Prana Chronicles: Sword of the Cosmos

The night sky was a vast ocean of stars, twinkling like distant, unblinking eyes. Beneath their gaze, two figures clashed amidst an endless void. Their swords, radiant and alive, carved through the darkness with terrifying precision. One wielded a blade aflame with golden light, pulsating with raw power. The other's sword shimmered a deep, haunting black, its edge seemingly tearing through reality itself. Sparks flew with every strike, their battle shaking the very fabric of existence.
In the shadows, whispers echoed—words of destiny, of sacrifice, of a power bound to the stars themselves. Just as the golden sword slashed toward its target, a blinding flash erupted, and the scene dissolved into nothingness.
"Arin! Arin, wake up!"
The voice was familiar, soft yet insistent. Arin's eyes snapped open, his chest heaving as if he had just sprinted miles. Beads of sweat clung to his forehead, and his heart raced. For a moment, the vivid dream lingered, the clash of swords and the whispered promises echoing in his mind. Then reality pulled him back.
His mother stood by his bedside, her face etched with concern. She was a woman of quiet strength, her hands rough from years of work yet always warm when they cupped his face.
"You're going to be late for the market," she said, brushing a strand of hair from his eyes.
Arin nodded, forcing a smile. "I'll be ready in a minute, Ma."
As she left, the weight of the dream pressed on him. It wasn't the first time he'd seen those figures. It felt more than a dream—like a memory, or perhaps a warning. But there was no time to dwell on it. He had chores to do.
The market was bustling, the air thick with the scents of spices, fresh produce, and the occasional whiff of sweat from the gathered crowd. Arin moved through the throng, a small basket tucked under his arm. He greeted familiar faces, exchanged polite words, and kept his thoughts on his tasks.
But as the day wore on, a strange unease crept over him. The air felt heavier, and the world seemed quieter, as if holding its breath. He glanced around, his instincts screaming that something was wrong.
That's when he saw it. In a secluded alley, a faint glow pulsated—a crack in reality, shimmering like a heat mirage. Before Arin could react, the glow expanded, pulling him toward it with an invisible force. His basket clattered to the ground, its contents forgotten as the world tilted and spun.
When the spinning stopped, Arin found himself in a world unlike any he'd ever known. The sky was a swirling palette of colors, and the ground beneath him was alive, pulsing with energy. Towering trees with glowing leaves loomed overhead, and in the distance, strange creatures moved—their forms both majestic and terrifying.
"Where… am I?" Arin whispered, his voice barely audible.
A rustling sound behind him made him turn sharply. Standing there was a boy about his age, his piercing eyes filled with a mix of confusion and determination. He held a sword in his hand—not an ordinary weapon, but one that seemed to emanate power, its blade engraved with intricate patterns that pulsed faintly.
"You," the boy said, his voice steady but tinged with an edge of hostility. "Who are you?"
Before Arin could answer, a deafening roar shattered the surreal calm. From the forest emerged a towering beast, its body a grotesque fusion of scales and shadows. Its eyes glowed an eerie red, and its presence radiated menace.
The other boy stepped forward, his sword raised. "Stay back," he commanded. "This is my fight."
Arin's gaze fell to his own hand, and his breath caught. There, faintly glowing, was the outline of a sword—not yet fully formed but unmistakably there. A surge of unfamiliar energy coursed through him, and for the first time, he felt it: a connection to something vast, something ancient.
The roar grew louder, and the beast charged. The prologue ended as the first battle of many began.