Among the twelve Great Cosmic Continents of the Legendary Plains, the Great Cosmic Continent of Gemini stood unrivaled in sheer size and wonder.
It was called the Twin Continent of East and West—as though some divine blade had cleaved it perfectly down the middle, and from the scar of that cut flowed the vast Gemini Sea, a silver-blue ocean that stretched endlessly between the two halves.
Branches of this sea split off like veins of living water, snaking across the land, making Gemini the beating heart of maritime trade. Entire races of aquatic beings had made their home within its depths, and countless ports thrived along its shores.
But for all its beauty, the Gemini Sea was not the central jewel of this land. That honor belonged to the two overlords who reigned supreme over its soil and waters.
The Dark Kingdom, one of the three rulers of the Neutral Faction, held dominion over the land—its armies, cities, and nobles spread across both the eastern and western halves.
The seas, meanwhile, belonged to the Zodiac Night Federation, another leader of the Neutral Faction, whose fleets and maritime clans controlled every wave and current.
Together, these two powers had turned the Gemini Continent into the largest trading hub of the Legendary Plains.
Moreover, under the Neutral Faction’s rule, freedom of choice was upheld, attracting wandering experts, adventurers, merchants, and even the agents of dead factions.
No matter which banner one carried, all were bound by the Neutral Faction’s laws while on Gemini soil. It was a continent of opportunity—and of shadows.
On the western half of Gemini rose Noxvalis, one of the five grandest cities of the continent. Its streets were carved in concentric rings, each tier ascending toward the central citadel like steps toward a dark throne.
The Noxvalis City was divided into three massive divisions.
The first division was the outer districts, which were bustling with trade, markets, and taverns, where adventurers from every corner of the plains spilled coin and blood in equal measure.
The second division was the middle rings, which were home to merchants, artisans, and wandering nobles, thriving in the city’s constant pulse of commerce.
Finally, at the very heart lay the Inner Sanctum, where the Dark Nobles resided—aristocrats of the Dark Kingdom whose titles began at Dark Nobles and climbed into the rare heights of Dark Dukes!
Over them all ruled the Deathless Prince, the only Dark Prince of the Noxvalis City, making him the city’s master and sovereign.
The Deathless Prince was a Legendary King of the Necromantic Lich Race and embodied immortality through undeath. To his citizens, he was both protector and tyrant, his skeletal visage a constant reminder of the power of the Dark Princes of the Dark Kingdom.
In the Noxvalis’s third ring, nestled between a district of mercenaries and smugglers, stood a tavern whose name carried both fear and reverence, named The Prince’s Chalice.
The Prince’s Chalice was one of the Deathless Prince’s many enterprises; it catered to nobles and warriors alike, its reputation second only to the citadel itself, and it was one of the most famous attractions of the Prince’s Chalice.
The Prince’s Chalice’s interior was vast and dim, lit by chandeliers of black crystal that burned with ghostly magical flame.
A low hum of conversation mingled with the clinking of cups, the laughter of mercenaries, and the soft, haunting music played by Aqua Bard Race’s minstrels.
At that moment, perfume, blood, and alcohol thickened the air, but in the far corner, however, silence lingered.
A solitary figure sat there, cloaked in darkness. He was a dark elf, his skin pale as moonstone and his hair as black as midnight silk.
His mature, handsome face was cold, his sharp eyes aloof, making him seem untouchable despite the noise that filled the room. His attire was refined but understated, a dark ensemble that spoke of power restrained rather than flaunted.
As he sat, a waitress approached, carrying a tray upon which rested a crystalline bottle filled with liquor that shimmered faintly with violet light.
This was the Abyssal Mourne, a drink brewed only for the Dark Nobility, reserved for Dark Viscounts and above-ranked Dark Nobles.
It was said that one sip of Abyssal Mourne could ignite the soul with visions of death—and cost enough to bankrupt entire taverns elsewhere.
The waitress herself was striking, a Land Siren—a rare branch of the sea races, with flowing azure hair, flawless skin, and sea-green eyes that shimmered like a tide under moonlight.
She moved with practiced grace, but her curiosity betrayed her. She stopped at his table, bowed lightly, and set the tray down.
Glancing at the pale figure enshrouded within darkness, she was unable to restrain herself. She asked softly as her voice was incredibly alluring and hypnotic, "Why would my lord be sitting in the general area? For someone of your stature, we have private rooms available."
The moment the Land Siren spoke, the dark elf’s gaze lifted. His eyes, sharp as obsidian blades, flicked toward her.
Under his single glance, the Land Siren felt cold, and a chilling sensation around her neck as if an invisible death scythe was kissing her glossy skin.
"Mind your own business," The Dark Elf said, his voice low, laced with a faint aura of killing chill.
The temperature seemed to drop. The waitress froze, her body trembling as the weight of his presence crashed over her. Though she was a Quasi-Legend, she felt as if she were drowning in the depths of a frozen abyss.
Panic seized her. She quickly lowered her head, respectfully placing the liquor in front of him with both hands before retreating in haste, her steps hurried, as though she were fleeing from a calamity she should never have disturbed.
The dark elf never glanced at her again, and he simply reached for the Abyssal Mourne.
The dark elf tilted the crystalline bottle, its violet shimmer catching the ghostly firelight as he poured the Abyssal Mourne into his glass.
The liquid swirled thick and smooth, releasing a faint mist that carried the scent of death itself—rich, metallic, and tinged with something almost funereal.
He lifted the glass with elegant precision, his pale fingers curling around its stem. Bringing it to his lips, he took a slow sip.
The flavor unfurled across his tongue like a storm of contrasts: bitter as ash, sweet as forbidden nectar, and sharp as steel freshly drawn from the forge.
Each note lingered, one after another, leaving behind a strange warmth that seeped into his bones, for this drink has a trace of Death Law. It was a drink meant not for pleasure but for power—yet in its cruelty there was beauty.
His eyes closed. For a fleeting moment, his guarded mask slipped. The tavern’s noise faded, and the world narrowed to the haunting intoxication of the Mourne.
He let the sensation wash through him, savoring the rare indulgence after a very long time, as if time itself had slowed.
Then he opened his eyes. Their cold sheen remained, but deep within, a faint melancholy flickered—gone almost before it appeared, like a shadow cast by passing light.
A whisper escaped his lips, more to himself than to anyone else, his tone touched by something uncharacteristically human, "Having taste buds is really a blessing."
The words lingered in the dim air, almost drowned by the music and chatter, yet carrying a weight no one else could understand.
But at this moment, a curious, melodious voice rang in his mind, ruining the mood, "Hey, hey! I want to try it too, let me copy it into the Nightmare Realm!"