C#1: Prologue – The Great War
The fire crackled softly as night settled over the village.
A group of children sat in a loose circle, knees pulled close, shadows dancing across their faces. The sky above was clear — too peaceful for the kind of story they were about to hear.
"Grandfather," one of them asked, voice small, "is it true?"
The old man didn't answer right away. He poked the fire with a stick and watched the sparks rise like tiny stars.
"True?" he repeated. "Child… the world you see today only exists because of that war."
The children leaned closer.
"Long ago," he began, his voice low and rough with age, "when the line between myth and reality was thin, the Great War broke out. The world did not know peace then. From the depths of the abyss came the demons — creatures shaped like humans, twisted beyond recognition. Their eyes burned with malice, and their presence alone poisoned the land beneath their feet. Where they marched, crops died and rivers blackened. Cities fell. Kingdoms vanished. Human weapons broke against them like toys."
He let the fire crackle for a moment.
"But we were not abandoned. The guardians answered the call."
The Phoenix came first. It fell from the sky wrapped in fire, its cry shaking the heavens. Blades and spells passed through it as if it were smoke, and even when struck down it rose again, reborn in flame. With each beat of its wings, fire rained on the battlefield and turned demon legions to drifting ash.
Then came the White Tiger, faster than sight. Its claws cut through demon flesh and its breath froze the air itself. Demons did not scream — they simply stopped, encased in ice where they fell, silent warnings carved into the battlefield.
The earth itself rose with the Black Tortoise. Its shell turned aside every blow; magic shattered against it, steel bent, claws broke. When it moved, the seas answered, sweeping demon armies away like dust.
"And above them all," the elder said quietly, "ruler of skies — the Golden Dragon."
Its scales shone like the sun, casting light across the battlefield. Fire and lightning bent to its will, and no demon could face it and live. To humans it was hope. To demons it was terror.
The children drew closer to the fire without thinking.
"But even hope has its limits," the elder said. "From the heart of the demon horde emerged their true master. The Ancient Demon Lord did not charge forward — he watched, and he commanded. And behind his power lurked something far worse."
He lowered his voice.
"The Abyssal Leviathan. A thing born from the void, vast enough to swallow worlds. The Demon Lord drew upon its power, and the war changed."
The Golden Dragon faced the Demon Lord alone, and their battle tore the sky apart. Mountains cracked. The land screamed. Even the Dragon struggled against the Leviathan's endless strength. Around them, the other guardians were surrounded, and the demons did not stop coming. For the first time, the guardians were pushed back.
"That," the elder said, eyes reflecting the flames, "was when the Dragon made its choice. Instead of standing alone, the guardians turned to humanity. Their power flowed into human champions — ordinary people who became something more. Men and women who knew they might never return. They did not fight for glory. They fought so the world could survive."
The elder fell silent. The fire popped softly.
"Grandfather," one child finally asked, "who won?"
The old man smiled faintly. "You already know. Just look around you."
His gaze drifted to a child sitting quietly at the edge of the firelight, and lingered there a moment longer than necessary.
"…But remember this. A war like that never truly ends."
The fire had burned lower now, its warmth weaker than before. The children felt it. One of them swallowed, fingers curling into their sleeves.
"…Then what happened next, Grandfather?"
The old man's gaze stayed on the dying embers. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than before.
"That," he said slowly, "was the darkest moment of the Great War."
The demons began to win — not all at once, but slowly, relentlessly. They poured across the battlefield like a black tide, cutting down humans without hesitation. Soldiers fell in rows. Entire villages vanished before sunrise. The wounded screamed until their voices gave out, and no one came for them. Even the bravest warriors began to falter.
"The demons showed no restraint," the elder said. "To them, suffering was nothing more than fuel."
Despair spread faster than blood. Even the guardians felt it. The White Tiger was surrounded, its movements slowing beneath endless assaults. The Black Tortoise was forced back step by grinding step, its shell cracking under the weight of the tide. Even the Phoenix's flames burned dimmer than before.
And the Golden Dragon was trapped, locked in combat with the Demon Lord, whose power now overflowed with the presence of the Abyssal Leviathan. Each clash tore the sky. Each strike made the earth tremble. The Dragon wanted to turn back — wanted to help the others — but it could not.
One by one, human champions fell. Their weapons shattered, their bodies failed, their resolve broke. The Demon Lord laughed, fed by despair and strengthened by death, and began to overwhelm even the Golden Dragon.
"That," the elder said, "was the moment humanity stood on the edge of extinction."
He let the words sit.
"Then someone prayed. Not loudly, not with grand words — just desperately. And the heavens answered."
The sky changed. Dark clouds parted and a soft light seeped through, spreading slowly across the battlefield. The screams faded. The wind shifted. Then a sound — wings, vast and rhythmic, beating somewhere above — and every head turned skyward.
From the heart of the light descended a presence so overwhelming that even the guardians froze. A vast winged form emerged, pure white wings stretched across the sky, its body radiating holy power and its eyes holding an unshakable resolve.
"The Guardian Pegasus," the elder whispered.
Its aura washed over the battlefield like a cleansing tide. Fear retreated. Despair dissolved. Wounded soldiers felt strength return to their limbs, and some who had fallen rose again. Even the guardians felt their spirits steady.
"The Pegasus," the elder continued, "was second only to the Golden Dragon — and the sworn enemy of darkness."
For the first time, the demons hesitated. Even the Ancient Demon Lord stiffened, feeling something it hadn't felt in countless ages. Fear.
The light grew brighter, and another figure appeared — a warrior riding beside the Pegasus, clad in radiant armor, a blade shimmering in their grasp like a falling star.
"A human…" one child whispered.
The elder nodded. "The Pegasus Knight. A champion chosen by the Guardian Pegasus itself."
They did not hesitate. Pegasus and rider dove straight into the demon army, and what followed was not a battle. It was a cleansing. Holy energy erupted outward, and in a single moment nearly half the demon army vanished — not burned, not crushed, but purified. Even the Demon Lord staggered, its power disrupted by the divine wave.
The battlefield turned. Champions regrouped. Guardians surged forward. Hope spread like wildfire. The Pegasus Knight carved through the enemy lines, every strike guided as if by fate itself. Where they passed, demons fell. Where they stood, humans rose.
The elder fell silent. The fire crackled.
"Was that… a miracle?" one child finally whispered.
The old man smiled faintly. "Yes. That day, the world was saved by a miracle."
His gaze drifted once more to the quiet child beyond the firelight. "And miracles," he added, "always come at a price."