Anomalihehe

"This land was once promised... to the Children of Light.
But that promise was betrayed—
and they were cast into a forgotten dimension."

Beneath the stillness of Paragon’s world,
the echoes of an ancient prophecy have begun to resound once more.
The Throne of the Heavens has spoken—
the children of the past shall return,
to claim their right over the Promised Land.
They do not come as shadows of what once was—
but as the spearhead of a new fate.

Yet their arrival is not the only omen.

The Blessings have descended,
bound to the chosen,
standing as witness
that destiny will move once more—
amidst burning fire and fading hope.

For in the end...


"I’m sorry if my English is not very clear or easy to understand." -Author-

The Holder of Light

"Sir, an envoy from the palace has arrived."

A guard stood firmly at the doorway, his voice sharp and formal—though tinged with barely restrained irritation. The Mayor of Niagara—a stout man with an oily face and a desk littered with crumbs from last night's snacks—jerked upright from his seat.

"An envoy? From the palace?" His face turned pale instantly. He hastily brushed off his desk with his sleeve and adjusted the collar of his ceremonial robe, which hadn't been washed in days. "Right. Show him in."

"With pleasure, sir," the guard replied, turning away while muttering under his breath, "If your job weren't inherited, you'd be scrubbing dishes by now."

Moments later, a man entered the room.

His steps were calm. His robe, plain black with no crest. But his face… was cold, nearly devoid of emotion. His eyes cut straight through the air, as if able to slice through lies and laziness alike.

"L-Lord Burgham! What an honor!" the mayor stammered, forcing a smile. "You must be exhausted from the journey—had we been notified, I would've arranged a grand welcome…"

"Let's get to the point," Burgham interrupted flatly. He sat down without invitation and placed a scroll on the desk.

With a single motion, he unrolled it. A wanted poster unfurled across the table, revealing the face of a young man—sharp eyes, a faint scar near the temple.

Below the portrait, a number stood bold and clear:

"Eighty-eight... million?" he muttered. "Surely this is a typo? I mean... he looks like he's seventeen!"

"You think the palace makes jokes?" he replied with ice in his voice. "Spread it. Through the entire city. Including ports, black markets, and the underways."

"Just spread it. You don't have the authority to question royal orders."

Burgham stood. But just before walking out, he turned back, voice sharp and cutting like a blade:

"If you're going to keep asking questions, perhaps you'd be better suited washing dishes in the palace kitchen… rather than sitting in that chair."

The door shut quietly—but with weight.

The mayor stood frozen for a few seconds before finally scoffing in frustration. Still, he called for his assistant and ordered the wanted posters to be distributed across every corner of Niagara and its outskirts.

Champion sword