The Law of Intention, also known as the cursed spell, is a powerful magic that transformed the entire world. What was once a decent story spiraled into chaos, destruction, and war. The desire to become the greatest consumed every mortal. It is normal for mortals to have the ambition to ascend and improve, but the Law of Intention twisted these desires into their worst possible forms. To achieve their goals, mortals became capable of anything—they could kill, destroy, and become the worst beings imaginable. As a result, countless wars erupted across the world, and everyone became consumed by their intense drive to dominate and become the strongest. Morality and kindness faded into nothing more than distant dreams.
The Law of Intention—an arcane enchantment, a desire-born spell that alters the very fabric of mortal existence. It is the final incantation, the crowning whisper of a world that bends to craving. This is no spell of healing nor harmony; it is a crucible of hunger, a sacred curse that guides mortals toward their darkest reflections. Through it, they reach not divinity, but the abyss—their most vicious selves, adorned in greed and wrapped in want.
Each mortal soul, granted choice, often selects the crooked path. They hunger endlessly, devouring without pause, never sated. But is it truly the Law of Intention that births their cruelty? No—it merely amplifies what was already rooted in their hearts. Desire is the fire, and this law, the wind that fans it. Mortals have ever been selfish—cruel, not out of malice alone, but out of fear, out of longing, out of the illusion of separation.
From the dawn of time, they have warred within themselves. They yearn to build, and just as easily, to destroy. They seek everything—regardless of cost, regardless of the shivering echoes of consequence. Paradox defines them: mighty yet trembling, brilliant yet broken. And so one must ask—what lies behind this fragile paradox?
A sovereign of the upper realms once whispered:
"Flesh-bound and hollow, mortals drift like cursed vampires—alive, but never truly living."
Indeed, they are kin to vampires, but not in form—in spirit. They feed not on blood alone, but on each other's light, each other's hope. Destructive and terrifying, yet strangely tender. For the ones they cherish, they become soft—adorable as a feline curled by firelight. For the ones they disregard, they are shadows, fangs, and hunger.
The sovereign, a collector of stories, believed every mortal carried a tale. Some radiated joy, love, the glimmer of sunrise. Others bore tales heavy with sorrow and unmet desire. Yet all, no matter how rich or tragic, shared one truth: none were ever enough. Mortals always yearn for more—more feeling, more knowing, more being. They chase the unknown like moths to a sacred, secret flame. They long to taste pineapple with apple, not because it nourishes—but because it defies expectation. The unknown is their addiction, their religion.
But the unknown is no benevolent god. It is as wondrous as it is terrible—as seductive as it is sorrowful. Mortals fear it when it reflects their grief, when it whispers their buried regrets. They recoil when its gifts are curses in disguise. Yet still, they press onward.
For above all, mortals seek joy. They crave the forgetting of pain, the erasure of ancient wounds carved into the soul. They wish to write a future untouched by the shadows of their past—where sorrow is fiction and regret, a myth. But such forgetting, like perfection, remains an illusion. And so the tale goes on.
Once, long ago—before time had even come into being—there was a story written by a certain entity. This being existed alone, surrounded by nothing but silence and emptiness. Out of its imagination and loneliness, it created a story. The story was incomplete, yet it marked the beginning of something new—an era of stories.
From within that first tale, mortals came into existence. And with them came thoughts, emotions, and desires. These beings were not content with the world as it was. They wanted more—more control, more meaning, more creation. They began to imagine their own stories, shaped by their personal hopes and dreams.
Driven by this desire, they unknowingly set the foundation for endless creation. One by one, each mortal dreamed, and through their imagination, new stories began to form—countless, endless, each shaped by a different heart and mind. And so, the age of infinite stories began.
What is a story?
It is more than ink upon parchment, more than sound shaped by lips and tongues. A story is a fragment of eternity—a shard of the soul that slips through the cracks of time, carrying with it the laughter, the sorrow, the dreams, and the despair of those who dared to live.
Stories are not born from nothing. They are born from everything.
From whispered prayers in the silence of the night,
from the tremble of hands that have lost too much,
from the radiant eyes of a child discovering the world for the first time.
They are born when the heart can no longer carry its weight alone,
and so it spills into words—into stories.
Some stories are sung like lullabies, soft and full of light, woven with joy that dances like sunbeams on ancient waters.
Others are carved into silence, heavy and cold, echoing with grief that stretches across generations.
And yet, all stories—whether bright or dark—hold truth.
They are not illusions, not lies, not fleeting dreams meant to be forgotten.
They are the pulse of the universe, the voice of creation itself speaking in every tongue, every form.
There are stories of parents who loved so fiercely that even the stars remembered their names.
Of children who wandered into the unknown, chasing shadows and finding light.
Of warriors who fought not for glory, but for peace.
Of queens who ruled with mercy, and kings who fell to their pride.
There are stories of friendships forged in fire and ice, of loyalty unbroken even by death.
And there are stories of hatred—deep, bitter, and old—of vengeance so cold it turned love to ash.
And then, there are the quiet stories.
The ones no one sings of.
A broken servant whispering his regrets into the dark.
A forgotten lover gazing at the moon, still hoping for her return.
A stranger giving bread to a beggar with no name.
Small, unseen—yet as vital as the grandest epics.
Each story, no matter how small or vast, is a world.
A world built from memory, emotion, imagination, and truth.
Some are stained with sadness so deep it drowns the soul,
while others offer a glimpse of beauty that feels too pure for this earth.
And still, we listen.
Why?
Because in every story, there is a piece of us.
We may not be the hero, nor the villain.
We may be the whisper in the background, the silence between the lines.
But we are there, all the same.
Stories remind us that we are not alone in our hunger for meaning.
That others have stood where we stand,
that others have loved, lost, hoped, and fallen.
And when we forget who we are, it is in the stories we find ourselves again.
The world is made of stories.
They are older than time, older than anything.
They float through the air we breathe,
hide in the eyes of strangers,
wait in the rustle of trees and the crash of waves.
They are in the laughter of children, in the rage of storms,
in the silence between stars.
Some say stories shape the world.
But perhaps it is the other way around—perhaps the world is the story.
A never-ending tale of chaos and order, of sorrow and splendor,
of mortals and immortals dancing to the rhythm of fate.
Some stories end in joy, others in sorrow—fates woven by unseen hands,each closing chapter a reflection of the path walked.
But amidst all this destruction, someone existed who was different.
Who is he? A question, a mystery, and an enigma. A mortal unlike any other—a mortal without a will of his own, a mortal who is essentially a servant, the strangest being to have ever existed. Long ago, he was a warrior, existing only to destroy and devour everything in his path. The concept of protection meant nothing to him. Mortals' purpose is to destroy others to protect themselves, but what is the purpose of this strange mortal? Why does he destroy without reason?
He was a servant, bound to obey his master's commands. He could kill enemies, allies, or even destroy creation itself if ordered to do so. Why did he follow his master's will instead of his own? What made him a mortal without will or emotion? What was the reason behind his existence?
A person's mentality is shaped by both their own will and the influences of society. But in the case of this strange mortal, he had no will of his own. He didn't understand the value of his existence, and he couldn't act according to his desires—perhaps because he didn't even have desires.
He had witnessed nothing but war and destruction since his birth. These endless wars and chaos had shaped his entire mentality. Instead of developing an independent will, he came to believe that he existed solely to carry out orders and fulfill his master's commands. From that moment on, he became the ultimate weapon of war—a being who destroys whatever he is told to destroy.
Over time, a question began to surface in his mind: Why do wars and destruction exist? What is the purpose behind it all? Why is everyone so selfish? Why am I different from them? Why do they desire more and more? He settled on a singular mission: to discover the reason behind the world's chaos, the endless wars, and the destruction. Since then, this became his ultimate goal.
Raizel, the adopted son of Rionel and Rinia, was an extraordinarily intelligent boy. He mastered every type of magic spell in a remarkably short time, and his talents became well-known across the realm.
At seventeen, he enrolled at Zeldia Magic Academy, where he found allies who would aid him in his quest.
Now, his journey begins.
Will he uncover the secret behind the Law of Intention? Will he learn the truth of his own existence?
Or will he become the key to the world's salvation—or its ultimate destruction?