Prologue — "The Heart That Should Not Beat"
Five thousand years ago…
The world bled under seven banners.
Flames tore mountains from the earth, oceans wept into the skies, and the sun itself dimmed under the shadows of endless war.
At the heart of it all—
A heart.
It pulsed not with blood, but with something older. Something divine.
It was not forged. It was not grown.
It was found—buried deep beneath the Great Abyssal Crater. A heart that did not die when its god did. A relic that defied the silence of time.
The moment it was unearthed, the world changed.
Death retreated.
Wounds healed in moments.
Minds whispered to themselves in voices not their own.
They called it The Heart of the Primordial, and every king, every saint, every sovereign of every race wanted it.
The humans sought to bind it.
The dragons, to awaken it.
The elves, to worship it.
The demons, to consume it.
The beastkin, to break it.
The celestials, to judge it.
And the abyssborn… they listened.
They heard what others could not: it was not alone.
The war that followed shattered the sky.
More than ninety percent of the world's greatest cultivators and sorcerers died in the pursuit of a single truth:
Immortality.
And in their arrogance, they failed to notice something creeping through the cracks of their broken world.
A hunger.
A darkness that consumed not just life, but memory, time, and soul.
The Abyss.
It came like a forgotten plague, invisible and patient.
It watched them fight.
And it waited.
Until, one day, the seven Founders—broken, bitter, and bloodstained—heard a whisper.
"You call it power. But it is bait."
No name. No form. Just a voice—cold, certain, and feminine.
And for the first time in two centuries, the leaders of the seven races stopped fighting.
In secret, under the ghost of a dying moon, the last survivors of the world's once-great empires forged a pact.
They would bind the Heart. Seal its pulse. Shape it into an artifact no longer divine, but controlled.
They called it The Throne of Rebirth.
Only the worthy—those from the noblest bloodlines—could be bound to it.
Those bound would return from death, again and again.
They would lose strength, perhaps, but never their lives.
The war ended.
The world was rebuilt.
And death was forgotten.
But before her name was erased, the whisper left a final warning.
"If you forget me… I will not forget you. When death returns, it will not knock."