• “Bedtime, sweetheart. You’ve got school in the morning.”
    The father knocked three times on his daughter’s door. When nobody answered, he opened the door himself.
    “Come on now, Aria. I know you’re awake. You never sleep this early,” the young man pulled on the blankets around the “sleeping” daughter. The girl laughed and looked at her father. “See?” he snickered. “I know you only too well.”
    The young girl sat up and brushed back her hair. She was a fifteen year old girl with blonde hair, currently in her third year of high school. She leaned against the wall.
    “Aria, you’re too old to pretend you’re asleep. I know something’s up.”
    “Oh, um, nothing daddy. I’m fine,” she replied.
    “Come on, sweetheart, you can tell me,” the young father persisted.
    A few moments of silence passed. At first, she felt embarrassed. Her father noticed of course. He didn’t even need to see her face. He was a teenager once before, after all.
    “No, you’ll laugh if I told you.”
    “Aria?”
    “But you’ll laugh,” said Aria, putting her arms on her head and pulling.
    “Come on, Aria.”
    The young lady smiled and pointed at a shelf next to the door.
    “Ah,” guessed her father, “you want me to tell you a story, am I right?”
    “Hm. Yeah.”
    Once more, a silence fell over the room. After a minute, they both broke out in laughter.
    “Ha-ha. You know, I never really thought you’d still like to hear of Naurasaeia.”
    “Yeah, I know, I know,” she scowled, “I’m not a kid anymore.”
    All of a sudden, her father looked sad and serious. His face, young and smooth, now looked troubled, as though a decade had gone by in an instant. The look only lasted for a moment, and then, he snapped back to his senses. He looked into his daughter’s eyes and nodded.
    “I never told you how the story ended, did I?” he asked her.
    “No, you never did.”
    “I see... It’s been ten years since I told you the story. And yet, I never bothered to finish it, huh?”
    She nodded.
    He sighed, paused for a moment, sighed again, and stood up. Slowly, the man walked to the shelf and began to search for a book, speaking as he went.
    “Long ago,” he said, “the world was not how it seemed to be.”
    He paused and pulled out a large book from the shelves.
    “Long ago, human beings lived in a beautiful land, much different from our own.
    “Long ago, in a time more primitive, yet more advanced than our own, we lived in peace, alongside other races, in the legendary land of Naurasaeia.”
    The man returned to his daughter’s bedside and after dusting off the book, placed it on the girl’s lap.
    “And now, you open it.”
    The young woman put her hand in her shirt and pulled out a key-shaped amulet. She put it into the lock, and hesitated for a minute.
    “Dad?”
    “Yes, girl?”
    “I miss Mom.”
    “So do I, sweetheart, so do I,”
    Aria turned the key and the lock clicked open. Somewhere inside the book, a music box mechanism played an enchanting melody. She opened the book, just as she had done ten years ago.
    Welcome to Naurasaeia, land of the Seven Races.
    This tale happened long ago, on our very world. And yet, one from our time would not recognize this legendary place. Nobody knows for sure how this world vanished, how the old ways of life vanished, but one thing for sure. Nobody believes it these days. Nobody believes that the tales in this book are more fact than fiction.
    To avoid confusion, I wish to tell you, my dear reader, of the people of this strange and wonderful Earth, and I wish to start by introducing to you the Seven Races.
    First of all are the humans. They are the youngest among the Naurasaeian races, and are the only remaining of the Seven. They possess no impressive strength or agility, no outstanding mental abilities. Nonetheless, they are an interesting race. Humans don’t have ultimately powerful minds, but are extremely quick witted, creative, and always seem to be in the spirit of luck’s good side. They have a history with the dwarves and have shared a bond of friendship with them from many generations ago.
    Human creativity is renowned across Naurasaeia. Being weak of mind and body, they had to develop strength somehow. Thus, their race has become known for the invention of wild machines to make their lives easier. It was the humans that taught the other races how to pump water and oil from the ground. It was also they that introduced the six simple machines to the world.
    Unfortunately, humans are also extremely vulnerable to sin, particularly greed and sloth. They tend to want things without working for them, more value for less cost. This is in general, not a good combination of habits.
    The second race was the elven society of Thaluith. The elves were a secluded range that inhabited the forests of the Eastern Range. While elves possessed about as much physical strength as a human, their reflexes and agility were fine tuned to almost supernatural degrees. Their senses of smell and sight were also as impressive. Note that despite the unique shape of elven ears, this did not affect their hearing. Perhaps their only physical weakness was their slow rate of recovery. Elven bodies were built for speed and not durability, and usually, a serious injury ended up becoming a permanent injury should they survive it.
    Elves divided themselves into two clans; the Shadowleaf clan and the Silverdawn clan. The only reason the clans did not coexist was because of the source of power. The Shadowleaves gained their share of power from the moon. Likewise, the Silverdawns’ power source was the sun. It is interesting to note that long ago, the elves once drew power from both the sun and moon. Unfortunately, a relic known as the Cup, supposedly meant to amplify energy in the event of an eclipse divided their magic in two. Politically however, the clans held nothing against each other.
    In an attempt to reunite their kin, the elves’ king and queen were, since then, never from the same clan. This tactic never proved to be successful, and the elves remained divided until the Disappearance.
    Orcs were the most physically capable force in Naurasaeia. While some considered them primitive, eons of evolution have allowed their kind to adapt to the world around them. Orcs inhabited the deserts of Osun Tor, weaving a thriving society among the shifting sands. While not very intelligent, their skills with spirit and earth magic, coupled with the force their muscles put out made them legendary.
    Orcs were similar to humans in wit, though not as quick with them, and having had to learn how to survive in the desert lands, used their strength with extreme efficiency. They were taught weak points of every object from an early age, and a trained adolescent could have snapped a two-foot thick cactus with three-inch long thorns in half. Take note that this was done via a punch and not a grapple hold.
    This race was ruled by a chieftain. Every four years, the older chieftain duelled against the local tribe champion. The winner reigned as chieftain for the next four years. I once knew a chieftain, before the Disappearance occurred, before I fell into that long slumber and woke in this world. He was then twenty years old and had been ruling as a brave and wise warlord for fifteen years straight.
    The next of the races were the naga. They were the most unique among the races in that they were sea-dwellers, and were more serpent than two-legged demi-human. They once dwelled within the sunken halls known as the Citadel. Nobody knows how this Citadel looks like. It wasn’t that no land-dweller was allowed in naga territory, it was just that it was too deep, and too dark for any surface creature to reach, even for the most skilled of air and water bending magi.
    The naga claimed to be the first of the races to inhabit Naurasaeia, and claim that proof is engraved into the Citadel’s walls. While they were unable to prove it, it is common fact that all life began in the ocean.
    Naga had a love for art, and were responsible for the beautiful engravings found on many of Naurasaeian artefacts.
    Dwarves inhabited the mountains of Aroth Tum. They were short with heavy bones and muscles. Closely associated with humans, dwarves shared many branches of their culture with the latter race. In fact, it was the dwarves that taught humans the arts of building, forging, and mining.
    The dwarves were also very proud when talking about their skills with the hammer, be it forging a weapon, or quarrying a mountainside. Trade in dwarven society circulated around the import and export of precious stones and metals. Only the dwarves had access to the massive reserves of mithril, orichalc, and adamantine.
    These aforementioned metals were the most prized treasures of the dwarves. As such, their demand in the worldwide market was always high. Yet, the dwarves only allowed them to be used for creation of the most powerful weapons and artefacts.
    Many races have sought these metals for their rumoured indestructibility. The dwarves laughed at this theory of indestructibility, for they knew the weaknesses of all things mined from the earth. They refused to share this knowledge with other races, even under threat of torture or death. It was actually a dwarf that disposed of Horror’s chief guard, a centaur who wore three armours, one over the other, and each made of one of the metals.
    The sixth race was one that many feared, for most didn’t think of them as a true race. They came from every background, shape, and size, and the only thing they had in common was the fact that they all died once long ago. The undead Armada were outcasts, forcibly returned to their bodies as atonement for unforgivable crimes, or willingly returning from the land of the dead to fulfil a lost cause.
    Occasionally, an undead soul would request permission to remain on Naurasaeia as long as they wished. Reasons for this varied greatly, but often, these souls would have learned to let go of worldly possessions and choose to return to the other side anyway.
    The undead, much like humans, were found throughout Naurasaeia. However, they did not settle down to exist in one place, haunting being a common exception. The only known undead settlement was the Cold Fortress, found at the heart of the Frozen Exile of the far north.
    They were once ruled by a man of whom little was known about. He possessed a gauntlet called the Sorrow with which he judged who had paid enough for their crimes and deserved eternal rest, and who deserved to be pulled back from the other side. While many feared him, I believe he was a good man. Is it not true, that with such a powerful object in his control, he could have used it for evil if he wished to so long ago? Perhaps, he came to hold such an artefact for reasons others couldn’t have understood. Perhaps, he was a prisoner in his own right. Society may never know.
    Perhaps his most powerful servants were the Demiliches. Their true powers have never been witnessed for all who saw such an awesome display never lived more than two seconds later, or so tales go. If there were no survivors, then where the tales came from is a mystery. Some claimed they controlled the cleaving frigid air of the North. Others believed that where they went, decay followed. Whatever their abilities were, remember nobody ever found out the full extent of their strength, and perhaps it is best if it were to remain that way.
    The final race was that of the faeries. They lived in colonies around Naurasaeia, mostly near rivers and swamplands. Though they have a “Queen City” as they like to call it, nobody even knew where it was. It is also interesting to wonder why nobody ever asked a faerie where it was. A theory would be that, being mischievous little beings, faeries charmed a person the moment they talked to them, making them forget about asking where their Queen City was located.
    Faeries had the longest lifespan among the races, excluding the undead, whose time of existence in this world depended on how grave their crimes in their past life were, or how long it took them to complete their tasks. Faerie bodies also never seemed to age, and at maturity, took on the appearance of a winged, thirteen year-old child. To have determined their age, one must have referred to the length of their hair if the faerie was female, and the number of rings on their wing patterns if it was male.
    These seven races shared the old world together, and, just like any civilization, often came into conflict with each other. The last known war held in Naurasaeia however, was only fought by two sides: the Alliance of the Altars, and the Master of Fear, known as Horror.
    The war began when the last two artefacts of Naurasaeia were forged. Black Dove and White Crow were the pride of all races, and were to be a symbol of friendship and alliance between the Seven. They were planned by the humans. The dwarves mined the metals from deep inside their mountains’ hearts. Their projectiles were finely crafted by elves. The naga engraved the weapons so beautifully that the artwork on the weapons nearly sang. Faeries bestowed seven blessings, and undead bestowed seven curses. It was the orcs that completed the masterpieces, by using their knowledge of spirit magic to give the weapons minds of their own.
    After thirty days and a half, the whole of Naurasaeia rejoiced with the unveiling of the twin weapons.
    They glinted in the sun, two guns, one black, and one white, each with a blade to be attached to its muzzle. Never before and never again would a world have cheered as hard for the creation of such beautiful weapons.
    Fools we were. Laughter attracts attention, and the attention we attracted was more than the Seven could have ever imagined.
    We knew not where it came from, or why it even existed. It was called Horror. It fed on laughter, on happiness. It despised any cherished thought and consumed happiness at will until its victims fell to the ground, mad. It was a being of pure negative emotion, pure hatred, and it wanted the power of the guns.
    Six years past since we first celebrated, it came upon us in the form of a man of black, venomous smoke, wearing naught but a crown, chest plate, gauntlets, leggings, and boots. Those it passed by fell to the ground in the presence of such fear, they were never able to defend the sanctum where the weapons were kept.
    Such was Horror’s power; we looked up at it helplessly as it approached the sanctum’s doors. What happened next was a sight we never forgot.
    Our beloved King Phero, son of Janu the Wise, opened the doors for Horror just before he reached the top of the stairs and in his hand flashed Black Dove.
    “You do not falter before my fear,” said the shadow, “Why?”
    Bravely, our king, then only eighteen, replied. “You destroy man’s happiness and leave sadness. Sadness is caused by regret, demon. In my life, I regret nothing!”
    Our king shot the monster in the chest, if it had one. For a fleeting moment, happiness returned to us, as though Phero was a beacon of hope for us. Then, the hope was taken away.
    Horror laughed with a bone-cracking laughter. “You have no happiness in you now for I have sapped you dry, King of Humans. The only reason you stand is because you have no sadness. But just because you can stand up to me does not mean you can stop me.”
    It charged forward, passing through the king as it went, and grabbing from his hand, Black Dove. Still, it kept going until it reached White Crow. In the next second, it vanished, with it, White Crow, but not before firing off one of its six shots into our king’s shulder. As it left, the shadow screamed blood-chilling words: “I’ll give you something to regret! Regret the fact that you let your people down!”
    Black Dove remained with us. The First Curse prevented whoever fired the gun from putting it in someone else’s possession until its wielder dies, or until all seven curses have been activated.
    We never knew what kept our dear King Phero so strong. He had lost White Crow, and now faced war with Horror. Coupled with that, he was no longer invulnerable to Horror’s fear, for he regretted having lost the masterpiece. Yet, he was bold as ever. He was as strong as he was that fateful day.
    News about the loss of White Crow spread across Naurasaeia spread like wildfire through a forest in autumn. Slowly but surely, morale of the Seven Races began to diminish. We all knew but a tenth of what the artefact was capable of, perhaps less. Now that it was in the hands of Horror, it could, with but a word, destroy all of Naurasaeia. The only object that prevented Horror from doing so turned out to be the remaining firearm. So long as Black Dove remained in our possession, the balance of power was kept.
    It didn’t take long before our world plunged deep into the depths of war. Nobody knew where the Horror launched its campaign from. It came from nowhere and struck with about as much mercy as an avalanche racing down a mountainside. For four years, it thrashed through our world, its demonic hordes slaughtering or corrupting all they came across. For four years, the Seven fought alongside, to no avail. The battles we fought were either stalemate, or failure.
    Finally, on the last day of the fourth year, seven minutes to midnight, our king and one hundred of his finest, along with a hundred of the other races’ finest, each led by their kings, queens, and chieftains joined minds for the first time in eternity. For two weeks, they pressed through demon-infested lands to meet the Enemy-of-All upon the slopes of Drontuthal. For two weeks more, they fought toe to toe against the Indestructible Foe.
    Be it skill, luck, or sheer willpower with which they survived the battle’s many hours, it didn’t matter. For toward the storm’s end, King Phero found himself locked in an epic duel against Horror itself.
    It was said all fighting ceased as all warriors, archers, and magi dropped their weapons to watch the two warlords duel against each other. The bards told me of the battle, of how it rained fire and ice as they fought. At last, after half a day of combat, our king and his mighty adversary drew against each other the cause of the war. In a battle for our world, with sheared armours and broken swords, it was said they had no more to fight with than the guns.
    And so, more out of desperation than confidence, they unleashed the remaining five bullets into each others bodies. With each shot fired, lightning flashed and thunder roared. The seven curses and seven blessings of each weapon were released from their seals within the gun. The result was utter chaos, yet beautiful serenity. The dead arose once more, yet died instantly. Fissures appeared in the mountainside, and yet, flowers bloomed in seconds.
    And when chaotic divinity ended, the battlefield was silent, and no sound could be heard but the piercing wind of Drontuthal. To everyone’s joy, the Beast was slain. To everyone’s sorrow, the Hunter fell as well.
    Our king died that day. Sunset overshadowed his pyre. It was a beautiful sight. Story goes, the skies cried the tears of the millions slain because of the war that day. In one day, happiness was found, and sorrow was born. One thing was for sure. Our brave leader’s face would light our dreams decades after his death.
    So, dear reader, you may ask what this story is about, if the Enemy was defeated before it was even written. I will tell you.
    I am one of the few who knows this, but the Seventh Curse, unleashed only when one tried to fire the six-shooter a seventh time, was the binding of the wielder’s soul to the cursed weapon. Thus, our good King Phero is bound to the Black Dove with infinite patience, and is destined to guide her next wielder until the Seventh Curse is unsealed once again. But if this is true, then Horror is bound to White Crow, waiting, hoping for a chance to possess whoever fires the gun.
    I couldn’t understand why nobody believed my theory. Everyone thought Horror to be dead. No one wanted their fears revived even in words. Horror had done enough damage already.
    A year passed after the battle, and it was decided by the Seven that the weapons be destroyed before another power-hungry mongrel’s prying eyes see them as tools to glorious success.
    So, the dwarves tunnelled deeper than any have tunnelled before. They dug beneath the earth until they reached the River of Fire that flowed under the rocks. Hastily, they threw the weapons into flames and covered up their tracks.
    Who knew that for reasons undiscovered, the weapons would find their way back to the surface?
    Discovered only after the weapons were thrown into the bowels of the planet, it turned out that the River of Fire flowed further than any river on Naurasaeia. It wasn’t a river, but a sea. It was a sea of rolling fires that violently tossed molten steel and rock around the world’s bloodstream.
    With this discovery, we knew the weapons would not remain under the crust for long. Hundreds of volcanoes and lava flows spewed pumice, lava, and searing rocks every day. Soon, Black Dove and White Crow would find their way back to the surface. When that happened, there would be no telling what dangers they could pose to the Seven.
    Black Dove was fine. Only an exceptionally powerful and dark mind could sway the will of our king trapped inside. He would probably force the Dove’s owner to use the gun for good, but what of the Crow? The Horror’s mind could be far too powerful for any living being to control. Slowly, but surely, White Crow would take over its owner; heart, body, mind, and soul. Trapped inside the gun, Horror couldn’t take over in an instant, but it was a creature of terrifying patience. Piece by piece, bit by bit, whoever held the crow would lose themselves. Soon, they would not even recognize themselves anymore.
    It was fifty years before our fears were discovered. Black Dove resurfaced in the crater of Drontuthal, and was recovered by one of the four Dreads, once powerful lieutenants to Horror itself, and definitely more powerful than our trapped king’s will. White Crow on the other hand appeared a world away, in a small village called Strodebell. By Fate’s hand, the darkest artefact to have ever been seen on the face of Naurasaeia found its way into the hands of a young boy named Eon Wolfe.
    Here, we begin our story.