Kasatarou

The light-sculpting helmet Kasatarou wore was designed for delicate repair work on the golden spires of The Teikodian Empire, not for whatever happened in the sub-level laboratory that day. They were simply trying to re-fuse a hairline crack in a ceremonial archway when a wave of energy, cold and vast as the void between worlds, washed through the chamber. It wasn’t the Empire’s controlled magic; it was raw, ancient, and utterly indifferent. The helmet flared, channeling a power it was never meant to hold. A beam of chaotic light erupted, not mending the crack but vaporizing a perfect, silent hole through the arch. Kasatarou’s mouth fell open, their shock not from the destruction, but from the sudden, terrifying understanding of how small the Empire truly was.