Under a sky split by silver clouds, the moon hung enormous and low, glowing red as if steeped in blood. Legends whispered that on such a night the boundary between worlds thinned, and the ancient sword of Lúmaris would awaken. Forged in an age when gods still walked the earth, the blade was said to drink moonlight and answer only to a heart both fearless and burdened by sacrifice. Villagers gathered in silence around the blackened stones of the old temple, for they knew the crimson moon was no omen of peace—it was the call to arms.

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