Chapter 8: Origins I

The sun hung high, drenching the earth in warmth as Arten made his way down the winding dirt path, his basket swaying gently with each step. The scent of ripe fruit and fresh poultry mixed with the crisp air, carrying traces of the wildflowers that lined the edges of the trail. It was a quiet day, the kind he had always enjoyed. The rustling of trees, the distant chirping of birds, the soft crunch of his boots against the packed soil— everything was as it should be.

The village was far behind him now, its noise and stone buildings fading into memory. Out here, away from human eyes, the land stretched wide and free. No walls. No crowds. Just open space and the familiar path he had walked countless times. He adjusted the basket against his hip, feeling the slight shift of weight inside. The fruits were fresh, plucked just that morning, and the poultry had been prepared just the way they liked it. They would be pleased. Arten smiled to himself, rolling his shoulders as he walked.

The narrow path led Arten to a rocky hillside, where a natural cave entrance sat hidden between jagged stone formations. He stepped inside, the cool air wrapping around him like a refreshing breeze after the sun’s heat. The moment his presence was sensed, the cave stirred to life.

A pair of Aeris Zagons— sleek-bodied with feathered crests and piercing eyes— perked up from their resting spots near the cavern’s walls. Their wings stretched slightly, their light frames barely making a sound as they moved toward him. Not far behind, a few Saber Zagons— larger, more muscular creatures with powerful limbs and fanged maws— lifted their heads, their sharp eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. A deep rumbling purr echoed through the space.

Arten: I brought your favorites.

Carefully, he set the basket down, reaching in to pull out the ripe fruit, handing them to the Aeris Zagons first. They took the offerings gently, their sharp beaks piercing the soft flesh of the fruit with ease. Their winged bodies shivered slightly in delight at the sweet taste. For the Saber Zagons, he unwrapped the cooked poultry, placing it before them. The beasts sniffed the air once before diving in, their powerful jaws making quick work of the meal.

It was always like this— a routine of trust.

Arten let out a soft chuckle, brushing his hands clean. To anyone else, feeding Zagons would seem unthinkable— but to him, it was natural. They were his friends. His family. Then, from above, he felt it— a presence. At the very top of the tunnel, watching silently from a raised stone ledge, sat the King Zagon. Unlike the others, it was different— its form more humanoid, yet unmistakably Zagon. Its deep-set golden eyes gleamed under the dim light, its posture regal yet still. Sharp, curved horns extended back from its skull and body, though draped in dark, scaled armor, bore the faint outline of something more humanlike than beast. The Zagon said nothing. It only watched.

Arten met the Zagon’s gaze but did not speak. He simply turned back to his task, continuing to serve the Zagons their meal, just as he had always done. Even under the King Zagon’s piercing gaze, this was just another day.

King: Arten. It has been some time. How are things beyond this place?

Arten looked up, brushing some dust from his sleeve. The King’s voice always had a strange, calm precision to it— its words never wasted, each one chosen with purpose.

Arten: Same as always, really. People fighting. Leaders arguing. No one knows what they really want, but they sure love tearing each other apart over it.

The King tilted its head slightly, golden eyes unblinking.

King: Conflict. It is an unfortunate cycle of human nature. Tell me, who holds power now?

Arten: Depends where you go. The big names are still the big names.

King: Nations do not change. Only the faces that claim them.

Arten: Yeah. It’s all about control. Who has the most weapons, the biggest armies, the best way to scare the other guy into backing down.

The King remained silent for a moment, then slowly leaned forward, resting its clawed hands against its knees.

King: And the ones who suffer most?

Arten sighed, running a hand through his hair.

Arten: Same people as always. The ones who don’t have a say in anything. Farmers. Merchants. Families… my family…

The King observed him for a long moment.

King: You return often. Yet, you do not speak like the others. You see the war, but you do not seek to fight it.

Arten: Truthfully, I want to.

The King’s eyes flickered slightly, as if processing his words.

King: And you think you can make change?

Arten: No. That’s why I don’t participate. I just bring food to those that need it since I work in food shops.

The King gave a slow, deliberate nod.

King: You act in kindness to us, yet kindness has no value in war. Your actions are not without purpose, but they are without reward. You do it because you are kind.

Arten: Maybe.

Arten shrugged, leaning against the rocky wall of the cave.

Arten: You ever think humans overcomplicate everything?

King: Often. But overcomplication is a product of awareness. To understand too much is to burden oneself with infinite outcomes.

Arten: So, you’re saying we think too much?

King: I am saying that the mind seeks patterns. When the pattern is war, the outcome remains unchanged.

Arten exhaled, staring at the flickering light reflecting off the cave walls.

Arten: So, what’s the solution then?

King: There is none. Only understanding.

Arten shook his head, laughing softly.

Arten: You always talk like that. Like you’ve already figured out the answer, but you won’t say it.

The King tilted its head slightly, an unreadable expression settling over its features.

King: An answer spoken is an answer misunderstood.

Arten stared for a moment, then rolled his eyes.

Arten: See? That right there. That’s exactly what I mean.

The King made a soft sound, something between a breath and a distant hum, the closest thing to a laugh Arten had ever heard from him.

King: Then I shall remain silent and allow you to reach your own conclusions.

Arten shook his head but smiled anyway, looking at the peaceful scene of Zagons around him. Even with the world outside crumbling, here, at least, things made sense.

King: What do you think is the solution?

Arten hesitated.

Arten: You wouldn’t like it.

King: Explain.

Arten looked down.

Arten: Use you. All of you.

The King remained still, unblinking, its golden eyes locked onto Arten. For a moment, there was only silence. The other Zagons continued their meal, unaware of the weight of the conversation above them. Finally, the King leaned back, its claws resting lightly against the stone beneath it.

King: You are correct. I do not like your solution.

Its voice, steady and unwavering, carried no anger, only the quiet certainty of one who had lived long enough to see all possibilities unfold.

King: But explain.

Arten sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. He hadn’t expected the King to push for an answer. He had just said it, an unfiltered thought escaping his mouth before he could stop it. But now, with the King staring at him, waiting, he had to justify it.

Arten: Because it’s the only option that’s different.

The King said nothing, only watched.

Arten: These people are the definition of insanity. They try the same thing over and over expecting a different result. War isn’t going away. It never has because no one has tried something new. And as of right now, the balance of power is tipped. It’s all controlled by a handful of rulers who dictate who fights, who suffers, and who gets left behind. No one questions it. No one stops it. They just keep playing the same game over and over. At least with you, it could open a different possibility.

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head.

Arten: You… the Zagons… you’re not part of their game.

The King’s gaze didn’t waver.

King: And you believe that makes us a necessary piece to change it?

Arten: The moment you enter the battlefield, everything shifts. The armies of men can’t match your strength. They can’t control you. Not when you have…

He hesitated.

King: The Orb.

Arten tensed slightly and let out a slow breath, meeting the King’s gaze.

Arten: You said it holds power… Intergy…

The King did not confirm nor deny. He remained motionless, waiting.

Arten: And I know you keep it away. That’s why I said use you. Because the moment someone else gets their hands on The Orb, the choice isn’t yours anymore. You’re either used against your will… or you’re destroyed before you can ever become a threat.

The King stood. Arten stiffened as the Zagon slowly moved, reaching toward the stone ledge behind it. A moment passed. Then, the King lifted the top, revealing The Orb.

King: And this knowledge. You have not shared it.

Arten scoffed, crossing his arms.

Arten: Of course not. I’m not an idiot. If the wrong person finds out, it’s over.

King: And yet, you speak of war as though it is inevitable.

Arten sighed again.

Arten: Because it is. Even if The Orb is found, it won’t change anything. The wars will keep happening. People will keep killing each other for land, resources, power. It never stops. It never will stop.

The King studied him for a long moment before finally speaking.

King: Then why suggest a solution you do not believe in?

Arten leaned back against the wall of the cave, arms still crossed.

Arten: I don’t know. Maybe because, for once, I just wanted to feel like there was a real solution. Maybe because, deep down, I wish something would just end it all already.

A pause.

Arten: But I know it won’t. That’s just how things are.

The King watched him carefully.

King: And yet, despite this understanding, you return here. You bring food. You help those who do not ask for it.

Arten’s expression softened slightly.

Arten: Yeah, well… I still have my grandparents. They’re the only reason I don’t give up completely.

The King’s expression shifted.

King: A reason to continue, even in the face of futility.

Arten let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head.

Arten: Something like that.

The King gave a slow nod. The conversation was ending, but the weight of it still hung between them. Arten looked around at the Zagons, still eating, still living. Even in the shadows of war, even when the world outside was tearing itself apart, there was still this.

The day stretched on in peaceful routine. Arten stayed with the Zagons, tending to them as he always did. He moved between them, checking on the younger ones, ensuring the food was divided fairly. The Aeris Zagons perched lazily on the higher rock formations, occasionally ruffling their feathers before drifting into naps. The Saber Zagons, full from their meal, lounged near the cavern walls, their heavy tails swishing as they rested. It was calm. Familiar.

Outside the cave, the golden afternoon sun painted the sky in warm hues, its rays filtering through the trees that bordered the entrance. Arten sat among the Zagons, leaning back against a smooth stone as he listened to their quiet movements, their soft huffs and purrs as they relaxed in safety.

He stayed longer than usual. Maybe because he wanted to soak in the peace before returning to the world outside. Maybe because, deep down, he knew the world was changing, and these moments wouldn’t last forever. As the sun dipped lower, the sky shifting from burning orange to deep purple, Arten finally stretched his arms and stood.

Arten: Guess I should get going.

The King, who had been watching in silence, shifted slightly from its perch. Its golden eyes reflected the last traces of sunlight.

King: You stayed longer than usual.

Arten chuckled, brushing the dust from his clothes.

Arten: Yeah, well… didn’t feel like rushing back.

The King gave a slow nod, as if it understood something unspoken. Arten turned toward the Zagon, hesitating before speaking again.

Arten: Thanks for today. Sorry for… y’know… the heavy talk.

The King tilted its head slightly, gaze steady.

King: You assume I was burdened.

Arten shrugged.

Arten: You’re always so still when I talk like that. Makes it hard to tell if you’re actually into the conversation or just tolerating it.

King: I was listening. I always listen. Your thoughts, though weighted, were not unwelcome.

Arten let out a breath, rubbing the back of his neck.

King: You are a good person, Arten.

The words were spoken simply, with certainty. Arten froze for a second, absorbing those words.

Arten: Am I?

King: You believe goodness is measured by change. That only those who reshape the world are worthy of being called good. But you are mistaken.

Arten furrowed his brows, waiting.

King: Goodness is not found in the grandest acts, nor in the victories of men. It is not measured by who wins wars or builds empires. Those are illusions of power, not reflections of virtue.

The King’s golden eyes flickered in the dimming light.

King: A good man is not the one who changes the world. He is the one who refuses to be changed by it, turning pain into peace.

Arten blinked, feeling those words settle deep within him.

King: When the world demands cruelty, a good man remains kind. When war demands obedience, a good man still chooses. And when power demands sacrifice, a good man does not weigh lives like currency.

A slow exhale left Arten’s lips. The words clung to his thoughts like roots to stone.

King: You do not fight wars, yet you feed the hungry. You do not command armies, yet you show mercy. Even knowing you cannot change the world, you still care for it.

A pause.

King: That is what makes you good.

Arten stared at him for a moment with a half-smile.

Arten: You always say stuff like that.

The cave was quiet again, the sky now painted in the deep blues of night. The stars blinked to life overhead. Arten exhaled and turned toward the path.

Arten: Alright. I’ll see you again soon.

King: Take care.

Arten stepped forward, leaving the warmth of the cave behind, walking into the cool night air. Behind him, the King remained motionless, watching until Arten disappeared into the shadows of the forest. The night air was cool against Arten’s skin as he made his way down the familiar path home. The stars shimmered above him, and the sounds of the wild surrounded him, rustling leaves, distant chirps, the whisper of the wind through the trees. For a while, he simply walked, letting his mind drift. The King’s words still echoed in his head.

"A good man is not the one who changes the world. He is the one who refuses to be changed by it, turning pain into peace."

Arten let out a breath, shaking his head. He wasn’t some noble hero. He wasn’t leading a rebellion. He was just— A scent hit him. His steps slowed. The air carried something different now— something sharp, bitter, wrong. Smoke. Arten’s stomach dropped. His feet began moving faster, then faster still, until he was running. The smoke curled against the night sky, thick and dark, rising from the direction of his village.

Arten: No. No, no, no!

His legs burned as he pushed forward, sprinting up the final hill that overlooked his home. His chest tightened as the full sight came into view. His village was gone. Fires still burned, flickering against the shattered remains of wooden houses. Walls had been torn apart, reduced to splinters and rubble. The fields that once stretched green and full were blackened, trampled by something far larger than men. There were some voices of crying mothers and children. Arten’s breath caught in his throat.

Arten (crying): This can’t be real.

His legs moved before his mind could catch up, his body acting on instinct as he raced toward his home. The streets he had walked every day were barely recognizable. Scattered belongings, clothes, overturned baskets, broken tools were strewn across the ground. The well in the center of the village had been shattered, its stone cracked like something massive had struck it. The air was thick with smoke and something else, something metallic and raw. Blood. Arten nearly tripped as he ran, his mind screaming for answers, his heart pounding in his ears. His home was just ahead. The door was barely hanging on its hinges.

Arten: Please.

He stumbled forward, grabbing the frame, pushing inside. And then— He froze. The small wooden table where his grandparents always sat remained in place, untouched, unmoving, as if waiting for them to return. But they were already there, lying on the ground. Arten’s heart stopped. His grandparents’ lifeless bodies lay near the hearth, motionless. His grandfather, his hands still reaching forward, as if he had tried to crawl. His grandmother, her body slumped against the floor beside him. The warmth that once filled this home, the laughter, the gentle voices, the safety— was gone. A metallic scent filled the air. Blood pooled beneath them, soaking into the floor.

Arten’s vision blurred. He didn’t move. He couldn’t. His body refused to understand what his mind was screaming at him. This isn’t real. This isn’t real. This isn’t real. Then, suddenly, his knees buckled. A choked sob tore from his throat as he collapsed beside them. His hands trembled as they hovered over his grandmother’s arm, afraid to touch, afraid to confirm what he already knew. And then, it hit. The reality. The weight. The unbearable truth.

A sound broke from him, a wretched, gut-wrenching wail that shattered the silence. His fingers clutched at his grandfather’s still-warm sleeve, his entire body shaking as grief ripped through him.

Arten: NO— NO, PLEASE!!!

His voice cracked, raw and desperate, as if the sheer force of his anguish could pull them back. But they wouldn’t move. They wouldn’t wake up. They were gone. His sobs wracked his body, his forehead pressing against the wooden floor beside them. His chest burned, his heart pounded, but none of it mattered anymore. The world had taken them from him. And Arten had nothing left.

The next morning arrived slowly and without mercy. The sky, once thick with smoke, had cleared just enough for pale sunlight to bleed through. The air still carried the stench of burnt wood, blood, and decay, a cruel reminder that the nightmare had been real. Arten sat near the remnants of his home, knees pulled to his chest, his body unmoving, his mind empty. The weight of grief pressed into his bones, leaving him hollow. His eyes burned, but there were no more tears left to shed. He had cried until his body refused to anymore.

A small group of survivors had gathered near what remained of the village square. Not many. A handful of elders, a few scattered families, and injured men who had barely managed to crawl out of the wreckage. Not enough.

They were talking, but Arten didn’t approach. He just listened.

Villager 1: It wasn’t meant for us. The fight wasn’t ours.

Villager 2: It didn’t matter to them. We were in the way.

Villager 3: Revano and Luria… they didn’t care who got caught in the middle.

Villager 4: It happened so fast… we didn’t stand a chance.

Villager 1: They brought their fight here, but by the time we realized what was happening, it was already too late. Revano took the victory.

Villager 3: Soldiers. Explosions. Houses torn apart. We were just—just there.

Arten’s fingers clenched into his sleeves. He hadn’t even seen the battle. Only the aftermath. By the time he had returned, the war had already moved on, leaving behind only ashes and corpses. They hadn’t fought for this land. They had simply destroyed it in passing. His gaze drifted across the broken remnants of his village. The half-standing homes, the burned-out fields, the people who had nowhere left to go. All for nothing. His jaw tightened. His grief still sat heavy in his chest, but something colder was beginning to form underneath it. Something like hatred.

Arten stood among the wreckage, his hands shaking, but not from grief anymore. His body moved on instinct, his mind too clouded with rage to question his own actions. His eyes scanned the abandoned battlefield, the leftover weapons and supplies strewn across the dirt. Blades and shattered shields all left behind by soldiers who no longer needed them. But then, something else caught his eye. Among the discarded packs of Revano’s fallen soldiers were small, black pouches torn open, some still intact. He stepped closer, crouching down. The ground was stained, not with blood, but with dark, oily streaks seeping into the dirt. The air carried a faint, acrid scent, something unnatural, something burnt and metallic.

Arten (thinking): This isn’t just smoke.

He grabbed one of the pouches, turning it over in his hands. A small insignia was burned into the fabric, a mark of Revano’s military. He knew what these were. Poisoned explosives. They had been used in warfare to release toxic fumes, suffocating soldiers from the inside out. A slow, excruciating death. Arten stared at it. His fingers gripped the pouch tighter. A terrible, irreversible thought formed in his mind. He didn’t hesitate.

The house still smelled of smoke and blood, but Arten didn’t stop to grieve this time. He moved quickly, mechanically, gathering what little remained. A small sack. Some fruits, mostly untouched by the fires. More poultry. His hands were steady now. He grabbed a small blade from the table, slicing into the cooked poultry. The meat peeled away easily, leaving enough space for what came next. He reached into his pocket, pulling out the pouch. The liquid inside was thick, dark, almost ink-like as he poured it into the cuts of the poultry. The meat soaked it in, darkening slightly before settling. Arten stared at his work. He wrapped the food carefully, just as he always did. Nothing seemed different. No one would suspect a thing. He exhaled. His heart didn’t race. His hands didn’t shake. This wasn’t a mistake. This was a choice.

Arten left his village. He traveled same path he had walked countless times, but this time, his steps felt different. His bag was heavier, but not from the weight of food. His mind was quieter, but not at peace. Ahead, the entrance to the hidden valley waited for him. The familiar rocks. The trees swaying in the wind. The home of those Zagons he had fed, cared for, spoken to, and Arten walked toward them, carrying death in his hands.

The closer Arten got, the heavier his steps felt. The sky was painted in bright shades of white and blue, the sun dipping below the horizon. The same time he always arrived. The same path, the same bag slung over his shoulder, the same quiet breeze moving through the trees. But it wasn’t the same. His fingers tightened around the strap of his bag. For a brief second, he hesitated. His feet slowed.

Arten: They trust me.

The thought drifted through his mind like a whisper. A warning. His eyes glanced down to the bag at his side, to the wrapped food inside. He had prepared it the same way as always, only this time, he had made sure it wouldn’t nourish. It would kill. His breath hitched. For a moment, just a moment, he thought about turning back. But then, the smell of smoke clung to his memory, the sight of his home in ruins, the image of his grandparents lying lifeless on the floor. His grip on the strap tightened again. He kept walking. The familiar sound of excitement and movement met him as he stepped inside the cave.

Several Aeris Zagons perked up immediately, their sharp eyes flickering with surprise. They rustled their wings, tilting their heads, murmuring to one another in soft huffs and chuffs. A few Saber Zagons stood, their tails twitching in curiosity. One of them stepped forward. Arten forced a small smile, hoping it was enough to mask the weight in his chest. More murmurs rippled through the group. Some of the Aeris Zagons chirped in delight, stepping forward, eager for their share of food. Arten nodded and set the bag down, beginning the same ritual he had done so many times before. He pulled out the fruits, handing them to the Aeris Zagons first, his hands steady and controlled. Next, he unwrapped the poultry and placed it before the Saber Zagons. They sniffed once with a slight hesitation, but ate. Arten swallowed, his gaze flickering down for just a second. It was done. His fingers curled into his palms as he slowly stood. No turning back now.

The King Zagon watches. From above, golden eyes gleamed in the dim firelight. The King hadn’t spoken since Arten arrived. He had watched, unmoving, silent. Now, he finally stood.

King: You return too soon.

Arten forced a chuckle, scratching the back of his head, keeping his expression light.

Arten: What, am I on a schedule now?

The King didn’t answer. His gaze lingered. Calculating.

Arten (thinking): He knows something’s different.

His heartbeat picked up slightly, but he didn’t let it show.

Arten: I just… I don’t know. It felt right. Felt like home, I guess.

The King tilted his head slightly.

King: Home. Here with us.

Arten exhaled, stepping back against the cave wall, sliding down until he was sitting.

Arten: I mean, look at them. They don’t care what’s happening outside. They just live. They don’t scheme, they don’t fight over borders or power… I think I needed to be around something like that.

A moment of silence stretched between them.

King: You seek comfort in what is untouched by war.

Arten: Wouldn’t you?

The King slowly sat as well, still watching him.

King: That is not what you seek.

Arten tensed for a fraction of a second, hoping King didn’t know his true intentions.

King: You seek an answer.

Arten exhaled, resting his elbows on his knees.

Arten: Do you ever think it’s possible? A future without war? Without all the stupid things people do to each other?

The King considered this, his golden eyes flickering.

King: War is a cycle as you have established. One does not break it by simply wishing it gone.

Arten: Yeah. But maybe… maybe some people just stop fighting. Maybe that’s enough to start something different.

The King regarded him for a long moment.

Arten: Then what do you think is the answer?

The words left his lips before he even realized he had spoken them. Maybe he hadn’t meant to ask. Maybe some part of him didn’t want to hear it. The King remained still, golden eyes flickering like embers in the dim cave light.

King: You seek a solution that is grand. A single act, a single force, capable of ending the cycle.

Arten shifted, his jaw tightening slightly.

Arten: Isn’t that the point? If war doesn’t stop, then something has to make it stop.

The King slowly blinked. There was no judgment in its gaze, only quiet certainty.

King: There is no force greater than war itself. No army. No king. No nation that will ever be powerful enough to erase it.

Arten exhaled sharply, shaking his head.

Arten: So, what then? You just accept it? Let it happen over and over again?

The King tilted his head slightly, studying him.

King: You misunderstand. War is not ended by force. It is not ended by the destruction of one side or the victory of another. It is ended only when humans choose compassion over vengeance.

Arten’s chest tightened.

King: And yet, compassion is the most difficult skill for humans to learn.

Arten furrowed his brows.

Arten: You think compassion is a skill?

The King’s gaze remained locked on him.

King: It is not a gift. It is not a weakness. It is not something one is born with or without. It is learned. Cultivated. Sharpened. And because it is learned, it can also be ignored.

A pause.

King: Compassion is what humans must choose when every part of them demands retribution.

The cave was silent.

Arten’s fingers curled slightly against the stone floor.

Arten: You make it sound easy.

King: No. I make it sound difficult. Because it is.

Arten let out a slow breath, leaning back against the cave wall.

Arten: Then what do you do with people who don’t deserve compassion? What do you do with the ones who take and destroy and never stop?

The King didn’t answer immediately. Instead, it studied Arten for a long moment, the firelight casting long shadows against its sharp features.

King: Do you believe your enemy believes they are evil?

Arten stiffened.

King: Do you believe they see themselves as villains?

Arten swallowed, shaking his head.

Arten: I don’t care how they see themselves. It doesn’t change what they’ve done.

The King gave a slow nod.

King: And if the roles had been reversed? If they had suffered first, if their families had burned, if their world had been taken, would they not think the same of you?

Arten’s breath caught for a moment. He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The King’s voice remained steady, patient.

King: I do not defend them. I do not justify them. But I know this: war will not end when one side is dead. It will end when one side chooses to break the cycle.

A heavy silence settled between them. The weight of the words hung over Arten like a storm. For the first time since he had set foot in the cave, he felt something pressing against him, something suffocating. His hands, still resting on his knees, felt like they weren’t his own. The food had already been eaten. The King watched him carefully.

King: You wish to change the world, Arten, but have you decided what kind of man you wish to be in it?

Arten didn’t move. He felt like the walls were closing in. The conversation should have ended by now. It should have felt complete, but instead, the King’s words dug into him, latching onto something he had buried beneath his rage. For the first time since he had poisoned the food, Arten wasn’t sure of himself anymore.

A sudden, piercing scream tore through the cavern. The sound of roaring, panicked movement, and scraping claws followed, especially from the Saber Zagons, their deep bellows shaking the ground. Arten’s breath hitched, but he didn’t move. He kept his posture still, his expression carefully controlled. His eyes widened slightly, feigning confusion.

Arten (acting): What—what’s happening!?

The King’s head snapped toward the chaos below.

King: I will check.

Arten nodded, doing exactly what he had planned. He did not move. The King stepped away, descending from his perch to see what had happened. His long, clawed feet landed against the stone floor below, his heavy form moving toward the source of the commotion. This was Arten’s moment. He shifted slightly, eyes darting toward the heavy stone lid that covered The Orb. His muscles tensed. His pulse hammered against his ribs. He saw The King was far enough.

Arten (thinking): Now!

With a sharp inhale, he lunged, gripping the heavy stone with both hands, straining, pulling. It was heavier than he expected. His fingers dug into the cracks, his feet slipping against the rock beneath him. His arms burned as he tried to lift, sweat already forming on his forehead.

King (suddenly looking back): Arten—!

The King turned, its eyes flashing as it saw what was happening. Arten gritted his teeth, yanking harder. The stone shifted.

King (rushing back): STOP!

Arten ignored him, summoning every ounce of strength left in his body. And then the lid came free. With a final heave, Arten ripped it off, tossing it aside as his hands lunged forward— grasping The Orb.

The moment his fingers wrapped around it, something surged through him. A wave of Intergy flooded his body, crackling through his veins like lightning igniting in his bloodstream. His breath hitched, his vision warped, and in an instant, he understood. His mind expanded, as if thousands of threads unraveled and reformed at once. He could feel The Orb’s power. Feel the space around him. Feel every movement, every shift, every breath inside the cavern.

In that moment, he knew how to stop The King. The Zagon was mid-sprint, charging toward him. Arten simply reached out with his mind. A pulse of Intergy shot outward unseen, unfelt, but undeniable. The King’s body locked up instantly. Its legs skidded to a stop, its claws scraping deep into the stone, its golden eyes widening in shock. The King was frozen. Not by force. Not by weight. By command.

Arten (thinking): I… I can feel it…

The Orb pulsed in his grip, the black and white Intergy swirling inside like a living force. The King’s muscles trembled as he fought against the invisible hold.

King: What… have you done?

Arten’s breath was uneven, but his hands no longer shook. For the first time, he was in control. The King struggled against the invisible hold, its golden eyes burning with defiance.

King (growling): Arten… you do not understand what you wield.

Arten’s grip tightened around The Orb, its Intergy coursing through his veins, flowing like a force he was never meant to hold. The crackling of Intergy, both light and dark, flickered at his fingertips, cold and searing, opposing forces existing in perfect harmony within him. For the first time in his life, he felt limitless.

Arten (breathing heavy): I understand more than ever.

The King let out a guttural snarl, breaking free for just a second, lunging forward, claws aimed for Arten’s chest, but Arten was faster now. With a flick of his wrist, light surged forward, a blinding white flash, stopping the King mid-air. Before the Zagon could recover, darkness followed, tendrils of pure void wrapping around the King’s form, squeezing, consuming. The King let out a deep, guttural roar as the darkness crawled over him, cracking through his scales, pulling him apart piece by piece. His form began to break down, unraveling like dust in the wind, golden eyes still locked onto Arten in its final moments.

King (weakened): Arten… you are good… look deeper…

Arten didn’t flinch. With a final pulse of light and dark Intergy combined, he snapped his fingers, and the King was gone. The cavern fell into silence. Where the King had once stood, only dust remained. Arten stared at his hands, feeling the weight of what he had done. What he had become. But there was no regret.

Arten’s lips curled into a dark, satisfied smirk.

Arten (whispering): This world will burn for what it did.

The lands that had brought war, destruction, and suffering would face retribution. With his light and dark powers intertwined, Arten led his army of Zagons, tearing through the cities that had once thought themselves untouchable. The lands that had let his village burn. The leaders who had turned people into pawns in their wars. One by one, they fell. None could stand against The Orb. And when the dust finally settled, his village stood among the ruins, untouched, unchallenged. Krutone, once a village, had become the strongest land and Arten was its ruler.

A decade had passed since Arten’s rise to power, since he had torn through the nations that once dictated the fate of so many. The wars that had ravaged the lands had ended, not by treaties, not by negotiations, but by overwhelming force, but power alone had not defined the years that followed. Arten sealed the Zagons away, locking them within the very dimension he had once freed them from. The Void. He had used them to reshape the world, but in time, he realized their existence could not remain uncontrolled. They were never meant to coexist with humans, not anymore.

He turned his focus elsewhere. He found love. It was unexpected, an anomaly in a life that had been built on war and destruction. But she saw something in him that he had not recognized in himself, a man beyond his power, beyond his vengeance. They had children, and those children were unlike any others before them. Intergy flowed in their blood, coming from Arten, coming from The Orb. A fusion of human and the essence that had once only belonged to the Zagons.

A new generation had begun. Years passed, and those children grew. They had children of their own, and those children carried Intergy as well. Generation after generation, the power multiplied, embedding itself in the very fabric of humanity. It no longer belonged to the chosen few. It belonged to everyone, and so, the world shifted. The wars that had once been fought with swords and weapons were now waged with the very power that had once been unreachable. The power that had once belonged to Arten alone now ran through the veins of all who walked the land. Intergy had become humanity’s new birthright, and the world would never be the same again.