That morning, as the sun pierced through thin clouds, the healer known as Saint Linda was kneeling beside a frail boy. His sister watched silently from the shadows of the alley. Linda's gentle hands moved over the boy's thin chest, bathing it in soft gold light. Though he did not cry, his eyes shimmered with tears.
"I'm sorry I'm late," she whispered, her voice carrying the weight of guilt. "There's a storm coming. Can you feel it?"
As the light closed his wounds, Linda sat back and exhaled. "I understand why you did it," she said, her tone gentle but firm. "But stealing is still wrong, little one." She offered him a hand. "There's a noble I know... an exile, yes—but kind to children. He doesn't care about race or blood. Come with me, you and your sister. Serve as a helper in his estate. He will care for you."
She guided the two children toward the edge of the city. A glowing platform of light formed beneath their feet, lifting them slowly through the sky, gliding past the city's towering walls.
When they reached the quiet countryside, Linda exchanged a silent nod with the noble waiting in the distance. No words passed between them—only the acknowledgment of a shared purpose.
As the children followed the man into the hills, Linda turned back toward the city. Her thoughts churned.
"I was born an elf of status. I don't understand hunger. I've always been strong—so how could I grasp weakness?"
Her feet barely touched the ground as she drifted. "Do I merely pretend to be kind? Am I only repeating the teachings of my family, playing the saint? Is it right for those above to judge those below, without ever knowing their burdens?"
Her voice trembled. "Would I be like this if I'd been born a slave, not a saint?"
"I don't understand this world," she admitted inwardly. "Even after centuries, there's still hatred. Still division. I'm not blind to the pain of my people—but I'm no genius to find peace either. Am I good? Truly good?"
As her doubts echoed, a chill wind swept across the peaks.
Later that day the night begin with beautiful crimson full moon
Far above, atop a mountain drowned in snow and moonlight, a man stood cloaked in black. Ashenix.
"It's time to hunt," he murmured.
A massive bird soared into the air, its wings violet with embered flames—part phoenix, part ash. It carried him into the sky, leaving behind a scarlet trail.
Higher still, he reached the summit of the royal palace carved into the mountain's edge. Alarms rang like war-drums. All eyes turned skyward to see a massive sphere of burning crimson plummet onto the mountain.
The blast devoured half the summit. The elven quarters were hit hardest. The orcs, too, suffered devastation. Only the human sector, lying deep below, remained untouched.
The night shrieked.
Children cried for lost parents. Some wept in silence, broken. Some had perished. Some had survived—barely. Grown warriors lay lifeless beside them.
From within the ruined palace, the prince and his family emerged. They saw the man in black and prepared for war.
Then, the word echoed.
"Gluttony."
All the flames were drawn into the figure in the sky and disappeared in instant
The souls of the dead spiraled upward like smoke, drawn into his outstretched hand. A black porcelain mask covered his face. Its color shifted—becoming charred, cracked, with veins of red like molten lava. Two horns, twisted and glowing like fresh magma, rose from his skull.
He laughed.
A cold, soulless laugh.
"So this is the might of the elven elite? Show me your strength. Let me taste it. Entertain me!"
Hundreds soared into the sky. The Academy's council had arrived, bringing their most promising students. Familiar faces emerged—though Linda was missing.
"Where's Linda?" someone asked. "We need a healer."
We return to her.
Her hands trembled over a dying child. Blood pooled around her knees. Her magic could no longer keep up. Another death. Another failure. Another innocent she couldn't save.
She screamed.
"Why? Why didn't you protect us?" she cried to the heavens, her face stained with tears.
She began to walk aimlessly trying to save the injured all of them died in her hand she was just little girl not elf not saint just girl how saw her pepole died without even been able to help something crack inside her her soul .
Above her, 200 warriors surrounded the man in the mask. None dared strike first.
Despair drowned her.
Her wings spread.
Slowly, as if her mind had broken, she flew toward him.
Back atop the mountain, the Elven King stepped forward. His sword gleamed green with divine power.
"Why have you done this?" he shouted. "You will wish for death. The gods will not forgive you!"
He raised his blade and whispered, "O gods, lend me your power."
Ashenix watched, expression unreadable. Then he sat atop his phoenix.
"You're not worth my time. I'm waiting for someone stronger. Come out from the shadows. Stop pretending you see with your eyes. It's disgusting."
A figure emerged—a woman, barely visible beneath layers of shadow and darkness.
"I'm not your equal. Not yet," she said. "But your skull gonna be between my hands , I'll defeat you."
She smiled then vanished again.
Ashenix smirked. "Then I have no interest in fighting. Step aside... unless you want to die."
Some did not.
Spells were cast. Arrows fired. None reached him.
In an instant, they fell. All of them. Bodies crumbled mid-air, snuffed out like candles.
The king staggered back. "What… who are you? What power is this? Who blessed a devil like you with such might?"
The humans did not attack. They were not guards. They watched in silence.
As Ashenix turned to leave, a brilliant light struck him from behind.
He didn't flinch. He turned slowly.
It was Linda.
But something was wrong. Her eyes were vacant. Her hands trembled. She attacked again—without control, without thought.
With a flick of his hand, Ashenix struck her down.
One blow.
She collapsed.
He caught her before she fell, tossed her atop his phoenix.
"I'll make use of this one," he said, grinning.
Then, he vanished into the sky.
No one dared follow.