The demon swarms launched such violent, unrelenting onslaughts that countless kingdoms and ancient cities simply collapsed into ruin. The war between humanity and the abyssal tides had persisted for over a century—a grim era where territorial boundaries became obscured by ash and blood. Many regions that once served as vibrant human habitations were now occupied by demons, leaving the human race forced to struggle for a tenuous survival against the most eldritch of evils.
Laurasia thus became an unavoidable battlefield of the Great Demon War, the primary stage for the desperate clash between the legion's darkness and the flickering light of mankind.
Yet, the Demon Legion was far more potent than any chronicle had foretold. Human armies could not contend with them on equal ground; most fortified cities had already been breached and laid to smouldering waste. Only a few defiant kingdoms still possessed the iron will to resist and endure the siege of the centuries. Currently, the demon swarms have spread to every forgotten corner of Laurasia, a wildfire of malice uncontrolled by any earthly force.
Because Seraph was now upon the soil of Laurasia, a myriad of fractured memories began to merge until they were agonisingly difficult to discern, appearing as nothing more than fading dreams of a life he never lived. His primary anchor was the memory of a magis, mirroring the battered, broken body that had recently awakened within the pristine white silence of the Infirmary Hall.
The young man was now uncertain whether these memories had manifested due to severe cerebral trauma, whether they were merely the fevered delusions of a frantic mind, or if they were indeed the echoes of the same human soul from a differing multiverse, returning across the void to forge into one.
✧ . ✶ . ✡ . ✶ . ✧
'An ancient myth tells of a sage, lost within a dream's delight...
A butterfly he became, joyous in wings of gilded light.
Yet the boundary blurs, where the illusionary dream began—
Was he a man dreaming he is a butterfly? Or a butterfly dreaming he is a man?'
✧ . ✶ . ✡ . ✶ . ✧
It was this very same disorienting sensation Seraph felt now. Myriad memories were jumbled together in a chaotic swirl, making it impossible to discern which world was true and which was false any longer. The only thing he knew for certain—the only cold reality—was that he was now upon Laurasia.
[Cough!]
The young man covered his mouth with a trembling hand. Instantly, he tasted the sharp, metallic tang of blood upon his palm. In his hand lay a large, dark, gloomy-greenish clot. The mass that emerged felt like residual poison being purged from his very system. As the dark clot exited, it brought a sudden, hollow relief. He therefore tried to cough up the tainted blood several more times, desperate to cleanse the rot within.
The coughing violently jostled the wounds across his torso. It caused a searing flash of pain, as if his ribs were fractured into jagged shards. Seraph looked down, examining himself with a detached intensity. After a thorough inspection, even though the wounds had been meticulously treated, he could still feel the deep, lingering bruises beneath the skin.
Fortunately, all injuries had been given proper first aid. A slight burning sensation remained, a stinging reminder of his fragility. Although the dressing method seemed rather like ancient, rustic medicine, the scent of bitter herbs wafting from the bandages made him feel slightly better. The sensation indicated that he was, at last, beyond the threshold of danger.
Even after coughing up the tainted blood brought significant improvement, Seraph still did not know how he had come to be in such a deserted and desolate Infirmary Hall.
The young man closed his eyes and slowly began to reorganise his memories once more. Suddenly, the complex memories of the mageia macrocosmic began to arrange themselves in an orderly, deliberate fashion...
The legacy of an orphan was a weight Seraph had endured in every shallow breath. With his family slaughtered to the very last soul, he had been raised by the Capital's cold silence. He lived in Arkflame—one of the final embers of mankind still flickering amidst the demon-ravaged wastes of Laurasia.
Eleven years prior, on the day his mother and father were slain by the legion, Seraph's mageia power had erupted in a violent surge. Because of that awakening, he was able to enter the Sanctus Sanctum, the supreme echelon mageia academy of Arkflame.
After Seraph had studied the arts of mageia within the Sanctum's hallowed halls, he was granted the opportunity to open the gates to the path of a magis. The core heart of a magis was, in its purest essence, mageia power.
Mageia Power was the primordial natural force present within every human body. In the Macrocosmic of Mageia, all things were birthed alongside this force, differing only in magnitude. Yet, only a few humans could truly control and manifest spell incantations. This rarity made the status of a magis noble and highly revered by the common folk.
Those who desired to become a magis had to possess a natural affinity for mageia. They had to have the capability to command the force and mana to move according to their unyielding volition. The power to commune with and control the natural force was the most fundamental requirement; if one lacked this basic command, becoming a magis was an utter impossibility.
However, the ability to commune and control the natural force—the sense of mageia perception—was the very thing that distinguished a common magis from one of truly high affinity.
Even though Seraph had the opportunity to study at the Sanctus Sanctum—a place the denizens of all Laurasia dreamed of—he had remained only an acomage, a weak and struggling novice. This caused him to live a life of constant hardship, forced to struggle incessantly against his own limitations.
Sanctus frequently held mageia duels between students. These duels had become a hardened tradition among the folk of Laurasia to display courage. Furthermore, duels were used to simulate combat and strengthen bonds; even many high-level examinations used mageia duelling as their primary test of worth.
The weak Seraph could hardly resist the predatory challenges of other acomages. The more they saw his frailty, the more they bullied him with increasing severity. That was the reason the young man was often treated as a lowborn pariah and tormented by those who smelled his weakness.
Most acomages hailed from wealthy dynasties and the noble class. Seraph, a lowly orphan, was thus frequently assaulted and tormented by them within the Sanctus Sanctum, unable to offer even a shred of retaliation.
Because he was not yet a full-fledged magis, the young man's status remained that of a groundling. Only upon reaching the next echelon would his status be elevated. This forced him to endure incessant bullying, not to mention the false accusations of theft whenever valuable items vanished—a convenient scapegoat for the elite.
The cause of the severe injuries that left Seraph convalescing in this hall was a challenge issued by a cruel group of acomages. Under normal circumstances, mageia duels were inherently perilous, but duelists were expected to restrain their strikes to prevent lasting harm.
However, his opponent had struck with full, ruthless power, intending to break him. Though Seraph was fortunate to have survived at all, he had been left in a state of critical trauma.
Seraph kept his eyes closed, submerged in these old memories for a long duration. As he recalled the past, his understanding of his current situation and this fractured realm deepened.
Laurasia was rife with peril: opponents within the Sanctus Sanctum, enemies beyond the kingdom's borders, the myriad beasts pervasive across the land, and the demon swarms teeming throughout this world of mageia. He had to struggle by any means necessary to survive.
Yet, for now, the only action he could take was to recover within this hall until his strength—and his resolve—returned.