Thou Shall Not Read

In the realm of Zalvoria, the air hummed with mana, a living essence entwined in every stone, stream, and shadow. This was a world sculpted by the clash of ambition and ancient magic, a place where kings ruled continents and swords sang under blacksmiths' hammers. Across its thirteen continents, the balance between light and dark hung precariously, held by the fragile hands of mortal and mythical alike.

It was a realm teeming with life. Elves whispered secrets to trees in their hidden glades, dwarves forged wonders beneath mountains, and pixies danced on starlit winds. But this world was also stalked by nightmares: demons from the underworld, dark magicians wielding forbidden spells, and the 72 Demon Kings, each a harbinger of chaos. At the apex of power were the mythical mana users—figures of legend capable of shattering mountains with a flick of their wrist.

Eryndor, nestled in the heart of Zalvoria, was a kingdom of contrasts. Here, rolling fields of golden grain kissed the edges of dark forests where corrupted mana beasts roamed. To the north lay uncharted lands plagued by beast tides, waves of creatures driven mad by foul energies. It was a land both breathtaking and brutal, where the strong thrived and the weak were swept away.

In this world, greatness was not given—it was forged in fire and blood.