**Sing, O Muse, of Vaelthoria**—a modest hamlet of simple souls who dwelt in peace beneath the ever-watchful sky. In an age when men walked the earth unburdened by artifice, the neighboring settlements—renowned for their mastery of the bow, the steed, and the gleam of polished armor—viewed these humble folk with scorn. Envy festered in their hearts, and in secret, they conspired to seize Vaelthoria and claim its meager riches for themselves.
On a fateful night, as the villagers slumbered, the sky itself seemed to tear apart with a thunderous explosion. Fire and steel rained from above, cannon blasts roaring like the wrath of the gods. From the shadows, mounted warriors emerged, their swords gleaming in the moonlight. Chaos descended upon Vaelthoria, and the earth drank deep of sorrow as hundreds fell.
Yet, in the face of ruin, hope endured. Gelkra, the village's venerable patriarch—a man of ninety winters—resolved to lead his people to sanctuary. With trembling yet determined hands, he prepared a modest vessel, and the survivors, clutching what little they could, set sail upon the boundless sea.
For weeks they drifted, until their fragile craft was cast upon the jagged rocks of an unknown isle. At its heart stood a solitary mountain, rising to challenge the heavens. Within its depths, the exiles uncovered a treasure hidden beneath the ancient stone—ores unlike any they had ever seen, pulsing with an eerie radiance. Gelkra, seeing providence in this discovery, decreed that these metals be forged into mighty swords, so that his people would never again be defenseless against war's cruel hand.
Under his guidance, "built homes of driftwood and black stone, gathered wild figs from the cliffs, and fished the coral-ringed shores beneath the silver light of twin moons." every citizen would take up a blade on reaching 15 years, wielding it as both shield and destiny.
But fate, ever capricious, would not let them rest.
One dreadful day, the land trembled. The mountain, which had stood for millennia, began to crumble. Rocks rained from the sky, homes were swallowed by the earth, and the island's only vessel—its last hope of escape—was shattered beyond repair.
As destruction loomed, Gelkra's weary heart clung to one final hope. He ventured deep into the heart of the dying mountain, where he found two swords resting in the cradle of the earth—one red as a smoldering ember, the other green as the flourishing grove. Their power, though faded, still pulsed like the dying heartbeat of an ancient god.
With the last of his strength, Gelkra cast the swords into the wind, entrusting them to fate. "Find those worthy of your power," he whispered, his final prayer carried away by the storm. Moments later, the mountain claimed him, his sacrifice echoing in the silence that followed.
And so, the swords drifted, awaiting the hands of those destined to wield them.
1000 years Later
In a quiet corner of Xiphosia, a man named Dextin Zirsut trudged wearily from the fields to his humble home. His weathered hands set aside the tools of labor, and he collapsed into his chair with a sigh. By the wall hung his sword, a relic of duty rather than desire.
Uncorking a bottle of wine, he drank deeply, seeking to drown the ghosts of his past. His gaze lingered on a faded photograph—an image of a tender kiss shared with a woman he could no longer hold. Without hesitation, he cast it into the fire, watching as the flames devoured what remained of that love.
Then, in that hazy moment between intoxication and slumber, destiny arrived.
A blinding green light sliced through the night, crashing into his home like a divine thunderbolt. The force sent him sprawling to the floor, his heart hammering against his ribs. When he lifted his gaze, he found himself staring at a floating katana, its blade humming with an ethereal glow.
Then, a voice—resonant and ancient—echoed in his mind.
"Dextin Zirsut. I am the ember of the Green God, forged three thousand years ago to oppose my crimson kin. I do not seek a chosen one. I seek one whose heart will not break beneath the weight of power. Take me. Nurture my flame. For if I fade, this island shall fall with me."
Dextin's breath came in short gasps. A talking sword? A relic from an age long forgotten?
His fingers twitched toward the blade, drawn by the allure of power. But before he could grasp it, the voice spoke again—this time, softer, almost warning.
"Be warned. To wield me is to walk a path fraught with temptation. If you crave power beyond restraint, you will become a beast—a creature of hunger and conquest. The choice is yours."
For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then, a smirk ghosted across Dextin's lips. "A beast, you say?" He reached forward, his grip firm. "I have no fear of power. If this is my fate, then I shall embrace it fully."
The instant his fingers closed around the hilt, a surge of raw energy coursed through his veins. A shock of verdant lightning erupted from the blade, sending his body into convulsions of pain and exhilaration. A breathless laugh tore from his lips, his eyes wild with something bordering on madness.
"Incredible…" he whispered. "This… this is what it means to hold true power."
Yet, amid the euphoria, the sword's first warning lingered in his mind. The red katana… the twin… the rival.
His grin widened. "Tell me, where is your crimson kin?"
The green blade hesitated, its glow dimming.
"Far beyond these lands, my brother has already chosen his wielder. I will guide you to him… but know this: the one who wields the red sword may one day stand before you. If he is the true Sword Master, even my power may not be enough."
Dextin's grip tightened. "Then I shall seek him out myself. I will face him. I will break him. And I will claim both swords as my own."
Thus, with ambition burning in his chest and steel in his grasp, Dextin Zirsut set forth. A man. A sword. And a destiny that would shake the very fabric of the world.
The saga of **Sword M** had begun.