Prologue: A Thousand Years of Silence
The skies wept fire.
On the scorched plains of the Fallen Reaches, where cities once rose like crowns of stone, the earth had long since turned to ash. Trees were cinders, rivers boiled dry, and bones littered the battlefield like forgotten prayers. It was here, in the heart of ruin, that a legend was forged—a legend that would echo across millennia like a warning chiseled in flame.
A thousand years ago, the world teetered on the edge of extinction. The dragons had come—not as beasts, but as gods of death, sent to erase mankind's arrogance. Cities burned. Kingdoms crumbled. Hope became a forgotten tongue.
At the head of the end stood Antares, the Dragon Lord, wreathed in dark flames that devoured light. No sword could pierce his scales. No magic could bind him. He spoke only once: "Your kind is a disease. I am the cure." And then the slaughter began.
But against that tide of annihilation stood one man.
Martin Luther, the first Patriarch of the Luther Clan. His sword, unnamed by men but feared by dragons, shone like a second sun. Cloaked in radiant aura so powerful it split the heavens, he faced Antares alone, atop the shattered spires of Caelmont Citadel. That duel, they say, split continents and birthed new seas.
The world remembers only its end.
When it was over, Martin stood—bleeding, broken, but alive. Antares fled, grievously wounded, vanishing into myth and shadow. His retreat spared mankind… but it was not victory. It was a delay. A breath before the scream.
Martin never returned from that battle. He walked alone into the north, his sword dragging behind him like a dying star. He was never seen again.
The world rebuilt. Slowly. Fragile kingdoms rose from ash. The Luther Clan became a dynasty of swordsmen. And for a thousand years, humanity has forgotten what it cost to survive.
But the dragons remember.
Beneath the earth, Antares heals. His flames stir. And when he returns, no Martin Luther will stand in his path.
Only one light remains.
And her name… is Jean Luther.