In the original YGGDRASIL game, the lore surrounding heteromorphic races painted them as inherently malevolent. Most were described as evil by nature—beings of destruction, chaos, and instinctual violence. This categorization wasn't absolute within the game's mechanics.
Players could choose to act as heroes or villains regardless of their race and even design custom NPCs—heteromorphic or not—to embody any personality or moral alignment they desired.
You could create a kind-hearted Demon Lord or a benevolent Lich King. The game's engine didn't enforce racial lore beyond aesthetics, flavor text, and some passive gameplay mechanics.
Roleplay and customization ruled over predetermined nature.
But when YGGDRASIL became reality, things changed.
The world was no longer bound by the rules of a sandbox MMO. The lore—previously just dressing—took root in reality as law. While existing NPCs like Albedo, Aurora, and others retained the personalities crafted by their creators, the children Ancient One had with female NPCs of Heteromorphic origin were different.
They were born after the transition to reality.
They weren't molded by sliders or code. They were born as blank slates—just like any other children—but their instincts, thought patterns, and emotional tendencies were heavily influenced by the game lore embedded in their bloodlines. The legacy of their race became a subtle, powerful force, shaping their development.
A demon child born from Ancient One and a demonic NPC mother wasn't inherently cruel—but it felt a pull toward dominance, conquest, pride, and hate towards humanoids (Humans).
A half-Blood newts child may not have sought death, but it struggled to understand compassion. These weren't choices—they were truths rooted in the "reality" the world had become.
And over time, that truth grew into resentment. Their need for death and destruction became uncontrollably.
They needed violence. They craved purpose in destruction. But those needs were denied. They were told to hold back, to act nobly. Their mothers drilled into them: become greater than your siblings, outshine them, earn your father's gaze—not through chaos, but power, control, and discipline.
Even Arthur—Ancient One himself, who had destroyed YGGDRASIL, broken the gods of Old Asgard, and rewritten the fate of worlds—expected restraint. He was a being of overwhelming force and genius, a father unlike any other.
His children idolized him, raised on stories of his triumphs, his impossible battles, his conquests. He had never once bent to the world's rules.
So why were they expected to?
Why suppress their nature, when their father had embraced his? Why hold back their instincts, when he had used his to ascend?
For too many of his children, Ancient one wasn't just a father. He was the standard by which the universe itself bent. If he destroyed, it was justified. If he ruled, it was destiny. But to be told, you must not, while living in his shadow, broke something inside them.
The dissonance between what they were and what they were expected to be—coupled with instincts shaped by thier bloodlines for YGGDRASIL—created a slow-burning fire. One that no training, no philosophy, no amount of praise could truly extinguish.
And so, the rebellion wasn't born out of hatred for Ancient One—but confusion, frustration, and hunger.
They didn't rise against the Ancient One to kill him.
They rose to understand him—by walking the same path of conquest he once did.
They realized that no dream of empire, no war of gods or mortals, could be started with ideals alone. They needed power. They needed numbers.
They needed Nazarick.
Because every story of the Ancient One—Was written in blood.
And now, they would write their own.
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After the talk with Renner and Evileye, Arthur made his way toward his room. The lingering traces of incense and coffee hung in the air, but something else caught his attention—a faint, unnatural stillness, just out of place enough to trigger his instincts.
He stopped outside one of the spare rooms.
The door was slightly ajar, light from within casting a pale glow across the floor. Slowly, he pushed it open.
Inside stood Raynere.
She hadn't moved. Her arms were stiff at her sides, her face slack but her eyes wide open—frozen mid-thought, her body still caught in a perfect, lifeless posture. It was unnerving how still she was. Like a statue dressed in human skin.
Only then did it hit him.
"...Shit."
He rubbed his temple.
"I forgot to cancel the charm magic." Arthur said as he looked at her. "You know what? I'm not in the mood for anything right now. If I lift it, she'll probably throw a tantrum, pick a fight, maybe try to stab me with a butter knife..."
He glanced at her again— her eyes glazed slightly, still perfectly balanced despite six straight hours of standing.
"Haa… Fine."
Raising his hand, he spoke with a low, almost lazy tone. "{Raynere, get on the bed and get yourself some sleep}."
Her body finally moved slowly like someone waking from a long dream. She turned without a word, walked across the room, and gently sat on the bed. Then, with stiff, automatic movements, she laid down and pulled the blanket over herself.
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