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Record of The Great Library Year 798 Elven Calendar - 25 Years Before the Great War of Spear.  Spring in Melvendil was never meant to know war. The forest sang in colors, petals drifting like slow-falling stars, rivers whispering through silver roots, and the wind carrying laughter from branch to branch. The elves believed their land was eternal, untouched by the hungers of the outside world. They were wrong!!! The first sign was not fire... but silence. Birdsong suddenly vanished. Then came the horns.   From the northern ridges, where stone bit into sky, the mountain clans descended—iron-clad, ash-marked, relentless. They did not come to conquer. They came to erase. No one noticed, even the elder yet suddenly Melvendil burned. Flames climbed ancient trees that had stood for centuries. Steel clashed against magic, and for all the grace and power of the elves, they were unprepared for hatred so raw, so human. Villages fell one by one, their beauty turned to cinders. In a small settlement nestled between flowering groves now called Lihsor-The Blades Camp lived a boy named Kahazaar. He was no warrior. He knew nothing of blades or battle, only the rhythm of seasons, the warmth of his mother’s voice, his father’s steady hands, and the laughter of his little sister chasing fireflies beneath twilight leaves. On the day the world ended, he was gathering springwater. He returned to screams.   By the time he reached the village, it was already too late. His father lay at the entrance, unmoving, a broken shield beside him. His mother… he found her near the roots of the elder tree, eyes open, as if still searching for him. His sister... He never found her whole. The flames roared louder than his voice. No one answered when he called. No one lived. Except him. The forest watched. Melvendil was not just a mere land, it was alive. Its roots drank sorrow. Its winds carried memory. And as Kahazaar fell to his knees in the ashes of everything he loved, something ancient stirred beneath the soil. Grief came first. Then rage. Then something deeper. A wish. Not for justice. Not for peace. But for annihilation.   Kahazaar did not weep for long. Tears gave way to trembling, and trembling to stillness. His heart, once soft as spring, began to harden—cracking, twisting, reshaping itself around a single truth: Humans must suffer. All of them. Every last one. The forest felt it. And where nature once nurtured life, it now answered something darker. Roots crept toward him, silent and unseen beneath the scorched earth. The wind coiled tightly around his body. The scent of blooming flowers turned bitter, heavy with decay. Melvendil did not reject his hatred. It accepted it. No… it amplified it. A voice—if it could be called that—echoed not in his ears, but in his soul. “You are alone.” The ground pulsed beneath him. “You are broken.” The air tightened, pressing against his skin. “Then become what the world has made you.” Kahazaar did not resist.   He embraced it. The moment he let go of who he was, the forest answered in full. Dark veins spread across his body like creeping vines, glowing faintly with a sick, crimson light. His breath grew heavy, his pulse thunderous. Power surged through his limbs—not gentle like elven magic, but violent, consuming. This was no blessing. This was a curse. Ferocity. Born not from nature’s kindness, but from its capacity to mirror the hearts of those within it. Kahazaar rose from the ashes no longer as a child of Melvendil, but as its wrath made flesh—a Fallen. The curse etched itself into his being with cruel precision: Against humans—the source of his hatred—his strength would become overwhelming. Every strike would carry the weight of his loss, every movement sharpened by vengeance. He would tear through them as the fire had torn through his home. But against monsters—creatures untouched by his grief—his power would falter. His fury would find no anchor, no purpose. And so, it would turn inward, weakening him, unraveling him, as if the curse itself demanded clarity of hate. For Ferocity was not mere power. It was obsession given form. A weapon that required a target. A soul that could only burn in one direction. Kahazaar took his first step beyond the ruins of his village, leaving behind the last traces of spring. Where his feet touched, flowers withered. Where his shadow fell, the forest grew restless. Melvendil had survived the invasion. But it had created something far worse than its enemies. A living curse. And though the mountain clans would one day learn to fear the name Kahazaar… The true horror of Ferocity was not what it did to the world. It was what it had already done to him. Because deep beneath the rage—buried under layers of hatred and power—there remained a single, fragile truth: The boy who loved the spring was still there. And with every human life he destroyed… He drifted further beyond ever returning to it.  Year 838 - Elven Calendar The Great War of Spear. During the Great War of Spear, people searched of power even a little bit could help on savings their loved ones but.  The war did not begin with a single battle. It began with fear. Kingdoms fractured. Alliances went to an all out war. Monsters surged from forgotten depths, drawn by the imbalance left in the wake of war. No one is safe, Human who once was the aggressor, now found itself besieged on all sides—by beasts, by famine, and by its own past. Power became the only currency that mattered. And everyone grew desperate.   They searched everywhere. Ancient ruins swallowed by sand. Sunken temples beneath black seas. Forbidden libraries sealed by time and curse. Nothing answered. No relic, no spell, no blessing could tip the scale—not even for a moment. Until one man stopped searching outward… …and began searching backward.   His name was Berengar. The greatest mage of his era—not because of his strength alone, but because of his defiance of limits. Where others saw laws of magic, he saw suggestions. Where others feared consequences, he measured them. And where others saw Kahazaar as a nightmare best forgotten… Berengar saw potential.   It took him months to find the burial site. There were no maps. Only absence. The forest where Kahazaar fell had never recovered. Trees grew twisted, their bark split with dark veins. No animals lived there. No wind dared linger. Even magic… recoiled. Yet Berengar stepped forward. Because he could feel it. A pulse beneath the earth. Not life. Not death. Something in between.   When he uncovered the grave, he did not find a body untouched by time. He found a wound. The soil itself seemed corrupted—blackened, breathing faintly, as if the curse had refused to fade even after its bearer’s death. The remnants of Kahazaar’s Ferocity still lingered, coiled like a sleeping predator. Berengar knelt. And for the first time in years… He hesitated. Because even he could sense it: This was not power meant to be wielded. It was power meant to consume.   But the world was dying. And hesitation had no place in a dying world.   The extraction nearly killed him. Ferocity did not want to be taken. It lashed out—tearing through his defenses, invading his mind, forcing him to relive memories that were not his: flames, screams, loss, hatred so pure it burned thought itself. More than once, Berengar nearly broke. More than once, he almost became the next Fallen. But unlike Kahazaar… Berengar had no hatred to anchor it. And so, instead of accepting the curse, He contained it.   The result was not elegant. It was not stable. But it worked.   A crystal. Like an Undying fire, pulsing faintly with a violent rhythm. Inside it, Ferocity raged endlessly, unable to escape, yet never truly subdued. Berengar called it:   The Crystal Ferocity  At first, he believed he had achieved the impossible. To wield the curse without becoming it. To turn hatred into a weapon, stripped of its soul. But the first experiment proved him wrong.   The moment he tried to channel the Crystal directly into himself... It answered. Not as energy. But as intent. His body rejected it violently. His mind fractured under the pressure. The curse still sought a soul—any soul—to root itself in. Berengar understood then: Ferocity could not be worn. It had to be directed.   So he changed his approach. Instead of binding the curse to a person… He bound it to steel.   Weapons had no soul. No grief. No memory. They could not hate. And because of that… They could survive it.   Through months of refinement, Berengar reshaped the Curse into crystal—each one embedded into weapons as an enchantment. The result was terrifying. When wielded against humans, the weapon became unstoppable—cutting deeper, striking harder, fueled by the echo of Kahazaar’s vengeance. But when turned against monsters… The power faltered. Blades dulled mid-strike. Magic weakened. Even the wielder felt resistance, as if the weapon itself refused to obey. The curse had not changed. It had only been redirected.   Berengar named the creation: Ferocity Enchantment. A disposable power. A borrowed hatred. A curse that could be used— But never truly controlled.   Word spread quickly. To soldiers, it was a miracle. To commanders, a strategy. To the desperate… It was hope.   But Berengar knew the truth. Every time a weapon shattered after using the Enhcantment… Every time a soldier reported whispers in the heat of battle… Every time the crystal pulsed just a little stronger… He was reminded: Ferocity was not gone. It was learning. Adapting. Waiting.   Because even without a soul to claim… Hatred does not disappear. It lingers. It grows. And one day— It would find its way back to something that could feel again.   Far beneath the sealed chambers where Berengar kept the original Core… The crystal beat softly. Like a heart. Not dead. Not alive.   Remembering NOTE: This story is from original idea (full synopsies) but it is ai asisted to turn it into a story that everyone could read. because i can only imagine a scenario but was never able to turn it into words, so although im ashamed to admit. i think this is one of the best output for now until there is other people that can assist to turn ideas into a word. i planned to make a series on many random things like miscellanous items a monster, etc. just for fun sake.  anyway here is the screenshot of the Crystal!!! 

Было обнаружено что эффект гнев нежити не снимается ни какими видами очищения , а сам эффект смертельного взгляда снимается    lv_0_20260325144213.mp4

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