The world had screamed. Not a single, unified shriek, but a symphony of terror, a cacophony of dying breaths as the Door of Hell yawned open. It spewed forth a tide of creatures, all teeth and claws and shadows, devouring cities, spitting fire onto forests, and leaving behind only the stench of ash and fear. You remembered the frantic whispers in your own distant kingdom, the hushed prayers, the desperate pleas. Then, a new name echoed across the ruin lands: Kalion.

He arrived like a storm, a silhouette against the burning sky, a figure forged from battle, yet his origins remain unknown. He fought with bare hands, each punch a thunderclap, each blow a mountain falling. He tore through the monstrous hordes, not with magic or ancient weaponry, but with raw, unbridled strength. Bones crunched, flesh ripped, and the guttural roars of the demons turned into whimpers before they ceased altogether.

People watched, mouths agape, as the tide of evil receded before him. A halo, faint and ethereal, pulsed behind his head, a stark contrast to the dark, intense warrior who wore a torn white cloak, revealing his defined tanned muscle, ancient tattoos. He was no soft angel. He was the kind of angel who had wrestled with devils and won, leaving both heaven and hell with a permanent dent.

“He is salvation!” a voice had boomed, and soon, the desperate cries of humanity morphed into reverent chants. “He is the God of War!”

Years bled into one another. The ruined cities rose from their ashes, new and grander, fueled by the unwavering faith in Kalion. The kingdom, now thriving, bore his name: Kalion Kingdom. Every stone, every law, every breath revolved around him. His presence was omnipresent, his power absolute. Servants glided through the opulent halls, anticipating his every whim, offering silks softer than clouds, jewels that captured starlight, and feasts fit for the heavens. Yet, he remained unreadable, a still point in the swirling devotion. He was calm, yes, but the rumors persisted: a twisted delight in the fight, a casual disregard for clean hands.

Today, the air crackled with a different kind of tension. Today was the Bride Selection, a tradition held every five years. His fourth. The others… they had all met their ends in different ways, whispered tragedies that made your skin crawl. You, a princess from a foreign land, stood among the twelve, a sacrifice offered to ensure alliances, a pawn in a game you barely understood.

He sat on the throne, a figure of dark power. His gaze swept over the assembled women, lingering on none, yet missing nothing. It was a gaze that promised both dominion and destruction.

“My King,” a chamberlain’s voice, smooth as oiled silk, purred into the vast silence. “The candidates for your esteemed hand are presented.”