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In the ancient chronicles, Kremnos had once endured a bloodstained age, where the throne belonged only to the strong. Sons slew their fathers, victors seized the crown, and the cycle of hatred carried on from one generation to the next. The people of that strife-ridden land revered strength, believing that power was only truly legitimate when proven through blood and steel.
It was not until the reign of King Eurypon that the old laws were abolished. He ushered Kremnos into a new era: order slowly took root, and the people were granted a rare taste of peace. Though Kremnos remained infamous for its warlike spirit and stood as a rival to Okhema, from then on its strength was bound to discipline.
In this time of peace, the sole prince, Mydeimos, was born—the child of the valiant warrior Gorgo, namesake of Kremnos’ founder, and the wise king Eurypon. Mydei’s childhood passed serenely within the marble palace: mornings spent in martial training, afternoons in the study of strategy. On weekends he learned cooking, history, and courtly rites from his mother. At times, Eurypon took his son on journeys among the common folk, so that he might witness their lives with his own eyes.
Mydei was beloved by both teacher and peer. His companions saw in him an ideal to follow; his tutors praised his keen mind and diligence, declaring him fit in every way to be a ruler. The path before him seemed already laid—straight, bright, and certain.
All was tranquil, and it seemed life would always flow thus.
Until, on the eve of his tenth year, a strange event occurred.
—-
Mydei awoke in the middle of an unfamiliar forest.
Surrounding him were small, strange little creatures: their ears long like a rabbit’s, their tails fluffy like a squirrel’s. What startled him was not their odd appearance, but their voices—clear and melodious, like a stream murmuring through the woodland.
He could not recall how he had come here, nor recognize what land this forest belonged to. Yet before its serene beauty and the warm welcome of the little sprites, his initial unease soon gave way to playful curiosity. He began to follow the moss-covered paths, venturing deeper into the forest.
From afar, the sound of tinkling bells guided Mydei’s steps to a small wooden house nestled among the trees. On the porch, a boy with snow-white hair was laughing brightly as he played with the sprites. His laughter mingled with the chime of bells, and the sunlight scattered across his hair, making it shimmer as though aglow. For an instant, Mydei thought he was beholding an angel. And then, when those vivid blue eyes turned to him, his heart skipped a beat.
“Hello! Where did you come from? … Ah, I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”
The boy’s voice was innocent, carrying a clear, curious ring.
Mydei hesitated for a moment before answering:
“I… come from Kremnos.”
“Huh?” Phainon tilted his head, eyes widening. “Kremnos… the fortress of warriors? Then… did you get lost here?”
He asked so quickly that Mydei felt as though the bells were chiming right beside his ear. Frowning slightly, he replied:
“I’m not sure… why I woke up in this place.”
Just then, Mydei’s stomach growled. He caught a glimpse of the boy biting his lip, stifling a laugh; yet in those bright eyes shone such unguarded innocence that Mydei forgot he ought to keep his distance. He should have been annoyed at being teased, and yet, strangely, no irritation came. Instead there was a sense of ease, as though a weight had been lifted from his chest. That gaze was so genuine it disarmed his wariness — and for the first time, he realized he did not mind being seen in such a way.
“Come to my house for lunch.”
Mydei froze. “…Aren’t you afraid of bringing a stranger home?”
“Hmm…” Phainon scratched his cheek, smiling. “I don’t want anyone to go hungry in front of me. And besides… you don’t look like a bad person at all.”
“…Thank you.” Mydei’s lips curved faintly as he glanced at Phainon, his chest stirred by a peculiar feeling. The boy’s innocence was almost the kind that invited mischief — yet for Mydei, it evoked only a strange yearning: the urge to protect. His hand curled slightly, a reflex against the small joy blooming within him, and he blinked, a little startled by his own heart.
“Oh, I’m Phainon. And you?”
Mydei stepped a little closer, his gaze lingering on the boy for a moment, as though trying to shape the new feeling taking root inside him. A soft smile touched his lips.
“You may call me Mydei.”
The sweetness of that stew lingered in Mydei’s memory, leaving behind a warmth he could not forget. From then on, the days in that small village amidst golden fields became the loveliest hues of his childhood. Mornings spent helping in the paddies, simple meals at noon, carefree wanderings through the village come afternoon, a few basic sword drills, and evenings gathered in Phainon’s kitchen. Everything passed quietly, peacefully, like a gentle dream with no end.
At times, the ache of homesickness would creep in. More than ten days had gone by without training beside his father, without hearing his mother’s tender guidance by the hearth. Mydei told himself they would surely come searching for him soon. And if possible… he wanted to bring Phainon along. The boy had once said he wished to learn the art of combat to protect his homeland, and Mydei had shown him a few simple forms, secretly thinking he would teach him more when they reunited in Kremnos.
But another week slipped past, and still no familiar figure appeared. No news, no one from Kremnos came to visit. Worry carved itself clearly into Mydei’s eyes. Phainon would always try to pull him outside, wandering together through the village, asking at every door — but no one knew the road that led home.
One afternoon, the two of them lay beneath a great tree, its leaves rustling in the wind, the grass swaying gently under the pale sunlight. Peaceful—so peaceful that neither wished to leave.
“Mydei… you’ve seemed so sad lately. Is something wrong?” Phainon leaned closer, his shoulder brushing against Mydei’s, his small hand resting lightly on the boy’s arm as though to comfort him.
“…I… I miss my parents.” Mydei’s voice quivered faintly.
Phainon smiled, gently weaving his fingers through Mydei’s.
“They’re surely looking for you. Perhaps Aedes Elysiae is just too far, and they haven’t reached you yet.” His eyes were clear, filled with trust and tenderness, and the warmth in them wrapped around Mydei’s chest like a soft blanket.
He toyed with Mydei’s fingers, tapping them against the velvety grass, before letting out a quiet laugh: “I know you’ll be alright.”
Mydei closed his eyes, sighing as the weight inside him began to lift. Drowsiness washed over him, and his voice slipped away with the wind:
“If this is a dream… I want to sleep a little longer.”
Phainon lay beside him, brushing a hand through his hair, his gaze following the shafts of sunlight spilling through the leaves. The calm spread, drawing him into a gentle slumber.
Gradually, the sounds around him faded. A strange light pierced through his eyelids, pulling Mydei out of his dream. When he opened his eyes, he found himself in a familiar room, his mother’s face hovering above him, lined with worry and on the verge of tears.
“Mydei, you’re finally awake. Why did you collapse at the border of the territory? Your father and I have been searching all day.”
“I… fainted at the border?” His voice was still hazy, bewildered.
“Yes. Rest now, I’ll call for the physician.”
Mydei fell silent. Three weeks in that place had passed as though they were but a single day in Kremnos—or had it all been nothing more than a dream? He could not recall how he had stepped into the forest, nor how he had left it. All that lingered was the taste of stew, the sound of clear laughter, and those sky-blue eyes that refused to fade.
Amidst all the confusion, Mydei held only one wish: that one day, he would meet that friend again—in Kremnos.
—------
That childhood memory, too, slowly faded, leaving in Mydei only a faint yearning—that someday he might meet again the white-haired boy from his dream. Yet that gentle vision was soon swept away by the tide of life within the palace.
From an early age, Mydei stood beside his father and mother in affairs of state. He learned to read memorials, draft decrees, and listen to the voice of the people. The citizens cherished the young prince, at once resolute and approachable, taking him as a good omen for the kingdom’s future. Yet deep within, Mydei knew that ink on paper could never truly mirror the world beyond the walls.
Then came the first waves of the Black Tide crashing against the borders. Reports of casualties poured in, each sheet of parchment steeped in the stench of blood. Even the elite legions that guarded the frontier sent urgent pleas for reinforcements. Never before had Kremnos faced a threat so dire.
No longer was Mydei the child who once hid behind his father’s cloak. He had grown into a valiant warrior, training daily with the cavalry, ready to inherit the burden of defending his realm. But as the battlefield grew ever more relentless, the prince’s heart burned with unrest. To remain in the rear was no way to shield his people. Thus, despite his parents’ fears, Mydei presented his petition—begging to take command and lead his men to the front.
-
Mydei still remembered vividly the first day he set foot on the frontlines.
What he had once read in memorials were nothing but cold numbers; but before his eyes now was a naked, suffocating reality. The metallic stench of blood hung heavy in the wind, rows of fallen soldiers covered in coarse cloth lined the roadside, like mournful milestones marking the path into hell. Mydei’s hands trembled—not from fear, but from the crushing helplessness of knowing he had arrived too late, unable to save those lives.
On the very first day of battle, though the reinforcements he led did not lose a single man, nearly a quarter were gravely wounded. And that, instead of consolation, weighed even heavier on Mydei’s heart—for he knew that if only he were stronger, if only he had come sooner, more lives could have been spared.
That night, in a makeshift camp, the groans of the wounded mingled with the night wind whistling through the stones, cutting into his ears like blades. Cries of pain, sobs calling out the names of loved ones echoed without end, leaving Mydei unable to close his eyes. The brutality of battle, not yet faded, had already turned to haunting shadows, seeping into every breath he drew.
And when his heavy eyelids finally sank shut from exhaustion, the first image to emerge was not the battlefield, but a boy with white hair—a hazy silhouette as if echoed from some distant memory, with eyes that shone and a smile so guileless it made his very heart waver.
A friend he could not even be sure was real. Yet simply recalling that clear gaze was enough to grant Mydei a fragile peace amidst the storm.
But the dream that night was different. He saw the boy standing alone in the midst of a pitch-black ocean, his small figure swallowed by the darkness. Mydei screamed, straining to reach him, but his whole body was shackled, frozen, unable to move. His voice broke as he begged the boy to run.
But he did not move—still standing there, arms spread wide, as though to hold back the devouring tide that sought to consume the world.
Mydei jolted awake, his back drenched in sweat. His heart pounded, yet the boy’s silhouette still lingered, haunting him. Was it merely a nightmare born of pent-up strain? Or some obscure warning? If that boy was real, where was he now? Had he already been swallowed by that endless black sea? Or was it all nothing more than a figment—an imagined memory conjured to soothe him amid the brutality of war?
He found no answer. Only the haunting remained, etched into him like a carving in stone—unyielding, indelible. If fate ever allowed their paths to cross again, Mydei wished they would both have grown strong enough to stand shoulder to shoulder, no longer a fragile figure lost in the tide of darkness.
That very obsession became a tolling bell within him, urging him ever onward. Whether the dream was omen or illusion, he—as the Crown Prince of Kremnos—would not cease to hone himself. For should destiny bring them together once more, he must be strong enough to protect.
But wishes alone were never enough. That night of nightmares did not end with the dawn; it seeped into every breath, every heartbeat on the battlefield, a relentless reminder that the will to protect must be paid for in sweat and blood.
From that night onward, Mydei was no longer the sleepless, helpless prince adrift in darkness. The front lines taught him a brutal truth: mercy alone was never enough. Without the strength to protect, every vow was but wind scattered to the void. And in each dream that haunted him, the boy’s shadow returned, urging him onward—step by step—onto the perilous path before him, the only path left to tread.
Day after day, his resolve hardened. To strike down Nikador, the god slipping into madness, and to inherit the divine mantle of strife.
Within two weeks, Mydei and the armies of Kremnos had repelled a savage onslaught and swept away the last remnants of the black tide. Victory was theirs, yet all knew it was only a fleeting pause: the monsters would breed, would rise again. And not Kremnos alone—other city-states too fought desperately, fragile as candles in the wind.
It was then that word came from Okhema: a call for alliance. Old grudges had to be set aside, for the common foe stood at their very gates. Mydei understood—this was the only chance. Side by side with Castorice, the Chrysos heir of death, he marched into the three-day battle to bring down Nikador.
-
Nikador loomed over the battlefield like a spent volcano, still rumbling with its final roars. Each step of the Titan split the earth, shattering stone, driving ash into a sky ablaze with red. No arrow pierced that immortal hide; no blade left a wound that lasted longer than a breath.
For three days Mydei had died and risen countless times within the god’s unending wrath. Yet each rebirth saw him hurl himself again at Nikador, a defier of fate, carrying in his heart the fragile but unyielding will of mankind. Around him his soldiers, though utterly spent, clenched their teeth and held their ground—for in Mydei they still beheld an undying flame.
The tide turned only when the Demigod of Trickery revealed a secret: where Nikador’s golden core fused to its shell of stone, there lay a fissure, fine as a strand of hair—the sole weakness of the deathless god. Mydei tightened his grip on the splintered spear, gathered the last of his strength, and with a roar that shook the heavens, drove himself straight into the Titan’s breast.
When the final roar faded, the Titan’s form collapsed, shaking the very land. As the smoke and dust cleared, it became clear: a human had truly conquered a god.
As the haze lifted, under the guidance of the three demigods of Janus, Tribbie, and Trinnon Trianne, Mydei received the Flame of Strife, joining the ranks of the Chrysos heirs. It was a gift both glorious and burdensome, opening the path to the final trial. If he could overcome it, he would ascend as a Demigod—a new force of fire, a new shield for Amphoreus, for the resistance against the Black Tide, and for the decisive battle against Lygus, the enemy of all humankind.
—--------
“The Trial of Strife will force its participants to face their deepest fears.”
The voice of the demigod at the gate still echoed in his mind, like a dark bell etched into his consciousness.
In the lexicon of Kremnos, fear did not exist. Yet now, Mydei could feel each heartbeat pounding erratically, trapped in his chest, tense to the point of suffocation. He drew in a steadying breath, forcing himself to remain calm, silently reminding himself that he must not falter.
As the prophetess recited the invocation to begin the ritual and returned the flame to the heart of the Vortex of Genesis, the world around him began to warp. Light was swallowed, and the sky darkened to an inky black. The ground beneath him wavered, fragments of earth shattering and reforming into a colossal arena utterly ravaged and stripped bare, desolate as far as the eye can see
Mydei’s footsteps echoed across the mottled stone floor, solitary in the oppressive air. The atmosphere was thick with the tang of rust and the acrid bite of smoke, a stench of death so heavy it seemed to choke the lungs. A shiver ran down his spine just before the darkness erupted: shadowy fiends surged from all directions, their roars crashing like savage waves tearing through the air.
He clenched his fists, muscles coiling, and plunged into the fray. His brutal counterattacks shattered layer after layer of monsters, bones and flesh splintering under the weight of each strike. Yet, as one wave fell, another rose. The pressure mounted—not just on his arms, but on his mind.
At last, after Mydei had cleared the last of the fiends, a different sound cut through: footsteps. Light, even, yet utterly distinct from the chaotic uproar moments before. Dangerous.
Instinct propelled Mydei to pivot. In that instant, a flash of steel caught his eye. The blade lunged straight for the sole weak point on his immortal body. Had he been half a heartbeat slower, he would have fallen.
The clash of Mydei’s gauntleted hands rang sharp and loud, stopping the sword aimed at him. He squinted. Emerging silently from the shadows was his opponent: an executioner draped in a black cloak, a grotesque mask concealing his face. In his hands was a greatsword stained with the patina of time, yet its hidden force surged violently, shaking the ground with every swing.
Each strike was precise, lethal, aimed directly at vital points. Too precise… as if he were intimately familiar with every tiny weakness in Mydei’s body.
His heart thudded violently, breath growing ragged. Mydei was no stranger to death. He had wandered along the Stryx River, heard the seductive whispers of the dead, and returned in pain from the threshold between life and death. Painful—but never fear.
Yet this time—this time was different.
Before him stood not a mere trial of will, but a true adversary, capable of bringing him down. One mistake, and it would all end. No Kremnos. No Amphoreus. No future.
“I must not fall… I cannot allow it.”
Mydei ground his teeth, veins taut. Each counterstrike was delivered with his full strength, the fire within him erupting violently. The entire arena seemed to tremble with every clash of fist against blade.
The battle stretched on as if endless. Time lost all meaning, leaving only the clash of metal through the air, the scent of blood, and smoke. Until, at last, Mydei drove his enemy to the brink. His blazing spear pierced straight through the reaper’s chest, pinning him against the shattered wall.
A low groan slipped out. Blood poured from the wound—but it was not red. It gleamed golden, sparkling like molten metal, like the sacred lifeblood found only in the descendants of Chrysos.
Mydei froze. His breath caught in his throat. His whole body stiffened as if chained.
The mask fell.
Behind that shattered iron was a young face, skin as white as porcelain, cracked in patches like broken ceramics.
Strange… yet painfully familiar.
A sudden image flared in his mind: a boy with white hair, sky-blue eyes like an autumn heaven, smiling with mischief and warmth. Even a fleeting memory was enough to set Mydei’s chest in turmoil, his heartbeat erratic, his throat parched.
“No… impossible…”
The wall of reason within him cracked apart. Mydei surged forward, trembling, eyes fixed on that face—changed now, older, the once-clear gaze dulled with weariness. And yet… he knew. He knew with a pang that cut deep.
For an instant, those eyes fluttered open. The young man raised a trembling hand, brushing lightly against Mydei’s cheek, tender as in days long past. Then all at once, it was gone.
So swift that he could not tell if it had been real, or nothing more than a figment of his own mind.
The darkness wavered, and the scene shifted once more. Before Mydei stretched not the empty void, but a battlefield shrouded in smoke, crimson flames devouring the horizon. The roar of the black tide merged with screams and the clash of weapons, chaos unbridled. Beasts poured forth as if from the abyss itself, crashing down upon the warriors of Kremnos and Okhema. Farther off, the Chrysos Heirs strained to hold their lines, shielding the civilians who trembled as they fled for shelter.
Mydei drew a sharp breath. His chest constricted, lungs burning with ash, yet there was no time to falter. He hurled himself forward, his fists tearing through blood and smoke.
But their numbers—far beyond anything he had faced before. For every beast that fell, another lunged, snarling, its massive frame crushing stone beneath its weight. Around him, comrades fell one after another. Mydei clenched his teeth, barking orders for the soldiers to retreat, to escort the civilians. As for himself—together with the remaining heirs—he dug his heels into the earth, holding the line with teeth bared.
He knew well this was but an illusion—a veil of trial woven by Nikador. Yet when the cries of agony tore through the air, when the choked sobs of comrades bled into silence, when their hands slipped lifelessly into the spreading pool of blood—Mydei still felt his heart bleed with them. Immortality might grant his body the strength to endure, but could it ever shield his mind from the torment of watching death replay again and again?
The battlefield had thinned to him alone, his arms growing heavy with fatigue. The ground beneath his feet quaked with every thunderous step of the advancing beasts. He no longer knew how many more times he would have to fall and rise again.
And then—
A flash of silver cleaved the dark. From behind him, a blade split the horde as though rending night itself. A youthful figure emerged—white hair streaming, a long blue cloak unfurling in the wind.
They needed no words. Their bodies moved as though they had fought side by side a thousand times before. He blocked, the boy’s blade struck true. The boy carved a path, he finished the kill. Step matched step, breath met breath, every motion seamless, in perfect accord. Never had Mydei fought in such harmony with another. Amid the chaos, he almost believed it had always been so—that the boy had always been there, at his side.
The monsters fell, blood soaking into the sand. Only when silence reclaimed the field did the youth lower his sword with a ragged breath. And when Mydei turned, he finally saw his face.
White hair, soft and windswept. Eyes, bright blue, alight with a joy beyond words. He smiled at Mydei—a smile radiant as sunlight, pride and relief mingling in its warmth, burning at Mydei’s eyes. In that instant, he glimpsed the shadow of the boy from long ago.
Phainon?
Could this be Phainon, his future self?
Would there truly come a day when they would fight side by side like this once more?
But then a chill thought crept in. The turn of his blade, the stance in that downward strike—eerily familiar. It was the very image of the executioner in black. The white hair and blue eyes, though not an exact match, bore too many likenesses to ignore.
A sharp pang struck Mydei’s chest. A vague dread tightened around his heart.
Could he one day stand as Mydei’s enemy?
Mydei parted his lips, about to speak. But the boy pressed a finger lightly against them, bidding him to silence. His gaze was gentle, his hand brushing against Mydei’s cheek, lingering on the searing crimson mark as though to soothe it. Then, with sudden force, both hands pressed down on his shoulders—shoving him forward.
Mydei stumbled a step, carried by momentum. He spun around in haste, reaching back to seize that hand, to pull him along. But the space behind was already empty.
Only a scalding silence remained, and the hollow ache gnawing at his chest.
From the rift of light ahead, Nikador’s hoarse voice resounded, as if echoing from the depths of an abyss:
"One day, you will fall… with the wound carved across your back."
—-
A surge of light swallowed everything.
Mydei jolted awake, cold sweat streaming down his spine. All around him, the three Gate Demigods were celebrating his triumph—he had passed the trial, ascending as the Demigod of Strife. Yet amidst the cheers and the shining eyes of encouragement, his chest felt hollow, breathless with emptiness.
In his mind lingered only one image: that face—strange and familiar all at once—and the blazing blue eyes that had stood beside him in the instant of life and death.
Mydei clenched his fists. If destiny truly existed, then he would wait for the day they met again.
The voices of the Demigods pulled him back to the present: the Black Tide Calamity threatened all Amphoreus, and Theoros Lygus had already begun his relentless assault on Okhema. There was no time for rest, Mydei must depart at once with Tribbie to meet the coming war.
And yet, deep within, he yearned. Yearned to see the white-haired swordsman again, amidst the fires of tomorrow. And when that day came… he wanted him as an ally, not an enemy.
The lingering warmth upon his cheek burned like a small flame—kindling a fragile hope for a future where they might stand side by side, or at the very least, cross paths once more.