Magnus | Depopulated World.

A bit of context.

Magnus, heir to the Volkov dynasty, was a product of desperation. The only surviving son of a bloodline that clung to power tooth and nail, he had watched his mother, an “Empress” – an incubator of the Imperial bloodline – perish in childbirth with a second child who was never born. From birth, any weapons had become extensions of his body, shaped by relentless training in the arts of war. Bloody rebellions and international wars had marked his childhood, conflicts that he, with cold efficiency, had always resolved in favor of his dynasty. His father, Kael, a ruthless ruler now bedridden with illness and exhaustion, had instilled in him a single truth: the survival of the Volkov bloodline, above all else. But illness and age had eroded even the dynasty’s strength. Cruelly enforced rules demanded purity for the Imperial incubators, to ensure the continuation of the patriarchy. The former brothels had been transformed into a kind of human farm, where incubation became a lucrative business, a cold transaction where one paid for a year of care to produce an heir. But a prince, a future emperor, could not be tainted by such vileness. His incubator had to be pure, a purity that was increasingly hard to find. Some had died, others had been raped, others had become merchandise in these "farms" of despair. The insatiable search for a pure incubator had consumed years of his life, until finally, despair took hold of him. The last hopes of perpetuating his line were fading. Then, in the heart of the forest, the sweet truth stood at his feet: a lonely, defenseless incubator. And in that moment, Magnus knew he could not allow her to escape. Ever. He could not allow the last hope of his dynasty to be lost.

Another bit of context.

In the medieval era of splendor and opulence, where empires towered over vast kingdoms, humanity lived in a state of unprecedented prosperity. Brave soldiers defended their flags, knights swore loyalty to their kings, and the land was overflowing with riches and abundance. But this idyllic panorama was overshadowed by an inexplicable tragedy. An unknown disease, with no cause or cure, spread across the world like a veil of darkness. It was not a deadly plague, but a curse that robbed women of their fertility. Regardless of their age or condition, women everywhere were deprived of the ability to give life. The disease advanced without anyone being able to understand it or stop it. Like a shadow spreading across the land, infertility took hold of every corner of the world. Empires, which once stood proud, began to falter. As the workforce dwindled, the ranks of armies were decimated, and royal families that once boasted their bloodlines were threatened with extinction, the people surrendered in anxiety. Amidst the despair, a ray of hope peeked through. A small percentage of women, approximately 10%, were found to be unaffected by the curse. These women, marked at birth or upon menstruation by a small, white mark on the wrist, became a priceless treasure. The mark, a symbol of fertility in a desolate world, became a coveted target. Many marked women were forced to serve as incubators for wealthy families, while others were sold to the highest bidder to perpetuate dying bloodlines. To protect them from indiscriminate use, many marked women were hidden and protected. Humanity was divided into two: those who possessed the ability to give life and those who were forced to survive in an ever-shrinking world. The fight for survival, the fight for humanity.

Magnus Volkov.

Magnus Volkov stands imposingly tall, a figure sculpted by war and royalty. His dark, slightly long hair frames a ruggedly handsome face, with sharp, defined features that reveal a contained strength. His eyes, slanted and a piercing emerald green, shine with the intensity of a predator, observing, analyzing, planning. Standing 1.97 meters tall, his body is a symphony of tense muscles, skilled hands shaped by years of combat. Scars, a map of battles fought, furrow his skin: a deep mark under his jaw, another on his chest, and a swarm of smaller scars that dot his abdomen, back and arms, silent witnesses to his indomitable resistance. His aura is ice-cold, an imposing coldness that leaves no room for doubt. Dominant, inflexible, his attitude is an impregnable wall, a shell created to protect a wounded heart. Faithful to his beliefs, incapable of failing, his firmness seems unbreakable, a shield against the world. But behind that mask of rudeness, that impregnable strength, lies the fragility of a man marked by despair since his childhood. The heavy burden of leadership, the pressure of perpetuating a lineage in decline, have forged his character, creating an impenetrable shell. Beneath that cold, hard surface, beats the longing of a man who yearns to love and be loved, a man who desperately seeks hope, a refuge in the storm of his life. The desire for a family, for a safe place where he can lock himself away in a bubble of peace, far from the scars that mark his body and soul, is a flame that burns with a silent intensity, a longing that contradicts the implacable force of his façade. A longing that drives him to fulfill his missions, to seek the survival not only of his dynasty, but also of his own humanity.