prepared to draw upon themselves. And so, Lothara stood isolated—respected, feared, but alone.

  Meanwhile, the world beyond its borders continued to rot.

  The hatred of mythics had become systemic. From that hatred rose new powers—The Hunters’ Guild, who tracked and captured rogue mythics for coin and sport; and worse still, the Slavers’ Guild, a vast and brutal organization that specialized in selling living mythics as labor, entertainment, or delicacy. They operated from city to city, bolstered by kings who turned blind eyes and nobles who filled their coffers with blood.

  Still, Lothara endured.

  Fifty years passed.

  The world changed. Kings rose and fell. Empires shifted. But the Dragon King and Queen remained as they had always been—ageless, eternal, and unyielding. Their presence alone kept the darkness at bay.

  And then, fifty years to the day after the final breath of the Dragon War, a child was born.

  His name was Joran.

  By the age of ten, Joran bore none of his father’s godlike strength, nor his mother’s searing fire. No wings sprouted from his back. No aura of divinity marked him.

  And yet, he was far from ordinary.

  He possessed a natural gift for magic—not through ritual or runes, but through instinct. He could command flame, bend light, reshape wind, all with elegant ease. His mana reserves were massive, deeper than any child should possess, deeper even than many trained mages. He could cast high-level spells one after another without exhaustion. But still, the deeper blood—his true inheritance—remained dormant.

  He became a symbol of unity in Lothara, a prince adored by the mythics and guarded by humans who had once feared them. But beyond the kingdom’s high walls, the world watched. Watched and waited.

  The skies darkened. The monsters of the world grew bolder. And somewhere in the shadows, something began to stir.

  Lothara remained untouched by the darkness. But even the strongest walls can crack.

  Until one day…

  The silence shattered.