People talk about falling from grace like it's just another Tuesday.
Like it's normal.
They say it's the cycle of life. That what goes up must come down.
Tell that to the man who once owned six towers in six countries, now warming his bones on the edge of a gutter, trading memory for coin.
Tell that to me.
But we'll get there. For now, you just need to know one thing:
I didn't fall.
I was shoved.
By blood. By betrayal. By something older than history.
And to understand how I ended up a beggar with bloodstains that never wash off, you'd have to go back—
No, not ten years.
Not fifty.
Try two hundred and thirteen.
Of course, I wasn't alive then.
But everything began the day the sky forgot how to shine.
---
The Day the Sun Died
It started without warning. The sun vanished—not a cloud, not a storm—just… gone.
The sky twisted into a black whirlpool that hung above every nation like a divine eye. People stopped working. Breathing. Praying.
For two whole days, the world held its breath.
Then nothing happened.
No fire. No rapture. No judgement.
Just darkness.
But silence has a way of planting madness. By the third week, people were rioting.
By the third month, people were adapting.
And then the wind changed.
It wasn't wind, exactly.
It was like… something in the air had grown teeth.
They called it mana.
At first, no one understood it. But the world felt it.
The trees grew teeth. The rivers hissed.
And the animals? They became monsters.
Not figuratively. Literally.
Predators evolved overnight. Creatures you could once cage became kings of their forests. Some could bend the very wind.
And worst of all: they were breeding.
Humans, of course, weren't spared.
Some found themselves stronger. Faster.
The lucky ones began hearing whispers from gods and woke up with strange talents.
The unlucky?
They became food.
---
When Power Woke Up
Seven years into the darkness, a black doorway erupted from the earth like a wound.
A dungeon.
They sent soldiers inside.
Most didn't come back.
Those who did came back with stories of labyrinthine floors, evolving monsters, and rewards forged from unknown materials.
Thus began the age of the Dive.
Dungeons started appearing everywhere.
Each one coded by colour—white, yellow, green… all the way to black.
Each one a promise of power. Or a grave.
Then came the first break.
It was a red gate.
Fifteen percent of the world's population gone in less than forty-eight hours.
That was the cost of greed.
Now? Humanity learned to keep dungeons trimmed like lawns. If you don't clear the first five floors regularly, the beasts inside multiply.
And when they overpopulate?
They spill out.
So now we had monsters in the wild, dungeons in our cities, and mana in our lungs.
The world was evolving faster than we could breathe.
---
A World Reforged
Weapons gained personalities.
Elements danced at people's fingertips.
Children were born with flames in their eyes and lightning in their blood.
New races emerged—beastfolk with fangs and claws but minds like humans.
They swore they had no ties to the monsters, even though they smelled like the jungle.
Then came the first dragon.
Then the phoenix.
Then the High Humans.
Each more terrifying than the last. Each demanding territory like old gods reborn.
We responded the only way humans know how:
We formed guilds.
We built schools.
We chased power.
Eventually, those with no talents began extracting cores from monsters—gems of pure energy—and consumed them for strength.
It was dangerous. Addictive. But who could resist?
Then came the dungeon shards.
The holy grail.
The final prize of a fully-cleared dungeon—an object that could rewrite your fate.
And then... forty-two years ago, I was born.
---
My Name Was Once Etched In Gold
I won't tell you my name. Not yet.
You wouldn't believe me if I did.
Just know I wasn't born weak.
I wasn't poor.
I had everything: money, magic, mana, and a talent from the God of Echoes himself.
I was chosen.
I led raids. I founded guilds.
People knelt when I entered rooms.
Even dragons gave me respectful nods.
Then came the betrayal.
Not by enemies.
By family.
And in three days, I went from eating on platinum to sleeping on concrete.
From celebrated to erased.
So, when you see me now—ragged cloak, broken boots, eyes like a burnt-out star—don't mistake me for a fool.
I'm not just your everyday street beggar.
I'm the man who remembers.
And this?
This is not my end.
It's my beginning.