The Bloody Forest
Ren, Lyra, and Arthur had been silent all day, their hearts numbed with pain. Blood smeared their hands, feet, and soaked through their clothes—not theirs, but blood of enemies. Still, they ached.
They couldn't stop thinking: why did we come here?
This wasn't a forest.
This was a graveyard with trees.
A bloody forest.
"We need to get out of here," someone whispered.
"We'll all die if we stay."
Then he appeared.
A man. Or the idea of one.
He had no mouth.
No nose.
No ears.
No eyes.
Just smooth, pale flesh like wax stretched over bone.
And one hand… raised. Slowly. Pointing.
The moment his hand moved, the three of them screamed—
"CHILDREN! CHILDREN!"
"AAAAAAA—AAAAAAHHH!!!"
The forest echoed with the sound of their shrieking. Cloaked in dread, Ren collapsed as his mind was pulled into a terror he could not escape.
---
Ren's Nightmare
Ren was running.
Ahead of him stood a monstrous structure—black as night, enormous, shaped like a cathedral, a cross gleaming atop it. No stars. No wind. Just the sound of his feet.
As he neared it, two men appeared before him.
Their eyes—white, empty.
The world around him vanished.
He could see nothing but those eyes.
And then, a voice like rusted chains:
> "Devil… you've come. You've come again."
One man held a shell.
Then another.
Two more emerged.
Hands grabbed Ren.
The shells were held in a cross.
They began inserting them into his body.
Not just one. Not ten. Not a hundred. Not a thousand. Not ten thousand.
A hundred thousand shadows gathered—
All whispering, chanting:
> "Devil. Why did you come?"
Ren tried to scream. To explain.
But he didn't know why.
He didn't know what he was.
Then came the last man.
He cracked Ren's skull open, shoved two sticks into his brain, and placed his body atop another man.
Fire. Cooking flesh.
Ren cried.
> "Nightmare… nightmare… nightmare…"
And though it was a dream, the agony was real—far worse than waking pain.
His body convulsed.
Blood ran from his eyes, ears, mouth.
And then—stillness.
His arms spread out.
His mind forgotten.
His soul hollow.
He was dying in a nightmare, not from death… but from self-erasure.
And that faceless man laughed:
> "Children… you're here.
He should not have come.
Why did he come looking for that girl?"
His voice broke—stuttered—like something else was pulling the strings.
---
Lyra's Nightmare
The night Lyra escaped from Gorvena… replayed.
But twisted. Poisoned.
She saw Gorvena's eyes—cold, piercing—and couldn't move.
Her legs turned to water. Her chest felt like it was caving in.
She ran.
But Gorvena's eyes were everywhere.
She screamed. Cried. Trembled.
And then the voices came—
> "She's not mine," her father had once said.
"She's not my blood. Her mother must have lain with some dog. She's a child born of shame."
At school, they laughed at her.
> "Go home. Cook food. There's no place for you here."
She had no voice. No reply. Just shame. Until—
Shingen appeared.
He placed a hand on her shoulder.
> "Hey," he warned. "Leave her be, or I'll end all of you."
The bullies fled.
Lyra looked up at him, eyes wide.
He smiled softly.
> "Sunny child.
Being weak… it's okay. But don't stay weak.
Let it make you stronger.
Don't let others steal your light."
---
Arthur's Awakening
Arthur hadn't entered a nightmare.
Until now.
He stood frozen, watching Lyra shake and scream.
> "How… how did you survive?" he whispered.
"This… this shouldn't be possible."
And then his mind cracked open.
---
Flashback – Arthur's Darkness
Once, he sat by the river, watching birds soar.
Peaceful. Quiet.
Then the black shadow came.
It slid into his mind. Took over.
He became a monster.
He slaughtered his village.
The scent of smoke curled into the night sky, thick and choking, as flames devoured the thatched rooftops of the once-quiet village. Screams echoed through the narrow, cobbled streets, mixing with the guttural groans of collapsing timber and the crackle of fire. Livestock bolted blindly through the chaos, eyes wide with terror, while villagers scattered—some clutching crude weapons, others dragging loved ones through the dirt in desperate retreat.
At the heart of the destruction stood Aurther.
His presence was a black flame in the eye of a storm—silent, unmoved, and impossibly still amid the ruin. Shadows curled unnaturally around him, drawn to the hem of his tattered cloak like servants answering a wordless call. Where his gaze fell, light faltered. Stone split. Flesh withered.
He raised one hand.
A ripple moved through the air—soundless, invisible—yet when it passed, walls crumbled and trees twisted into unnatural shapes, their roots screaming as they tore free from the earth. A man rushed him with a rusted pitchfork, only to be stopped mid-charge. Time itself stuttered around Aurther, and in the blink between heartbeats, the man's body contorted and fell apart, as if some hidden thread holding him together had been cut.
There was no glory in this attack. No declaration. No war cry.
Only the sound of the village dying. And Aurther, walking calmly through its remains, untouched by flame or fear, as though this destruction was not violence—but ritual.
Only the headman stopped him—
Headman came . He calmly said ," Hey boy , You already ruined this village , stop now! Look around you , Villages are afraid from you . " But Aurthor didn't listened and without warning he attack the Head of Village
" Boy , you already so fast . You look boy from outside but inside I see...!! Tell me What are you doing here and why you take control on a boy bodies with no talent ."
The black Shadow said ," Head ! You never understand this boy ."
"You look weak in this body , Shadow."
And after this Head easily captured him and
barely—binding the shadow inside him,
making Arthur its prison for take control of Shadow ."
Six years passed.
Arthur emerged, changed.
Long hair. Dead eyes.
The village head tried to bind him again.
Arthur grabbed him—twisted his head 360°.
Snap.
The villagers attacked.
Too late.
The shadow burst out.
Killed them all.
The villagers who survived trembled, sobbing:
> "Nightmare… Nightmare…"
Present Time — The Forest
An empty shadow slithered out from the underbrush, silent as breath. It glided toward Aurther and merged seamlessly into his body, as though it belonged there.
Then came the voice—rasping, distorted, as if spoken from within a dream.
A faceless figure stepped forth. No eyes, no ears, no mouth—just a skinless skull-like mask stretched across a headless form. Yet the words echoed all the same.
"I am Bordhurt, whose Nightmare has never failed. Then tell me—how did that boy escape yesterday?"
Aurther's eyes glinted, cold and unflinching.
"Because I myself… am the Nightmare."
Bordhurt didn't flinch. Instead, he raised his decayed right arm and pointed toward a cluster of nearby animals. With a gesture, a ghastly wave of energy rippled through them. They howled and writhed as their bodies distorted—twisting into grotesque, howling forms.
But before the curse could fully take root, Aurther moved. With ruthless precision, he struck down the beasts, one after another, until nothing stirred.
Then, without hesitation, he turned toward Bordhurt, his hand already crackling with dark force.
But Bordhurt vanished, his voice hanging in the air like a cursed wind.
"Boy, catch me in this forest first—only then may you hope to kill me."
A haunting voice followed his disappearance:
"Only after escaping the forest can you escape the Nightmare. Forget the boy. He is trapped in this forest now—forever."
Aurther said nothing. He merely lifted Lyra and Ren onto his back and began walking through the thorns and fog, deeper toward the edge of the accursed forest.
After what felt like an eternity, a faint light broke through the trees. The boundary of the forest shimmered into view—and through it, they emerged.
On the other side, Lyra's eyes met Gorvane's. A strange silence passed between them. Gorvane looked weakened, his once-imposing presence dimmed. Lyra, though bruised and weary, had steadied herself. She looked beyond him and saw the familiar jagged trees of the Orthodox Forest, and just past them, the shimmering heat of the Retila Desert.
Ren stirred beside her, trembling. Words would not come—only silence, hollow and cold. They were soon intercepted by Shingen's medical team.
Shingen approached with urgency. His eyes scanned them.
"Where is Yohan?" he asked.
No one answered. Their silence spoke louder than words. Faces turned away, eyes lowered.
Shingen's jaw clenched. Without a word, he turned and sprinted toward the forest.
---
Scene Shift — Yohan
Yohan's body lay still, cradled by an unnaturally lush clearing. A strange aura enveloped him—both protective and menacing.
From the darkness, a Medusa slithered forth, her snake-hair hissing softly. Her glowing eyes narrowed.
"Nyx, why did you make him unconscious?"
A cloaked figure, pale as ash and cloaked in dusk, stood nearby.
"You know the law," Nyx answered. "No outsiders may enter Nyxcarra. If he's awake… King Nyxia will know. And if that happens, we're all dead."
Medusa scoffed, but her voice was laced with worry.
"We'll keep this up until nightfall. Once night comes… the king's power is absolute here."
Nyx hesitated. His voice lowered to a murmur.
"…There may be another way."
Medusa turned sharply. "Which one?"
Nyx looked down at Yohan's still form.
"The transformation. Turn him… into a vampire. But there's only a fifty percent chance he survives."
Medusa snarled and turned away.
"Then he'll die."
Night had already fallen.
Far away, in the depths of a cathedral-tomb, King Zheron's eyes opened within his coffin. Something was wrong. He felt it—an intruder… no, a disturbance in the realm of nightmares.
Panic gripped Nyx and Medusa.
Without delay, they lifted Yohan's body and cast it into the hidden cannabis field, a place where mind and dream blend, hoping to keep him veiled from the king's gaze.
King Zheron the Eternal — Vampire King of The Nyxcarra ( Nyxia)
Clad in a jet-black overcoat woven from the shadows of a forgotten realm, King Zheron strikes a formidable silhouette beneath the ever-twilight skies of the Bloodlands. His thick, dark hair is sharply parted, each strand immaculately kept—an emblem of his unyielding discipline and meticulous control. His face, smooth and unaging, holds a disarming smile, one that conceals centuries of ruthless cunning and cold ambition.
Behind those smiling eyes lie eyes that have witnessed the rise and fall of empires. Zheron's dark green tunic, buttoned to the throat, shimmers faintly with blood wards stitched in ancient vampiric runes—protection against both divine light and traitorous steel. His hands, gloved in midnight silk, remain ever in the folds of his coat—until the moment his prey's pulse quickens.
He walks not with arrogance, but with sovereign certainty. His black boots make no sound upon the stone, as though the ground itself dares not betray his presence. Though he rarely speaks above a whisper, his voice cuts through silence like fangs through flesh—hypnotic, commanding, absolute.
Legends say Zheron once drained an entire kingdom dry in a single night after its queen dared refuse his alliance. Now he rules the The Nyxcarra, where night never ends and time bends to his will. Even other vampire lords kneel, not out of loyalty—but fear that he might smile at them next.
Zheron was sitting his throne and close his eyes and scan whole kingdom
Zheron's Palace – The Heart of the Vampire Kingdom
Nestled in the cradle of jagged black mountains known as the Thorns of the Night, Zheron's Palace rises like a monolith of moonlit obsidian. It is the crown jewel of the Vampire Kingdom—a realm hidden beneath perpetual twilight, where the sun never fully rises and the stars burn brighter than anywhere else in the world. The palace is both fortress and sanctuary, a structure as ancient as the bloodlines it shelters.
Zheron's Palace is a marvel of dark majesty—towering spires twist like fangs into the sky, etched with glowing crimson runes that pulse with lifeblood magic. The walls are carved from black stone that absorbs light, but shimmer faintly with veins of silver and blood-red minerals. Its bridges and balconies float, defying gravity, suspended by old magic and shadowcraft. Waterfalls of liquid starlight cascade down its sides, vanishing into mist before they ever touch the earth.
Surrounding the palace is the famed Blood Gardens, an eerie but mesmerizing expanse of flora found nowhere else—wilted roses that bloom only in moonlight, silver thorns that sing in the wind, and trees with bark like polished onyx and leaves like stained glass. Some plants drink blood from the air; others whisper forgotten secrets in languages only the old vampires remember.
At the foot of the palace sprawls Nytheria, the capital city of the Vampire Kingdom. Built into the canyons and cliffs, it's a city of elegance and dread—homes with arched windows and flowing silk banners, canals of dark wine, and streets lit by bioluminescent fungi and floating ember-lanterns. Vampires here glide rather than walk, cloaked in grace and arrogance, their reflections only seen in obsidian mirrors.
Above, the sky is forever cast in hues of midnight blue and deep violet, pierced by three ever-glowing moons—Savael, Myrr, and Dunem—which regulate the tides of vampire power. Aurora-like veils drift lazily through the air, remnants of magical storms long past. A gentle, warm wind always carries the scent of blood, rain, and roses.
This is not a kingdom of mere beasts—it is a civilization of scholars, warlords, poets, and immortal royalty. Power is respected, but art is worshipped. Duels are held in midnight gardens, while ancient operas echo from amphitheaters built into the cliffs. Blood is currency, memory, and ritual. Time flows differently here, slowed by magic and the ancient heartbeat of the land.
Within the highest chamber of the palace lies the Throne of Zheron, carved from the bones of the first vampire dragon and veined with ever-burning ruby. It is said that the one who sits upon it can see through every bat, shadow, and whisper in the kingdom. Zheron himself—ancient, cold-eyed, and impossibly regal—rules from this throne, a being more myth than monarch.
Zheron was scaning the whole kingdom and as he going to scan the part where Yohan was sleeping , the one of five elder of his counsil came .
The one of the five elder - Zheoun
Elder Varnak of the Flame Mantle – The Radiant Strategist
(Among the Five Elders of the Zheron Council, few command presence as effortlessly as Elder Varnak, known across the dominions as the Radiant Strategist. Draped in robes of sun-gold and ivory, Varnak's attire is as deliberate as his words—his saffron mantle a symbol of wisdom, vigilance, and the eternal flame that guards the Zheron sanctum.
A master of ancient diplomacy and magical warcraft, Varnak bears the aura of a statesman forged in the fires of a thousand council wars. His neatly trimmed white beard and dignified posture radiate a calm authority that silences lesser men without a word. Though advancing in age, his eyes gleam with the clarity of foresight, said to peer through lies as easily as through glass.
Varnak is the keeper of the Council's Codex of Balance, the tome that decides the fate of nations. In battle, he commands from the rear, orchestrating complex formations and political maneuvering that leave empires falling before they know they've been checkmated. He is respected even by enemies, feared for his tactical mind and his unwavering devotion to justice.
Legends whisper that his flame-colored vest bears an enchantment: it glows brighter in times of truth and dims when falsehood draws near. Whether this is true or not, none dare lie in his presence.
Elder Varnak speaks sparingly, but when he does, the chamber listens—and so does the world beyond.)
And kneel his head infront of throne ,said
" My lord something is unusual movement seen like someone broke the agreement was done before 500 yrs ago ."
Zheron take a breath and arises his right arm and place his elbow on his seat and rest .....his cheek on hia seat and said ," I feel the same but he is worthless , he not capable to thread us ."
But Varnak was wise man he notice every movement even threat was like nothing to take ensure that kingdom was be shape . He knows the king Zheron more than anyone .
He said ," my lord, if you give permission to us , going to check that threats even it worthless ."
Zheron gave authority to Varnak and gives order ," Bring him alive as possible as either you be killed ."
Zheron knows that Varnak is strategist man and most cleaver amongst the elder .
Flame Mantle - the area which authoritise by king Zheron to Varnak
(The Valley of Flame Mantle was a paradox of serenity and fury. Lush emerald canopies stretched across the valley, ancient trees crowned with golden leaves that shimmered like embers under the sun. Vines hung low, and wildflowers bloomed in defiance of the ever-present heat, their colors bold and defiant—crimson, violet, and sunset orange.
Winding through the forest, veins of flame danced across the earth like rivers of liquid fire, never consuming the trees but illuminating them from below. The flames licked at stone and root with a sentient grace, as though the valley itself breathed. Smoke rose in gentle spirals, perfumed with hints of spice and sap.
At the heart of the valley stood the Flame Mantle itself—an immense rock formation wreathed in perpetual fire. Its surface was etched with runes that glowed a deep, smoldering red, pulsing in rhythm with the land's heartbeat. This was not a place of destruction, but of raw, untamed magic—fire not as a force of ruin, but as a spirit of life.
Birds with wings of flickering flame nested in the treetops, and deer with ember-horned crowns grazed beneath glowing boughs. It was a realm where nature and fire danced in harmony, fierce yet beautiful, wild yet sacred.)
Yohan stirred. His eyes fluttered open to a field of pale flowers swaying gently under a sky he did not recognize. The air shimmered faintly, heavy with the scent of burning incense and something ancient.
He sat up slowly, confusion clouding his gaze.
"Medusa? Nyx?" he called out, voice rough with sleep. "Where have they gone…? And how long was I out?"
No answer came—only the soft whisper of petals brushing against each other in the wind.
Yohan rose to his feet, each step unsteady as he moved through the flowerbed. The blooms brushed against his boots like they were trying to hold him back, or perhaps guide him. The world around him felt unreal—quiet, too quiet. Even the wind seemed to hesitate.
As he pressed forward, the field thinned, and the air grew hotter, denser. The sky above shifted to a deep crimson.
Then he saw it—
A waterfall of flame, cascading from a jagged cliff in the distance. It crackled and roared like a living thing, yet no smoke rose from it. Just fire, pure and ancient, flowing endlessly downward into a pit of glowing embers.
He stopped in his tracks, the heat brushing against his face like a warning.
"What… is this place?"