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Chapter 001 | And Hence, It Begins
🕑 Added 2025-03-25 18:08:18 +0000 UTCTable Of Contents | Next Chapter
In the beginning, as he drifted through the endless void, long before time was a concept, lived a Dragon named Bolomere.
Bolomere knew nothing of his origins, but the longer he existed, the stronger he became.
All around him stretched a vast, indifferent void. It neither welcomed nor rejected him; it simply existed without company. Bolomere wandered alone in that silent nothingness for ages until, at last, he decided to act.
[In my name, I will create a vibrant world teeming with joy and life!]
Bolomere reached into the darkness and shaped a land out of nothing. He named this new land Gangnea—a continent floating freely in a cocoon mist, safely sheltered from the endless void.
Bolomere then tasked himself with bringing life, harnessing the Wood Laws of the Void, and condensing them into an authority, a seed with limitless vitality.
Wood of Authority—World Tree!
He planted it in the heart of the Gangnea Continent, watching with amusement as the World Tree took root. Its vitality began to spread, creating rich forests that sprouted into life.
The forests flourished, and from the trees and the sunlight, the first people emerged—The Wood Race of Elves!
The children of the woods, the Elves, lived long lives and remained duty-bound to flourish the land. Bolomere watched his creation—the Gangnea Continent—grow in size as the Elven Race wielded authority over Wood—to create and control it. They expanded the forests, nurtured the trees, deepened the roots, and strengthened the trunks.
For a million years, the world remained peaceful and steady. Bolomere—the Dragon who had created this world—was satisfied and rested for a long time, content with what he had made. But when he eventually woke, Bolomere saw that Gangnea had grown too vast for the Elves to tend alone.
[The world needs more hands.]
From the depths of the voice, Bolomere harnessed the Metal Laws and forged a thumping heart, burying it deep within the Gangnea Continent.
Metal of Authority—Earthen Heart!
The Earthen Heart thumped with a pulse of its own, slowly changing the soil in its surroundings into metal and imbuing it with the pulse of life. In time, after being granted vitality from the World Tree, the first of these new beings emerged from beneath the earth—creatures forged from earth and ore.
The Metal Race of Dwarves!
Where the Elves nurtured the world, the Dwarves strengthened it. The Dwarves delved deep into mountains, shaping stone and metal and making the land firm and unyielding. Bolomere was pleased with the strength and balance they brought to his world.
The Dragon's satisfaction knew no bounds as he reached into the void again and again to pull out new essences and form a new life. In this way, he created sixteen races, each one different and each adding something unique to Gangnea. The final race he brought forth came from the essence of fire itself—people who were quick, bright, and restless.
The Fire Race of Humans!
At first, humans were kind and compassionate. They understood the other races, and even though their lives were short, they were remarkably wise—nearly as wise as the Elves, who had lived for a million years.
Satisfied, Bolomere felt nothing was undone and entered a long era of slumber without any worries.
But Bolomere was old by then, and he should have known better. The fire never stays quiet for long, and a race as restless as humans could not exist without consequences.
Greed emerged while desire manifested itself like a plague. Wars became frequent, and the Race of Humans exploded with the volatility of fire, engulfing everyone in a sea of flames. They began to see only what they could take instead of what they could give. And that was the beginning of the end.
An introductory note to the World Lore—The Oldest of the Elven Kind.
⊱⨷⟐⨳⩥⚔⩤⨳⟐⨷⊰
T'Hara Forest!
The thick and choking scent of burning wood filled the air. Smoke curled between the towering trees, their once-vibrant leaves curling into black husks. T'Hara Forest, the heart of the Elven homeland, was burning.
Located in the center of the Gangnea Continent, it spanned almost four million square kilometers in area and served as the home to the Elven Race.
For centuries, this land had been a safe haven, nurtured by the roots of the World Tree, the heart of the Gangnea Continent. But now, it was scarred by fire and choked by war. A massive, three-kilometer-wide path of ash cut through the once-thriving forest, burned and torn apart by flame. At the end of the path stood the World Tree itself—a towering giant stretching 8.8 kilometers into the sky, the very foundation of the Elven Race.
At its foot was Tthranya, the Elven Capital City, currently aflame as an army of humans sauntered through it. Arrows rained upon them, killing a few but mainly fuelling the fire they launched, consuming the city.
“Damn Humans!” An Elven soldier, his body laced with glowing veins of green, used his authority to raise a wooden ballista from the ground and fired. The spear of timber skewered four human soldiers before they could react. He barely had time to reload before fire consumed him, reducing his form to ash.
The human army marched forward in tight formation, protected by a wall of fire. Arrows that should have cut them down turned to ash before they could land. They outnumbered the Elves forty to one, and the battle was consuming the forest, leaving nothing but destruction in its wake.
“You are making a mistake, Humans,” A steady voice resounded through the battlefield, “A grave one.”
The Elven King remained motionless on his throne, woven from the living roots of the World Tree. His expression remained composed, but beneath them simmered a fury as deep as the earth.
He had seen the first humans wander into elven lands—lost, awestruck, humbled by the vastness of the forest. He had watched their cities rise, their empires expand, and their wars carve deep wounds into the world. And now, they had come to his doorstep, bearing wrath of fire, poised to strike at the heart of his people’s home.
Leading them was the Human King, a man in his sixties. His crown was produced from flames that burned eternally. His footsteps echoed as he sauntered through the wooden palace, leaving behind blackened scorch marks.
“A mistake?” He repeated, tilting his head slightly. “No. This was always inevitable.”
"The humans have run out of land to live on, " he continued, "My people have starved, waiting for salvation that would never come. We have outgrown the land you have permitted us. We have outgrown your mercy."
The Elven King snorted, his voice thick with disdain. “Don’t shift the blame onto us,” he said, his eyes dark with centuries of frustration. “I warned the Human Race—time and time again—not to let their numbers spiral out of control. You’ve stripped your land bare, exhausted your resources, and now you come here to take what isn’t yours. Even when a wise Human King heeds my warnings, it never lasts. The moment the crown changes hands, the cycle begins anew.”
The Human King chuckled, unfazed. “You may have a point,” he admitted with a shrug. “But so what?”
With a flick of his wrist, flames erupted from his very being, a violent inferno that engulfed the Elven Palace instantly.
“The Elves are no longer the center of the world,” he declared, his voice ringing over the roaring flames. “From now on, humanity will dictate the laws of this world!”
A branch of wood cut through the fire.
“Not on my watch.”
The Elven King emerged from the sea of flames, and the burn marks vanished in seconds as his body regenerated.
With a flick of his wrist, the ground beneath them trembled. Thick roots burst from the earth, twisting and stabbing toward the Human King like spears.
Boom!
Explosions rippled through the battlefield as the Human King countered, carpeting the ground with firebombs.
"Hahahaha!" The Human King's laughter echoed through the burning ruins. Flames thrust out of his legs as he hovered in the sky. He then aimed the fire like a geyser and torched everything on the ground, including the Elven King and his attacks, "You're strong, Elven King. But your wood is no match for my fire!"
The Elven King gritted his teeth. Ginormous wooden structures sprouted from the ground and blocked the geyser of fire. Watching everything burn while hiding underneath a dome, the Elven King slumped.
Pain shot through the Elven King’s body—a raw, searing agony he had not felt in centuries. His legs burned to the bone and healed spontaneously after. But the relentless fire came surging in, ever increasing.
It wasn’t enough.
His trembling hand pressed into the ash beneath him. It was warm and soft. The remnants of his people, his home, scattered like dust on the wind.
A faint touch.
A thin root tendril, barely alive, curled against his palm.
He inhaled sharply, his vision blurring. Slowly, reverently, he patted the root, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Forgive me, Mother.”
The Elven King took a deep, shuddering breath. His body ached, his spirit wavered, but still, he straightened.
“I have failed you,” he murmured.
His pride, so unshakable for centuries, now faltered.
“Your son could not serve you well.”
His fingers tightened around the root, feeling its pulse. A final connection to the lifeblood of his people. His people were now nothing but embers in the wind.
“I know you have the power,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with desperation. “Our ways—our longevity-bound existence—will never overcome the relentless tide of the Humans. They are fleeting, yet they burn brighter than we ever could.”
He bowed his head, forehead pressing into the ashen ground.
“So… I beseech you. Only fire can fight fire.”
Silence.
And then—
A voice.
Vast. Ancient. Patient. It echoed within him, threading through his very Soul.
[I hear you, My Child.]
The Elven King's words stirred the World Tree. The roots of the World Tree dug deeper into the Gangnea Continent. A single tendril expanded outward and slithered through the voids, eventually reaching a blue planet to suck in the souls of every deceased human.
Back in Tthranya, the World Tree responded.
Translucent sacks grew from its branches, each holding a baby Elf floating in a strange liquid. These pods took twenty years to fully form before a child could be born.
But one sack was different.
A stolen soul was placed inside. The liquid rippled. The Elf inside twitched.
His eyes snapped open.
The first thing he saw was fire.
Beyond the pod’s barrier, flames burned through the ruins. And in the center of it all, an Elf stood—his body charring, healing, and burning again, over and over.
The Elven King would soon turn to ash.
'Is this a…dream? I remember having dinner with my family…' The baby Elf thought in a daze, feeling like it was in a nightmare as it watched the Elf King burning relentlessly.
[You have died, my Child. I will now reincarnate you as my Child, an Elf!]
'Wait! Wait! WAIT!' The baby Elf thought in a flurry, 'I died? What nonsense is that? I was having dinner with my family just moments ago…!'
As if ignoring its cries, the World Tree's words continued to echo in the Soul's consciousness.
[In this world, the Authority of every Race can be expressed numerically. It will serve you well since, appearance-wise, it resembles the status window you're familiar with.]
'Hello? Is this a prank? Hey!' The baby Elf cried out loud, trying to speak but unable to. Its body didn't move, forced to helplessly listen to the World Tree's voice, 'How do I even know this voice is the World Tree's? Shit! Nothing makes sense!'
[Dark times await the Elven Race, my Child. Fight and regain our honor. Do so, and I'll reincarnate you on Earth and grant one wish of yours.]
'What kind of… sick joke is this?' The baby Elf stared blankly, rage surging through its being as it witnessed the Elven King burn nonstop for three days, swarmed by an army of humans before he collapsed as a charred corpse.
'I feel tired…I should get some sleep…!' The baby Elf thought, 'This is just a nightmare. I probably drank too much yesterday. Everything will be back to usual once I am awake.'
⊱⨷⟐⨳⩥⚔⩤⨳⟐⨷⊰
Year 0 marked the Elven Race's downfall and the Human Race's rise. All calendars were rewritten from that moment to center around humanity, erasing the old records.
Tthranya, once the proud capital of the Elves, fell under human control. The history of the Elven people was burned, their survivors executed, and their once-great legacy wiped from existence. Newborn Elves were taken as slaves, raised under human rule, and domesticated for various purposes. What followed was an era of brutal change—one defined by bloodshed and oppression.
The Gangnea Continent’s calendar was based on the Moons in the sky. Each year began with a single Moon, marking the first month. As time passed, more Moons appeared, reaching a peak of eight before fading again. Each month lasted forty-two days, shaping the rhythm of life in this new age.
Year 19—34th Day of the 8th Moon!
The air was thick with the scent of wet wood and decay. A team of human soldiers climbed the spiraling wooden staircase wrapped around the colossal trunk of the World Tree, their boots thudding against the aged planks.
One by one, they stopped beside the hanging sacks—translucent cocoons where newborn Elves incubated. Their dull glow pulsed faintly as if resisting the inevitable.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Gloved hands rapped against the sacks in a slow, deliberate rhythm. The hollow knocks echoed in the silence, swallowed by the dense forest.
And then—
[Time to wake up, my Child. Pinaka.]
The voice rippled through the sack, reverberating deep within the mind of the one inside.
The membrane ruptured.
A sharp inhale reverberated as a small, lean body tumbled onto the stairs, coated in the gelatinous fluid that had sustained him for years. Olive-green hair clung to his damp skin, his pointed ears twitching as the cold air sent a shiver down his spine.
His mouth opened—a cry of confusion, of panic—but before he could process what was happening, rough hands grabbed him.
“Sack it.”
The command was short. Absolute.
Strong hands yanked his arms. A burlap sack swallowed him whole, plunging him into muffled darkness.
Then—light.
The sack was torn open, and his body was dragged out, feet slipping against cold stone. A bucket of water was splashed on the body.
Crack!
A whip lashed across his back, burning white-hot pain into his flesh.
He gasped and stumbled.
“Run.”
He ran.
"Teach that little brat some discipline, Mahnaka! If it’s not obedient by dawn, you’ll take the lashes instead!" A harsh, arrogant voice rang out from the corridor.
The Elven child skidded to a stop when it saw another elf walking towards it. It was slightly taller, probably a few years older. One of its eyes was missing, and an X-shaped scar stretched across the bridge of its nose.
It held out its right hand—missing a thumb. "Welcome to hell, little brother. Name’s Mahnaka, the resident slave of this place."
The newborn Elven child’s head pounded, a wave of memories hitting him all at once. His breath hitched as realization struck. ‘This isn't a dream? Fuck!’
Mahnaka waited patiently, his hand still outstretched. "Did the World Tree give you a name?"
"Pinaka," the Child muttered, hesitantly gripping Mahnaka’s arm as he pulled himself up. His gaze drifted to Mahnaka’s missing thumb, and curiosity got the better of him. "What…happened?"
Mahnaka’s eyes softened as he stared at Pinaka’s intact thumb. "It’s beautiful," he murmured. "You’re going to be a great archer one day—I can tell just by looking at it." His voice grew thick with emotion. "Cherish it while you still can. Because…"
“AARGHHH!”
An hour later, Pinaka was strapped tightly to a cold stone table, a gag stuffed in his mouth. A middle-aged man wearing a stained apron raised a heavy cleaver above his head. With a sickening force, he brought it down.
The right thumb flew off.
“A slave doesn’t need a bow,” the man muttered, flashing his gold-rimmed buck teeth as he chuckled. He grabbed Pinaka’s left hand, fingers twitching in resistance. Tightening the strap, he pressed the blade against the skin and—
“Don’t be scared now,” he cooed, forcing the thumb back, ready to slice. “Just think of it like pulling out a strand of hair…”
"GAHHHH!"
“GAHHHH!”
TCH!
Pinaka flinched, jerking the table. The cleaver slipped, making the man miss his mark.
"Now look what you’ve done," he clicked his tongue in annoyance.
He studied the half-severed thumb, clicking his tongue. "I have to cut it again," he sighed, shaking his head. Then, reassuringly, he continued, "Now, don’t move this time. Good… harness that fear… stay still… That’s it… that’s… IT!"
CLANG!
Pinaka’s vision blurred as waves of pain crashed into him. Blood poured freely, turning his world hazy. His breath hitched. His mind screamed.
‘This is… hell!’
His thoughts spiraled as his body trembled from blood loss.
‘Fucking HELL!’
I wanted to believe this was a dream… fuck that—a nightmare.
His tired eyes locked onto the middle-aged man, who casually picked up the severed thumbs and dropped them into a glass jar. He swirled the container, admiring his work like a fine specimen.
Pinaka’s lips twitched.
A twisted smile stretched across his face.
‘Elf? World Tree? Fate?’
‘I don’t give a damn!’
His fingers curled into weak fists, his bloodied hands shaking.
‘You took my thumbs?’
‘Now, it’s personal.’
Gangnea Daily – Article #1
The World Tree stands at a staggering 8.8 kilometers in height (5.468 Freedom Units for the Bald Eagles out there), with its roots plunging to an average depth of 74 kilometers (or 46 miles for our imperial-measuring overlords).
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