CHAPTER 3- Founding Myth of Wyrmhold

The courtroom loomed before me, a cavernous hall of stone and shadow, its walls adorned with relics of a bygone era—each object a silent witness to the rise and fall of empires. Gilded mirrors reflected the flicker of torchlight, their surfaces etched with runes that whispered secrets of the ancients. Tapestries hung heavy with the weight of history, depicting battles fought in the name of light and the crushing weight of darkness.

And among these treasures, I once sat, lifeless and speculative, a pawn in a game I did not choose. .

I saw his back fade into the fog, which covered my eyes; at the end, even our last conversation ended up in an argument.

As my carriage rumbled along the cobblestone path, I gazed out at the sprawling fields of gold—corn and wheat swaying in the gentle breeze, their golden hues stretching to the horizon. The air was thick with the scent of spring, a fleeting reminder of life's resilience. I inhaled deeply, savoring the sweetness, as a smile crept onto my lips.

The journey to my new home was long, far from the towering spires of the Imperial Palace, but it was a journey I welcomed. For the first time in years, I felt the stirrings of hope.

The Wyrmhold Empire is a land divided, a tapestry woven from five distinct realms, each with its own legacy and lore.

To the north lies **Nordwyn**, a frozen expanse where winter reigns eternal, its people hardened by ice and snow.

To the south stretches **Lusora**, a land of endless opportunity, where fortunes are made and lost in the blink of an eye.

The west is home to **Velmoris**, a realm steeped in magic, where the very air hums with arcane energy.

To the east lies **Zenvara**, a land of warriors and martial arts, where the clash of steel is a language unto itself.

And at the heart of it all, the **Imperial Capital of Wyrmhold, Pyraxia**—the Land of Dragons.

But why, you might ask, is it called the Land of Dragons and not the Land of Humans and Dragons? Ah, that is a question that has haunted scholars and storytellers for millennia.

The answer lies buried in the founding myths, in the tales of a time when the world teetered on the brink of annihilation.

Six thousand five hundred years ago, the world was a battleground. The races—dragons, phoenixes, elves, archdemons, nagas, leviathans, djinn, fae, and humans—were pitted against one another, their unity shattered by the machinations of the Demon King, Beliar.

He was a being of unfathomable malice, a fallen angel or a djinn born of smokeless fire, depending on whom you ask. But all agree on one thing: he was cast out of Heaven for his defiance, and his heart burned with a singular desire—revenge.

Beliar's greatest weapon was his ability to corrupt. He preyed on the weaknesses of mortals, twisting their desires into instruments of destruction. Among humans, he found fertile ground. We were fragile and powerless compared to the other races, but we possessed a cunning that set us apart.

Some of us, driven by greed and ambition, turned to Beliar, offering him their worship in exchange for power. They became his apostles, wielding dark magic and curses so potent that even dragons, the mightiest of creatures, could not withstand them.

The world became a living hell. The skies burned, the seas turned to poison, and the earth cracked under the weight of despair. Beliar's influence spread like a plague, his followers growing in number with each passing day. It seemed as though his victory was inevitable.

But the heavens had not abandoned us. In the darkest hour, two souls emerged, chosen by the divine to lead the fight against the darkness. The first was **Shiloh**, the greatest Queen of Dragons, a being of unparalleled grace and power. She was the first to unlock the flow of natural mana within her, teaching her kind to wield magic in its purest form.

The second was **Ezekiel**, the founder of Wyrmhold, a human blessed with divine favor. He was the first to awaken the power of aura, a force that flowed through the veins of all living beings. Together, they united the races, forging an alliance that would stand against the tide of darkness.

The war that followed was long and bloody, a conflict that would come to be known as **The Cataclysm of Dawn and Dusk**. It was a war of light against shadow, of hope against despair. In the final battle, Shiloh and Ezekiel faced Beliar himself. The details of that confrontation are shrouded in mystery. Some say Shiloh succumbed to Beliar's temptations, while others claim her resolve never wavered. What is certain is that she sacrificed herself to seal Beliar in the depths of hell, her final incantation binding him for eternity. Ezekiel, wielding his blessed sword, struck the final blow, driving the blade into Beliar's chest.

With Beliar's defeat, the world began to heal. Under Ezekiel's leadership, humans and dragons rebuilt the shattered land, founding the Empire of Wyrmhold. The other races retreated to their own domains—elves to the deep forests, phoenixes and fae to distant lands, leviathans to the depths of the seas. Over time, the boundaries between species blurred, as unions between humans and other races gave rise to new generations, each inheriting fragments of their ancestors' power.

And yet, for all the tales of unity and triumph, the world remains a place of shadows. Beliar may be sealed, but his influence lingers. Devils in human flesh walk among us, their hearts as black as the void. The Imperial Capital, Pyraxia, stands as a testament to the dragons' sacrifice, but the truth of its name is a mystery lost to time. Dragons, once the guardians of our world, have vanished, their presence reduced to whispers and legends.

As for me, I have never seen a dragon, nor an elf, nor any of the other creatures of myth. But I have seen the vipers that slither through the halls of power, their venom dripping from every word. The **Court of Ignis**, with its fifty members, is a den of serpents, each more treacherous than the last. They are the inheritors of Beliar's legacy, proof that even in his absence, darkness finds a way to thrive.

And so, as I leave the Imperial Palace behind, I carry with me the weight of history—a history of the last 30 years where I became iron strong to protect myself, my land, my people, and my...

The road ahead is uncertain, but for the first time, I feel the stirrings of something long forgotten: hope.