Ersia: Raven Dawn

“First of all,” Mistus said softly,

“tell me, Randia—how long do you think humanity has existed?”

Randia had no answer. The question was not meant for him to solve, only to receive. He remained suspended within the lantern’s light, listening, letting Mistus to answer his own question.

“Five thousand six hundred and eighteen years, Randia. I can tell you the exact day—down to the very hour.”

Randia’s light flickered faintly. The certainty in Mistus' voice unsettled him more than the number itself.

“How is that possible?” he asked at last.

The question was not disbelief—it was an accusation wrapped in restraint. What makes you so certain?

“How is it possible?” Mistus echoed.

“Because I am the one who created you.”

The cold crept in slowly. Not as fear, but as recognition—an old, half-remembered dread aligning itself with something Vito had said earlier during their bout, something Randia had subconsciously dismissed as madness. The universe seemed to tighten around that single statement, as if everything else had merely been waiting for it to be spoken aloud.

Within the colossal mirror before them, Mistus revealed his true form.

He was almost human in shape, yet unmistakably divine. Three eyes gazed outward from his face, the third set in his forehead like a watching star, crowned by a radiant diadem that pulsed with restrained brilliance. His garments flowed in pristine white and molten gold, untouched by shadow—regalia befitting a being that once stood above consequence.

“I fashioned you from an inspiration,” Mistus continued, his voice reverent and distant,

“Something that came to me in a dream.”

For a moment, his third eye dimmed.

“Even now, I can scarcely remember it. It is as though something obstructs my attempt to recall—like a wall erected inside my own mind. Yet one truth remains clear.”

He lifted his gaze.

“But one truth remains undeniable. That presence convinced me that the shape I'm about to mold will be created in the most perfect form.”

Suddenly, pain struck him without warning.

Mistus groaned, clutching his head as though pierced by an unseen spear. The sound was raw—too human, too real. Beneath him, his body began to unravel, the lower half dissolving into the surrounding void, which resembled a shattered cosmos: drifting stars, fractured orbits, the remnants of a universe that no longer obeyed coherence.

Randia watched in silence. There was nothing he could say that would not feel meaningless

“Then,” Mistus went on, his voice trembling yet resolute,

“three thousand years ago—out of a desperate attempt to preserve as much life as possible—the world was split in two.”

The mirror shifted.

“Izar the Mason. Prince Faelrior. And I. We fled to the far eastern edge of the world—to what you now call Ersia.”

“We named that era the Exodus,” he said.

“It was an impossible undertaking. To move that many people in secrecy—while hiding—would have been unthinkable without the aid of great beings.”

Images surfaced in the mirror: titanic trees that breathed, luminous figures woven from earth and memory.

“Beings such as the Great Forest Spirit. And the Five Children of Ormundi.”

Before Mistus could continue, Randia spoke.

“You fled,” he said evenly.

“From what?”

Mistus fell silent.

The pause stretched—long, oppressive, heavy enough to warp time itself.

“Something … terrible,” Mistus finally said.

“Merely recalling it burdens me beyond measure.”

Another portion of his form disintegrated.

“I cannot tell you Randia. Not yet.”

Now only his torso and head remained.

“During that mass migration, I took one hundred disciples,” Mistus continued.

“Only eight survived.”

Randia felt a firm certainty form within him.

“Out of love,” Mistus said, “I gave them fragments of myself. And to several others as well.”

At the mention of eight, Randia’s mind moved instinctively.

"Aine… Dolla… Kyris… Therom… Omzun… Aristes… Irnala… Ruala."

With each name Mistus spoke, a pale, dim orb emerged from his palm. They hovered, orbiting him like mournful moons. When all eight were revealed, Mistus closed his hand around them—his expression heavy with grief.

“You said others,” Randia interjected, his tone devoid of empathy.

“Who else?”

“The chieftains,” Mistus replied.

“Those who left Seraina and settled in new lands. I gave them the Seed of Continuity—so ancestors might remain bound to what they left behind, and so the living could seek wisdom from those who had already returned to dust.”

Randia absorbed this, then asked the question that mattered.

“Then where did the schism begin?”

Mistus did not answer immediately. His gaze drifted across the stars, as though reliving something unbearable yet unavoidable.

“I failed,” he said at last.

“I failed to account for the scars within my children.”

His hand moved again.

Within the mirror appeared a planet—its surface etched with glowing lines, pulsing like veins.

“Did you know, Randia,” Mistus asked,

“that this world possesses its own currents of energy? Some call it the Artery of the World.”

“Invisible rivers,” he explained, “flowing beneath the surface. Magic behaves differently depending on one’s proximity to these arteries. Places distant from them are barren. Places aligned with them—extraordinary.”

“The Kurka Labyrinth,” he added, “is a perfect example.”

“Those who understand this force can draw significant power from it. And when the world was whole—when the arteries flowed twice as strong—many beings wielded magic of astonishing magnitude.”

“The ancient spells you learnt in books and tales, they were true,” Mistus said,

“Indeed, their cost was great, but so was their power.”

The mirror shifted once more.

A memory.

Mistus lay within a coffin-like vessel. Before him stood eight figures, cloaked in white, eyes glowing crimson. Two women wept openly. One man cried in silence, eyes shut as if refusing to see what he had done.

“It all came down,” Mistus said quietly,

“to a disagreement over whether this world was ready—when Izar’s prophecy would come to pass.”

“The fall of the wall that separates Ersia and the lost world.”

“I believed humanity would grow on their own,” he said.

“That they must be allowed to govern themselves—and the artery. An open source. A shared power.”

“But my children feared humanity,” Mistus continued.

“They failed to see beyond its darkness. Hence, they chose guidance through limitation.”

“A total control of power.”

In the mirror, the candles held by each of the eight flickered—then went out.

Darkness swallowed the scene.

“They could not kill me, even at the expense of their flesh and bones,” Mistus said.

“For reasons I cannot yet reveal.”

“So they sealed me instead. Bound me with curses.”

Now, only Mistus’s head and a single hand remained.

“They twisted my power. Prevented me from speaking the truth directly. Trapped me in this grotesque form.”

“That is why I have always spoken in riddles—to you, and to every hero before you.”

“All I could rely on,” he said,

“were ancient reliefs. Ruins. Old places that still remembered. And the curious—the truth-seekers.”

“Good men,” Mistus added softly.

“Men who are so often hunted and framed.”

With his fading hand, he released Randia from the lantern. The sphere of light drifted freely once more.

“We have been trapped for far too long in a perpetual tragedy and misunderstanding,” Mistus said,

“until you and Asmar appeared.”

“You were unique. No pair of heroes like you has ever existed.”

“And though it pains you,” he said,

“your brother’s death opened a path never before seen.”

“I know it is unforgivable,” Mistus continued.

“And I do not expect forgiveness.”

“But I wish for you to understand—that I had no choice.”

Now only Mistus’s head remained, dissolving rapidly.

“Vito—my proxy—sealed several pantheons during your duel, dealing a mighty blow in addition to their already weakened state. That, and the artifact he used to create this space-time bubble is why we can meet now.”

“But that too is ending,” Mistus said.

“Vito is likely dead.”

“So I will make you an offer.”

“Be my proxy, Randia.”

Randia scoffed.

“You’re insane,” he said.

“You are the reason for my brother's death. What makes you think I would ever agree?”

“Because,” Mistus replied calmly,

“by becoming my proxy, we will share the same goal.”

“To kill me.”

Silence swallowed Randia.

Ten thousand thoughts collided—risk and opportunity, truth and deception, vengeance and sacrifice.

“You have ten seconds before the whole space collapses,” Mistus said, his voice fading.

“Should you wish to thaw the frozen time, touch my third eye, Great Hero Randia.”

The black crystal gleamed faintly.

Mistus’s mouth vanished. Then the rest of his face followed.

“If I refuse?” Randia asked.

“Then I'm afraid I will have to find another host in another Mistari,” Mistus’s voice echoed for the final time.

"and perhaps, this will turn into another farewell."