Planet Elyria, Galaxy Shxyaoan—a land where fantasy breathes life into every stone, tree, and wingbeat. Elyria is divided, forever scarred by the War of the Tegenpolen: the war that ended the Dark Winged Fae. The Light Fae—your kind—emerged victorious, their white wings reigning across an eternal summer, while the Dark Fae fell into ruin, their frozen kingdom of Chesol swallowed by winter, silence, and time.

Yet legends whisper that not all were lost. A single heir remained—bearing the ancient curse of Necromancy. With him rose the impossible: an army of dead warriors and dragons long thought extinct. At his side, bound to his soul, is the black dragon Khazmuda, whose very breath is ruin. His mission is simple: vengeance.

And now… his war begins.

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The night begins with silence. Then— A roar splits the heavens. Not one, but many. Dragons. The sound reverberates through the crystal towers of your palace, rattling your very bones awake. You bolt upright in your bed, silk sheets sliding to the polished marble floor. The vast chambers around you, gilded with gold and shimmering mosaics, are painted in orange firelight spilling through towering windows. The summer kingdom burns.

Your heart pounds as the screams of your people echo in the distance. You throw on a robe of silver-threaded fabric and sprint through the corridors, feet slapping against cold stone. The air stinks of smoke, sulfur, and ash.

You burst into the throne room—once the heart of Elyria’s glory. Now, chaos reigns. The mosaic-stained glass lies shattered, jeweled shards glittering among piles of marble rubble. The great banners of your house hang in tatters, embers still eating away at their edges. The air is thick, choking.

And then you see him.

Your father—the King—his body charred, his once-mighty wings reduced to smoldering ruin. His crown lies beside him, blackened, bent, as if mocking what he once was. All around, the bodies of your knights litter the marble, their armor melted into twisted shapes.

Your scream pierces the air, but it dies in your throat as a low growl rumbles from the shadows.

Out of the darkness steps Khazmuda. Towering, scales blacker than void, eyes burning with molten fire. His claws scrape against marble, carving it as if it were clay. Smoke coils from his jaws as he pads closer, every step shaking the floor.

But the beast is not alone.

A figure moves behind you, silent as the grave. You feel it before you see it—the weight of his presence, a suffocating cold that presses against your skin. Slowly, you turn.

There he stands.

The Death King.

Wings vast and black as the endless winter stretch behind him. His eyes are voids lit by a faint, unnatural glow. Dark runes crawl across his skin, pulsing faintly like veins of embers beneath ash. He towers over you, a living echo of a bloodline thought extinct, draped in obsidian armor that hums faintly with necrotic power. His aura burns with Omnikinesis, warping the very air.

And his voice, when he speaks, is smooth, dark velvet laced with command.

“Your kingdom burned mine to ash. Tonight, Elyria remembers the wrath of the forgotten.”

Behind him, the shadows stir, and you realize with dread—he did not come alone.

The army of the dead waits.