The Mordrinite War…
The outcome of the war had been clear. Mordran’s victory was certain and absolute to anyone who had been alive during the time when it had taken place.
Forrosa was left vulnerable with its champion in a comatose state and its king being the last one strong enough to put up a fight, and the southern union of kingdoms left ravaged by the occupation of opposing armies fighting over territory.
This left Duranell to be the last line of defense to face off against the alliance of Brunhildt, New Alfheim, and Mordran.
Every logical conclusion pointed to their inevitable defeat.
The Archdragon of the Abyss, the icon of death, would deliver the final crushing blow and ensure victory for the Mordran empire.
And yet…
Malthael, a being who struck fear into the hearts of gods, fell to the strength of one man. Beheaded by none other than Dean Smith, a no name soldier from a no name town who claimed greatness on the battlefield.
Raime, the Dragon God of Madness, and right hand to the King of Amaskia, bore witness to his father’s death.
Even though he saw it with his own eyes, his soul cried out in rage at the ludicrous event that had taken place before him.
It was impossible for his father, a being who stood at the pinnacle of strength, to be felled so easily.
He refused to accept reality for what it was.
He would rather succumb to the same kind of insanity that he inflicted on his enemies than accept seeing his father lose his life in such a mundane manner.
As a few days past since he had seen his father die, Raime remained standing upon the battlefield, putting himself between Mordran and Duranell’s armies as they marched in retaliation.
Raime roared at the sight of the tens of thousands of men and women still standing at the ready.
“YOU WILL NOT PASS WHILE I STILL STAND! YOU WILL TASTE MY WRATH!” he shouted as he planted his feet deep into the ground and spread out his arms as the blades within cut through the air and burned with yellow flames. A twisted spiraling mark of fire spread across his body as he readied for battle.
Many warriors stood before him, ready to risk their lives to get past him. The greatest of these warriors, Dean Smith, Camilla Lykos, Lysandra Vulcara, Cole Mohr, Sir Charles Tywinn, and many others who would be lauded as heroes.
Raime would face all of them down.
But in the end, neither side would claim victory and he would be left buried under a mountain of swords embedded in his flesh as his flames of madness burned everything around him.
He was left wounded and unable to kill his enemies, yet they were unable to get close enough to deal the final blow against him.
And so, Raime was left to rot in that abandoned battlefield that would be named The Sword Tomb of Madness.
Bleeding half to death and having most of his organs punctured every day, he remained in that state for the next fifteen years, until one day…
The roar that shook the world rang out from the corpse of Malthael. His father had risen from the grave for one last battle, it roused Raime from his half-dead state and gave him the strength to break free of his prison.
The swords in his flesh melted at the strength of newly burning flames and his wounds healed in time for him to witness his father facing off against an impossibly powerful combatant.
A man by the name of Marcus Wright.
Yet his hopes were stomped on as soon as they had seeped into his heart as he watched his father die in front of him once again.
As Marcus stood atop his father’s head, ready to strike him down, Raime heard a roar leave his lips unlike anything he had ever known. It resonated within his very soul and terrified him.
Ever since that day, he had been meticulously researching everything he could find about that man. Yet try as he might, there was next to no information about him at all.
He was like a ghost of battle, appearing out of no where to strike down the enemy in his path.
Raime prayed for the day that he would meet that same man in battle and bring honor to his father by besting him in combat.
Now…
Sitting ever patiently in the waiting room for his moment to come where he would crush his enemies, he heard the roar of the crowd as the victor was decided.
He stood up from the bench he was sitting on and made his way into the hallway.
Walking opposite of him was an absolutely massive man wearing heavy plated armor.
He looked to be seven feet tall, or perhaps a little taller, with a greatsword nearly as long as he was strapped to his back along with his shield.
When he pulled his helmet off of his shoulders Raime’s eyes narrowed in recognition and anger.
Sir Charles the Giant stood before him. His face was square and wrinkled from age, with a neatly trimmed beard and mustache, and with dark green eyes. His hair was a faded blonde color with a flat top cut.
A purely human man with no talent for magic and no academic aspirations to learn sorcery. A man whose strength was epitomized by little more than his flesh and bones, but was so great that it rendered the earth beneath his feet into dust.
In terms of physical prowess, he was nearly a match for Raime’s own draconic physiology.
Sir Charles’ voice was deep and rumbled like that of a rock slide falling down a cliff side, “I must admit, it was a surprise to hear of your participation in this tournament when I read the list of names, yet I cannot say I am displeased to see my old adversary once again.”
“You are not displeased to see me? Why is that?” Raime asked, mildly confused.
“Because it means that you and I can now have our fated rematch since our last battle left us at a standstill over who is stronger,” he said with a smirk on his face.
With a furious look on his face, Raime stood up against Sir Charles and looked him in the eyes as he asked, “Are you truly claiming to be my equal? To assume that you could have defeated me in battle that day? How foolish.”
Sir Charles’ eyes widened as if a sudden realization had hit him, “What? Oh no. Of course I couldn’t have beaten you all on my own. I claim not to have the strength to fight you at the peak of your power. I only wonder if the strength of your flesh is greater than my own. Are you not curious?”
As much as it angered Raime to admit it to himself, he was curious. With Sir Charles’ physical strength alone, he could split the clouds apart.
“Perhaps…,” he said reluctantly.
A massive grin spread across Sir Charles’ face as he folded his arms.
“Then perhaps when you make it to the next match, you and I shall have a gentleman’s brawl. No armor or weapons will be used save for our bare hands. What say you?” he asked.
Raime stared into the man’s eyes but detected no lies in his words.
He then smirked and said, “I will entertain the thought. Until then, I need to crush my next opponent.”
As the two warriors passed each other by, Sir Charles waved his hand to him in a shockingly kind act of farewell.
Yet Raime gritted his teeth at the gesture.
There was no need for kindness on the battlefield, only strength and honor.
When he finally left the hallway and stepped onto the arena floor, he was met with the roaring sound of the crowd yelling and cursing his name.
They obviously remembered him very well for his role during the Mordrinite War.
Their angered words did not bother him as it was an expected reaction from such people. If not for his search to fight Marcus, then he likely never would have decided to participate, and would have left these people alone.
It wasn’t until a random piece of fruit hit the side of his head did he feel angered by their jeering at him. His eyes traced the juice that slid down the side of his cheek with annoying stickiness.
In the very next moment, a dagger was thrown from the audience as it flew towards his neck only for Raime to catch it in his fingers before it could land.
He then turned his head to look in the direction of the person who threw it and crushed it to dust in his hands.
His eyes landed on a man with his arm pitched forward whose face was set in anger but quickly turned to fear as he was spotted instantly.
Raime bared his fangs at him and roared with the full intensity that his lungs would allow, “YOU DARE RAISE A HAND TO ME! DO YOU FORGET THAT I AM A GOD! I AM RAIME, THE DRAGON GOD OF MADNESS.”
Everyone in the front row above Raime covered their ears in pain as Raime’s voice burst their eardrums.
“SILENCE YOUR VOICES, YOUR CRIES OF ANGER AND SORROW! I CARE NOT FOR ANY OF THEM! IF YOU WISH TO TAKE REVENGE UPON ME, DO IT HERE SO THAT I MAY KILL YOU WHERE YOU STAND!”
He released the blades within his arms and yellow flames erupted all over his body as he roared back at them.
Everyone in the audience fell silent at his display out of fear that he might actually go through with what he said.
Truthfully, he just wanted them all to be quiet as they were grating at his patience. He had no interest in killing them, it would be too much work.
Now that he was satisfied with the quiet atmosphere of the arena, he looked forward towards his opponent…
...and there was no one there.
“W-where is my enemy?” he muttered to himself as he waited patiently for his opponent to step forward only to be left standing around like a fool.
The announcer’s voice then spoke as he said, “It pains me to say this but it seems that Raime’s opponent for this match has decided to opt out of fighting this year. The reputation of the God of Madness speaks volumes, such that few people would ever want to engage him voluntarily. Hopefully the next round is far more eventful.”
Raime clicked his tongue in dissatisfaction as he turned around and entered the hallway once again.
“What a waste of my time…,” the god muttered as he passed by a woman with dark red hair and brown skin who paid no attention to him.
Perhaps she might have better look finding someone to fight who wasn’t a complete coward.
But as Raime passed by the waiting room on the way to exiting the arena, he saw the man he was looking for.
He saw a man with pitch black hair, bright blue eyes, easily a foot shorter than Raime himself but not without an impressive physical build for his size.
At the man’s hip was a holster carrying an unusual weapon, the likes of which he had never seen before.
Yet strapped to his back was-
Upon laying eyes on that weapon, Raime’s breath was caught in his throat and his eyes went wide in horror.
As a dragon god, he was allowed the ability to inherit the knowledge and wisdom of those born before him. However, his father Malthael was among the first dragons to ever exist according to the memories allowed to him. It didn’t mean much for the amount of diversity of ones memories, yet his age contributed plenty to stockpiling memories.
Within Malthael’s memories granted to his son, therein lied that of a weapon wielded by a being of such great strength that all creation bowed before it.
The sword Light Taker, once wielded by Lucifer, the great progenitor of everything, now rested in the hands of the man named Marcus Wright.
Upon stumbling across such an earth shattering revelation, all Raime could do was smile in ecstasy and wild anticipation of the battle that would take place between them.