### PROLOGUE: THE CRIMSON AWAKENING

  The night was draped in a suffocating shroud of darkness, broken only by the hungry roar of flames devouring what remained of the village. Ash rained from the sky like gray snow, settling upon the countless bodies that littered the scorched earth.

  Through the haze of smoke and death, a young man with hair as red as fresh blood trudged forward. His face was a mask of cold, hollow stone—a soul pushed beyond the brink of horror until there was nothing left but a haunting void. He stopped abruptly before a specific corpse, his breath hitching as he stared down with a vacant, agape expression.

  In the silence of his mind, the chaos faded.

  *“I am proud of you, my son...”*

  The echo of his father’s voice, warm and full of life, flickered like a dying candle in a storm.

  The memory snapped. Reality returned with the cold bite of the wind.

  "Who are you? What are you doing here?" a voice rasped from the shadows behind him.

  The boy didn't flinch. He remained motionless, a statue of grief staring at the dead. From the darkness, the sharp, metallic hiss of a blade leaving its scabbard sliced through the air. The stranger was closing in.

  The boy’s fists clenched until his knuckles turned white. His eyes snapped open.

  In an instant, his humanity fractured. The white of his eye bled into a terrifying, abyssal black, while the iris shriveled and glowed with a predatory, demonic crimson. Two jagged streaks of glowing red light etched themselves beneath his eye like cursed scars.

  The stranger’s eyes widened in sheer terror, but it was too late.

  The earth groaned. Suddenly, a jagged shard of molten sedimentary rock, dripping with searing lava, erupted from beneath the ground. It whistled through the air, skewering the man through his gut before he could even scream.

  The boy’s voice rose—not as a cry, but as a low, gravelly snarl drenched in pure hatred.

  "This... is all because of you..."

  The air grew heavy, the flames flickered one last time, and as the embers swirled into the dark sky, he spat the name that would change everything:

  "**TI-DRAGER.**"

  ***

  # TI-DRAGER: THE RISE OF ELIRA WINSEL

  ******

  MANY YEARS LATER

  The silver glow of the moon pierced through the ancient trees, casting long, dancing shadows across the forest floor. The night air was thick with mystery and the scent of damp earth.

  Out of the darkness, a woman stumbled into the light. Her name appeared in jagged, elegant letters on the edge of the vision: **SYNN HARLIA WINSEL**.

  Despite the terror of the chase, she possessed a haunting, ethereal beauty that seemed frozen in time. Her skin was as pale as moonlight, contrasting sharply with her deep, midnight-blue hair that framed a face of delicate, porcelain features. Her eyes, wide and sapphire-bright, were filled with a desperate light, and small crimson ornaments dangled from her hair, swaying violently with every ragged breath she took. There is a small mole on the left side of her mouth. looked more like a fleeing goddess than a mortal woman, her intricate teal and white robes torn by the brambles of the dark forest.

  Suddenly, she buckled. A sharp, searing pain tore through her abdomen, forcing her to clutch her stomach and collapse to her knees.

  A young boy, no older than six, with hair as white as a winter moon, rushed to her side. His eyes were wide with terror as he gripped her trembling hand.

  "Mother? Are you okay?" his voice cracked, small and fragile against the vast night.

  Harlia forced a smile—a heartbreaking, beautiful expression filled with more love than pain. Tears pooled in her eyes, shimmering like fallen stars. She gripped his hand back, her strength fading.

  "My sweet boy... will you do one thing for me? Just this once?" her voice was a ghost of its former self.

  The boy didn't hesitate. "I would do anything for you, Mother."

  With trembling arms, Harlia transferred the bundle into the boy’s small embrace. Inside the blanket lay a tiny, newborn girl. The infant was the picture of celestial innocence, her chubby cheeks flushed a soft pink as she let out tiny, rhythmic coos. She was so small, her skin like silk, and she hummed a sweet, melodic tune in her sleep, completely unaware that the world around her was falling into chaos.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Harlia’s gaze lingered on the baby before turning back to her son.

  "From this day on, her life is in your hands. Protect her. The world... it may look upon her with eyes of malice, but you must be her shield. When she breaks, you must be the one to hold her together. Promise me you will eat well... and promise me you won't let any foolish girls lead you astray," she added with a faint, tragic chuckle.

  Tears streamed down the boy's face, hot and unstoppable. He lunged forward, wrapping his small arms around his mother’s neck in a desperate embrace.

  "I won't leave you! I will never leave you alone, Mother!"

  Harlia gently stroked his white hair, her eyes looking past him into the shadows.

  "I promise... I will find my way back to you. But we must save her first, my love. Take her to safety. Once she is hidden, only then can you come back for me. Deal?"

  A deafening **BOOM** shattered the silence. The earth trembled as an explosion rocked the forest nearby.

  Harlia’s face hardened, the soft motherly light replaced by a fierce, protective fire. She shoved him back with a sudden, desperate strength.

  "RUN! NOW!!!!"

  The white-haired boy took one last, agonizing look at his mother before spinning around. With his sister held tight against his chest, he vanished into the trees, his small feet pounding against the earth as the world behind him began to burn.

  ******

  The sky above the jagged peaks was dominated by a colossal moon, glowing with an unnatural, pulsating light—as if it were a cosmic womb giving birth to a new, terrifying power. From its silver radiance, a silhouette emerged, detached from the very shadows of the mountain.

  Harlia collapsed onto the cold earth, her body trembling. The agonizing traces of childbirth were still fresh, her strength drained to its very dregs.

  The silhouette stepped forward, bathed in the moonlight. He was draped in a heavy, golden-yellow cloak that fluttered violently in the wind, a shroud designed to bury his true identity. His presence was like a mountain—immovable and suffocating.

  "I have no desire to end your life," the man spoke, his voice a low, rhythmic rumble that seemed to vibrate the very air. "I only seek the power residing within your child."

  The wind wailed through the trees. Harlia, her body broken but her spirit unyielding, forced herself to stand. A defiant, blood-stained smirk played on her lips.

  "A mother... never truly loses," she rasped, her voice thin but sharp as a needle. "And I know your secret. You are dragging the name of **THE MIDNIGHT EYE** through the dirt. You are no member of theirs. You are a fraud."

  The man’s posture stiffened, his aura growing heavier with malice. "You have learned too much, woman. But you forget your place. You are a fragile shell. How long do you think you can stand against me?"

  Harlia’s breathing stabilized, her gaze turning cold. "Have you ever looked at a flower? The most beautiful thing on this earth, meant only to enhance the grace of others?"

  Suddenly, her right iris ignited with a brilliant, crystalline blue light. An ethereal azure aura surged around her. "But tell me... have you ever felt the sting of its thorns? The kind meant to kill?"

  She raised her hand. Moisture from the humid night air swirled and condensed with violent speed, crystallizing into a jagged, shimmering blade of enchanted water.

  The stranger hissed a cryptic incantation, his fingers dancing in the air in a blur of complex, forbidden mudras. Behind him, the shadows fractured and multiplied. Dozens of glowing, translucent clones—perfect mirrors of his menacing form—ripped themselves from the darkness.

  Harlia didn’t flinch. She slammed her palms together, her blue eye blazing like a supernova.

  "**CLONING KAIJU!**" she roared.

  In an explosion of azure light, hundreds of radiant clones of Harlia materialized, their water-blades humming with lethal energy.

  "ATTACK!"

  The two armies collided like a tidal wave hitting a cliffside. It was a symphony of chaos. Steel clashed against liquid blades, creating sparks that lit up the forest like dying stars.

  Harlia’s clones moved with the fluid grace of a waterfall, parrying heavy strikes and counter-attacking with blinding speed. They weren't just reflections; they were extensions of her rage. One clone slid under a shadow-warrior’s blade, severing its leg with a whip-like motion of water, while another leapt from a tree, driving its crystalline sword through a phantom’s chest. The air was filled with the hiss of evaporating water and the guttural roars of disintegrating shadows.

  It wasn't a fight; it was a massacre of light against darkness, a dance of death beneath the watchful eye of the titan moon.

  ***The stranger stood amidst the carnage with a terrifying, stoic calm. Around him, the battlefield was a symphony of death, yet he remained the conductor, eyes fixed and calculating. Every clash, every scream seemed to be within his design. Slowly, he raised his blade toward the obsidian sky. Suddenly, an ethereal shadow-dragon spiraled around his body, crackling with dark energy. With the speed of a howling gale, he surged toward Harlia.

  Harlia tried to raise her sword, but her strength was a flickering candle. The stranger’s blade sang through the air, plunging deep into her abdomen until the steel protruded from her back. Her eyes widened in agonizing shock.

  Through the blood rising in her throat, she rasped, "A mother... never truly loses."

  With a final, desperate surge of will, she twisted her fingers into a complex, mantis-like mudra. Her hand shot forward, tapping the air toward the man. The stranger’s eyes buckled.

  **CLANG!**

  In a reality-shattering blur, the sword was no longer in Harlia. It was buried deep in the stranger’s own gut, forcing him backward as he coughed in pain. Harlia stood gasping, her wound miraculously gone—the forbidden Kaiju technique had drained her very soul.

  Then, the stranger’s body began to flicker and dissolve into mist. A decoy.

  "I knew you would use that," a cold, disembodied voice drifted from the darkness behind her.

  Harlia’s heart stopped. She spun around, and what followed was a heart-stopping, visceral symphony of steel. They clashed with such violent speed that the air seemed to fracture. Harlia fought like a cornered lioness, landing a few desperate strikes, but the stranger was a ghost. For every blow she parried, three more found her flesh. Crimson lines bloomed across her skin, a slow dismantling that left the viewer breathless with dread.

  Suddenly, the warrior assumed his dragon-stance once more. He lunged, a blur of golden-yellow death, crossing paths with Harlia in a split second of silence.

  Harlia froze. Her eyes shattered with grief as blood erupted from her chest. Tears streamed down her face, mixing with the dirt of a home she couldn't protect. She collapsed to her knees, the light in her eyes fading.

  The man didn't show an ounce of mercy. He delivered a brutal kick to her ribs, sending her sprawling. Even then, broken and dying, Harlia reached out with a trembling hand, clutching his ankle with the last of her life.

  The stranger looked down with eyes of cold void. He grabbed her arm, hoisted her broken body into the air like a ragdoll, and with one swift, merciless arc of his blade, he severed her life.

  As Harlia’s body fell lifelessly to the earth, her hundreds of azure clones suddenly stopped. In a chilling, eerie silence, they turned toward the murderer and bowed their heads in absolute submission.

  The mother was gone. The darkness had won.***

  The silence of the scorched forest was shattered by the frantic footsteps of a five-year-old boy. His white hair, messy and singed by embers, whipped in the wind as he sprinted toward the clearing where he had last seen his mother. He stumbled over charred roots, his small hands scraping against the jagged earth, but he didn't stop.

  "Mother!!!" his voice cracked, a high-pitched plea lost in the vast emptiness. "Mother, where are you?!"

  Suddenly, he skidded to a halt. His breath hitched. His entire world turned to stone. Through the veil of smoke, he saw what remained. Two heavy tears traced paths through the soot on his cheeks, falling silently into the ash.

  A wide, haunting vista unfolded, revealing the skeletal remains of the broken village through the rising smoke

  From a distance, a figure stood amidst the ruins—a tall, imposing samurai with a physique of tempered steel. Long, snow-white hair spilled from beneath a traditional conical hat, and a flowing white beard, reminiscent of the ancient Chinese masters, caught the wind. He was a mountain of calm in a sea of destruction.

  The vision blurs into a memory.

  A weary woman, her eyes hollow with starvation, held out a bundle—a radiant, newborn baby girl. She pressed the child toward the old samurai.

  "Take her," she whispered, her voice trembling. "We have nothing left... not even a scrap of bread. Please, let her live."

  The old master reached out, his calloused hands cradling the infant with a tenderness that defied his warrior's frame. The baby, Elira, looked up at the scarred face above her and let out a soft, innocent coo, her tiny fingers reaching for the light.

  A rare, gentle smile broke through the samurai’s stern features. He brushed a finger against her soft cheek, his eyes softening with an oath of protection.

  "From this day forth," his voice hummed, deep and resonant, "you shall be my little Elira."

  As he spoke, the name **ELIRA** didn't just fade; it began to echo, carried by the wind over the burning mountains and through the shifting tides of time, marking the beginning of a legend.