The warm coastal winds swept across the port town of the United Tribal Island as Renar Velin, High Diplomat of the Hena Kingdom, followed the soft-footed steps of his beastkin escort. The lion-eared guide, dressed in woven leathers adorned with feathers and bones, led Renar through bustling stone-paved streets, where dragonkin vendors bartered goods with towering bearfolk and agile fox-kin children darted between market stalls.
The journey through the port town took nearly an hour and thirty minutes, winding past communal plazas, prayer pillars dedicated to Lu Sang, and tall trees that had been carefully integrated into the town’s architecture. All around were signs of disciplined prosperity—market discipline, quiet guards, and a harmony Renar found unsettlingly efficient.
Far above, in the grand manor overlooking the sea, Lu Sang sat cross-legged within his private chamber. He brushed aside the silk curtains and reached into an old leather pouch tucked beneath his ceremonial robe—the last remnant from his original world. Inside: thirty cultivation pills, glistening like tiny suns. He consumed five, one by one, each sending waves of heat and energy through his meridians.
With eyes aglow and breath steady, he meditated as his Cultivation Great Sage voice echoed in his mind.
“Crossing into the True God of War Stage will solidify the Yang Spirit Core… hold your breath and hold your mind, Lu Sang…”
Energy howled within him like a storm. Bones groaned. Flesh hummed. For an hour, all of the island's spiritual energy seemed to swirl around the manor like a cyclone of unseen power.
And then it was done.
Lu Sang opened his eyes—a god of war reborn.
Meanwhile, Renar Velin had finally reached the towering manor gates, where two guards flanked a gate the size of a city wall. When he rang the bell, its echo reached into the air like a solemn chime.
From within, a butler emerged—twice Renar’s height, with long black robes and a heavy gold brooch in the shape of a flame-dragon crest. His eyes narrowed.
“Why are you here?”
Before Renar could answer, two guards leaned over and whispered, hands never far from the hilts of their jade-forged spears.
“I come as a representative of the Hena Kingdom, seeking to discuss a matter with Lord Lu Sang,” Renar said diplomatically. “The recovery of certain… individuals, and perhaps a trade proposal.”
The butler sighed, the weight of bureaucracy and conflict evident in his posture.
After a few moments of murmured discussion and internal confirmation, the massive gates opened. Renar stepped through, his eyes drawn to a grove of trees with strange red and white fruits. The white ones seemed to glow faintly under the sun.
“What are those…?” he wondered silently.
Inside the waiting hall, carved with stone motifs of dragons, beastkin clans, and a massive tree with glowing roots, a maid approached with a tray of food.
“Please enjoy, honored guest. This is flame-cooked chicken breast, steamed wild rice, and a slice of Alo Alo fruit, fresh from the manor grove.”
Renar studied the milky-white slice, tapping it with a fork.
“Why is this fruit white? I’ve never seen its kind before, but only red.”
The maid gave a respectful bow.
“Red means it is in its raw phase—potent and deadly. Forty of our people perished before we understood that. White means the blessing phase, safe and even revitalizing. The Alo Alo only grows in this state on this island.”
Taking her advice to heart, Renar tasted the fruit—and found it subtly sweet, slightly tangy, and undeniably refreshing. He continued eating quietly for the next hour, reflecting on how foreign everything felt here.
At that same moment, Lu Sang stood from his meditative posture, golden flames gently trailing from his limbs. He left his private chamber and descended through the manor, entering the guest hall.
There sat Renar Velin, wiping his lips with a fine cloth.
Renar stood immediately.
“Lord Lu Sang, I come as representative of King Drovan IX of the Hena Kingdom. I’ve been tasked with discussing the return of our… former property—slaves, as well as proposing a trade for the Alo Alo fruit.”
Lu Sang’s eyes locked on him, unreadable.
Without a word, Lu Sang pointed up and down, gesturing for Renar to follow him. They walked in silence through the winding corridors of the manor, each step echoing with quiet power.
Finally, they arrived in a grand office filled with charts of islands, magical leyline maps, and a large mural of the Temple of Reincarnation.
Renar began again.
“Our king asks for the return of the freed elves, claiming them as rebels against his rule. However, I also bring my own proposal—to establish a fruit trade for the Alo Alo.”
Lu Sang leaned back in his chair, hand to his chin.
“No one is being returned. That matter is closed.”
Renar bowed his head but pressed on.
“Then… may we focus on the trade instead?”
Lu Sang gave a small nod.
“We can talk trade. If your ships do not bring slavers again.”
Encouraged, Renar pressed further.
“I also ask one more thing. May I see the mist-covered zone beyond the port town? The one the sailors whispered of? I must know what lies there… for peace, and perhaps for fear.”
Lu Sang stood again, walking to the window. He tapped on a bell once.
A different beastkin arrived, dressed in green and gold.
“This is Shevan, manager of the Mist Ward. He will escort you. But be warned, diplomat—follow the signs, or you may not return.”
Renar gave a deep, practiced bow.
“Thank you, Lord Lu Sang. May this be the first of many steps… away from war.”
The morning sun painted golden streaks across the eastern sky as Shevar, the tall, scale-armored dragonkin, motioned silently for Renar Velin to follow. The diplomat adjusted his fine robes and secured his satchel as they departed from the edge of the manor grounds and began their journey eastward.
Before them stretched an awe-inspiring landscape of meticulously cultivated fields and mystical energy. This was no mere village or trade hub—it was a domain, alive and sacred.
Their path first brought them into a dense grove of Alo Alo trees, spread across 20 acres of land. The trees shimmered faintly with divine energy, and the white fruit sparkled like pearlized snowdrops in the sunlight. Renar paused to glance up at them, recalling their potent effects.
“This many trees…” he whispered. “Enough fruit to supply a kingdom…”
Shevar glanced at him with a low rumble in his throat.
“We only harvest them in the blessing phase. And only enough for what we need. Balance keeps the land alive.”
Beyond the Alo Alo grove, the ground dipped gently into rich cornfields, stretching over 40 acres. The golden stalks swayed in the breeze like waves, and among them worked nimble, sharp-eyed Kitsune—fox-like humanoids with soft fur, pointed ears, and swaying tails.
Renar stopped in his tracks, brows furrowed in curiosity.
“Who are they?” he asked, motioning to a pair of young foxfolk dragging baskets brimming with corn.
Shevar looked ahead as he walked, his tail flicking once.
“Kitsune. A spiritual race born from dreams of warmth, cleverness, and guardianship. They earn tails with strength, age, or wisdom. Most start with one, grow a second with maturity. The third marks those near the elder tier. The fourth and beyond…” He looked off toward the horizon. “Are for those who walk with gods.”
Renar’s gaze fell on a trio seated on a nearby porch—elders with three flowing tails, receiving offerings from younger Kitsune. He opened his mouth, about to ask what stage that signified in their power system—but caught himself.
Don’t say too much. Observe… for now.
They continued onward, passing into lands filled with wheat and bamboo. The air here was different—earthy, calm, and a little wild. Catkin farmers, with fur-covered ears and quick hands, worked diligently in the shade of the bamboo groves, their tools glinting in the sunlight.
Children wrestled among the wheat while older Catkin sharpened knives and turned soil with reverence. Their huts were round and low, built directly into hillsides or carved into the thick bamboo trunks.
Renar’s diplomatic instincts could not help but take mental notes.
Tribal organization. Decentralized leadership. Harmony with terrain. Highly communal.
The journey was long. Two full days passed with silent treks through rivers, stone paths, and winding forest roads. Shevar seldom spoke unless Renar asked, and even then his answers were brief.
On the third morning, a thick mist began to roll across the trail.
Renar felt a chill, not of cold, but of tension.
In the distance loomed the Dungeon’s edge. Towering black stones arched high into the air, pulsing with a dim purple glow. At its entrance stood a series of signs marked in multiple languages—warnings, blessings, and scripture.
The largest sign read:
“Enter not with arrogance. Exit not with ignorance. What lies within is drawn from soul and dream.”
Beside it stood a tall structure with open walls—a sort of outpost temple, where incense burned and a dragonbone bell hung above a stone pedestal.
Shevar turned to Renar.
“This is the Misty Gate. It leads to the dungeon—three floors, ever-growing. Shaped by memory, dream, and nightmare.”
Renar stepped closer, eyes narrowed.
“You’ve built a fortress that lives... breathes... and remembers.”
Shevar didn’t respond. He simply placed a clawed hand on the stone altar and bowed his head.
“If you wish to see what lies beyond… you’ll speak to the floor manager. They’ll decide if you walk further.”
Renar turned, the heavy mist beginning to crawl up his boots. He stared at the great dark arch before him, now glowing faintly with light from within.
A dungeon of dreams, guarded by beastkin, dragons, and the will of a god-like man.
