Fabricated history

Chapter 2 : fabricated history

There was a time when humanity was not alone in its struggle for survival. Mythical beasts—serpents that coiled around mountains, hydras that ruled the seas, and dragons whose wings cast entire cities into shadow—roamed the world. They were not humanity's enemies, nor its allies, but a force of nature, indifferent yet bound to the balance of the world.

Then came the demons.

They were not mere monsters. They did not rage blindly or hunger thoughtlessly. They were something far worse—intelligent, calculating, patient. They did not conquer with fire and blood alone but with whispers and deception. They wove themselves into the fabric of the world, gaining trust, planting seeds of ruin, until the day they struck.

When the war began, humanity believed they were prepared. But the first to fall were not humans.

The demons turned on their closest threats—the mythical beasts. Within a single week, the sky lost its dragons, the seas their kings, the mountains their watchers. The world grew smaller, emptier, and then the demons turned their fangs toward humanity.

In their darkest hour, humanity found hope.

Four heroes rose from the ashes, their names etched into legend:

The Elven Scholar, bearer of the Divine Mythos Arcana—a power so ancient that even the gods trembled before its name.

The Dragon-Knight, bonded to Zieshchinzuras, a force so immense that reality itself bent in its presence.

The Forgotten Deity, wielder of an ability so feared that even the knowledge of its existence had been erased.

The Mortal King, a mere human who defied divinity itself, wielding Omnimancy—the magic of limitless potential, bound only by imagination.

They were the Grand Alliance's final hope. Their war lasted thirteen days and thirteen nights. But even they could not win.

For the demons had done the unthinkable.

They fused themselves with weapons of an unknown future, evolving beyond nightmares into something far worse—monsters that transcended flesh and time. A single demon could slaughter a hundred thousand men. No blade could pierce them. No fire could burn them.

And yet, the heroes did not kneel.

On the final night, with their bodies broken and the battlefield drenched in red, they enacted their last plan.

The moon burned in a ethereal blue.

The demons were sealed.

But not all. Some were not bound. Some had already slithered too deep into the world. And so, though the war was over, the blood never stopped flowing.

The Grand Alliance fell.

The other races, already weakened, could not withstand the aftermath. One by one, they perished, until only humanity remained—clutching its tattered victory, standing alone atop a ruined world.

Then, they arrived.

People who called themselves the God-Empresses.

They wielded the same power that had once belonged to the demons—bioweapons fused with their very flesh, an inheritance from an era of terror. Yet humanity did not question. They did not fear. They saw strength, and they obeyed.

They promised them salvation.

They abandoned their old ways, forsook Omnimancy, discarded the relics of the past, and embraced the new. They did not notice the madness creeping into their veins, warping with each generation. What once was wisdom became zealotry. What once was power became chains.

The cycle repeated.

New rulers rose, each proclaiming themselves saviors. Each promising peace, yet delivering war. The past was buried, rewritten, forgotten.

But the truth does not die.

Some still remember. The old, the exiled, the mad—whispering of things long lost. They say the seal is weakening. They say the Devil will return. That when the next super blue moon arrives, the Age of Terror will begin anew.

And this time, a question arose…

"Will there be any hero, left to fight back?"

Kael scratched his head, shifting uncomfortably. "Uh… old man, are you sure this is the kind of thing you should be telling kids as bedtime stories?"

The elderly man chuckled, his voice rasping with age. "Because I'm old, no one takes my tales seriously anymore. Once, I was among the greatest historical writers. My words shaped history. People gathered just to watch me write. But now? Now, I'm just another relic of a bygone era. They call my works outdated, my mind unfit for the new age of history."

Sylas sighed. " Mister isles, We should get going. We still have work to finish before sunset. If you run out of medicine, contact the cleric or the herbalist."

As they turned to leave, Kael waved. "We'll be back next week. Tell us another story then!"

The market bustled with life as they walked through its winding streets. Kael turned to Sylas, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Do you think what the old man said might have been true?"

Sylas stopped, looking Kael in the eye. "The man lost his family in a wildfire. Ever since then, he's been losing his mind. And if demons were truly lurking, given how far we are from the capital, don't you think we would've seen one by now?"

Kael nodded slowly. "Yeah, I guess I was just overthinking it."

As they entered the cleric's shop, a man with messy black hair greeted them.

Kael grinned. "Missed us already? Don't worry—we're back!"

The cleric ignored him, his gaze settling on Sylas. "What brings you here? If it's another experiment, I'll have to refuse. You break too much equipment."

Sylas shook his head. "Not this time, Escelius. We completed your request, so now I need a favor."

Escelius raised an eyebrow. "I expected that to take longer. That old man does love to talk."

Sylas didn't argue. "Can I have some Ahora medicine?"

Escelius frowned. "Isn't that used to treat Vitric Cairne? The flesh-melting plague? No one has encountered a case in over seven years. If someone is infected, you should go straight to a priest."

"No one has it," Sylas reassured him. "It's just for safety."

Escelius sighed, gesturing toward a cabinet. "Kael, open that."

Kael did as he was told, revealing a small box filled with vials of thick, brown liquid. He grimaced. "This is medicine? It looks disgusting."

Escelius ignored him, handing five vials to Sylas. "These only just slow the effect of Vitric Cairne, and they also heal wounds and work as a powerful antiseptic."

As they left, Kael gave Sylas a sideways glance. "Why did you take those?"

Sylas smirked. "You'll find out soon enough."

---

Their path home took a sudden turn as Sylas veered into a shadowed alley.

Kael hesitated. "Why are we going this way? Let's just go back to the orphanage."

Sylas's smirk widened. We are gonna scam a friend,

The deeper they went, the darker it became. The air grew thick with decay, and thin, hungry figures lay strewn along the streets. Their wary eyes followed the newcomers, suspicion thick in their gazes.

They finally reached a small cabin, where a boy blocked their path. "You're new," he sneered. "You look weak. Get lost before we beat you senseless."

Kael burned with the urge to retaliate but bit his tongue. Sylas, unfazed, met the boy's glare. "I'm here to see Zulekha. We've done business before."

At the mention of the name, the boy hesitated before stepping aside. "Go in."

As Sylas entered, Kael was stopped. "You weren't here last time. You don't get in."

Kael scowled. "That's unfair! If he gets in, so do I!"

Sylas leaned in, whispering something into Kael's ear.

Kael paused—then smirked. "If it's like that, go ahead. I'll wait."