Thorns Walk in the Land of Fallen Stars

The curtain of the eternal night hangs low, the ancient stars flicker and fade in whispers, and this land calls for the guardians armored with thorns. I was once an ignorant sword-wielder who stepped into the palace of silver thorns. The sharp thorns wrapped around the badge shone with cold light, thinking that glory was everything. As everyone knows, every silver light is tempered by blood and frost, and every breath is soaked in the fog of the Fairy Wilderness and the dust of the Starfall Land. The world is not the picture in the ballad. The shadow of the dragon flies across the scorched earth, the whisper of the forgotten grimoire echoes in the ruins, and order, like fragile glass, needs to be defended with iron and death. On this journey paved with stardust but full of thorns, I learned: The real power lies not in the sword edge that splits the darkness, but in becoming the toughest silver thorn that even the darkness itself cannot swallow. To become a leader is not to wear a crown, but to forge oneself into a throne of thorns. Wherever there are thorns, they are all my soil; wherever the silver light touches, I swear to watch the dawn. My name is an oath, and my body is a barrier.