The Villainess Wants To Retire The Beginning (Prologue)

The Beginning (Prologue)

PROLOGUE

Long before kingdoms rose from stone and swords glead in sunlight, before man carved his na into the earth, there were only two divine beings who road the void: Pyronox, the Flaborn, and Aenithra, the Frostmother.

They were not gods, but they were not mortal either. They were dragons, eternal and imnse, breathing life into the elents themselves. Pyronox, born of ember and storm, was the keeper of fire: wild, passionate, unyielding. Aenithra, shaped from starlight and stillness, ruled over ice: composed, calculating, serene. They watched as mankind, feeble and forgotten, toiled in darkness, cold, hungry, and broken beneath the weight of the uncaring world.

Out of love, perhaps... or pity, or even an ancient rivalry known only to creatures beyond comprehension, the dragons made a choice that would shape all of history.

They blessed humanity.

From their own essence, they gifted mankind magic: fla and frost, destruction and stillness, creation and silence. Humans were transford. Suddenly, they could summon warmth to protect themselves from winter, draw ice to preserve their food, forge tal with bare hands, or cool fevers with a whispered word. These gifts, once divine, beca tools of survival, symbols of hope.

Thus, the first Age of the Gifted was born.

In this golden age, elental magic coursed through nearly every human vein. Fire cities blazed with innovation: towers of molten glass, forges that never cooled, artists who painted with sparks. Ice cities thrived on wisdom and preservation: temples of frozen light, waterwalkers who healed, seers who read the patterns of frost.

But as with all blessings, ambition soured them. The people grew greedy. Magic, once sacred, was weaponized.

"They turned blessings into blades."

What followed was nothing short of apocalypse.

The Great War erupted, a catastrophic clash between the fire-wielding kingdoms of the South and the frost-bound empires of the North. Entire cities vanished beneath volcanic clouds.

Armies were frozen mid-charge on icy plains, locked in silent death. The world wept beneath the screams of firestorms and the cracking of glaciers.

And then... the dragons were gone.

So whisper that humanity betrayed them, that the gods of fire and frost were slain by their own creations. Others say they left in silence, shattered by grief, vowing never to intervene again.

In their absence, the magic began to fade. And the war ca to an end. The two sides decided it was ti to dwell in harmony once again.

What rose from the ashes was not peace, but ruin. A new age dawned, one marked by desperation, decline, and division. Only a select few, descendants of the original dragon-pardoned bloodlines, retained their powers. The rest, commoners, were left magicless, bitter, and burdened by envy. They were the commoners.

The Gifted beca nobility, elevated to near-divine status. In the fire-worshipping lands, they are called the Blessed of the Fla. In the frost-ridden territories, they are known as the Whispers of Frost.

Magic beca status. Bloodlines beca currency. And those without power? They were silenced. Bullied.

"Those who bleed heat or freeze shadows... are not just powerful. They are sacred."

And so, the world lives on, scarred by its past, shaped by magic’s dwindling breath, and haunted by the whisper that one day... the dragons may return.