"Those who wield magic shall safeguard the balance of the world—guiding the weak and correcting the misguided.
And those who wield no magic shall tend the livestock and sow the seeds—feeding the hungry."
This passage is one of the verses recorded within the ancient scripture known as Sanctus—a sacred text that laid the foundation of the world called Eatherlion.
A world where two groups were said to coexist.
TheMagical and theUnmagic.
The Magical consisted of six races: Angels, Demons, Elves, Dwarves, Beastskin, and Humans.
The Unmagic, however, consisted of only one race—
Humans.
Why did the Human race belong to both groups?
The answer lay in a single distinction:
The Core.
Though their physical appearances were identical, their essence was not.
The Core—known as the Magic Core—was the source of defense, healing, growth, and offense through magic.
Magical Humans possessed this core.
Unmagic Humans did not.
Without magical protection, their lives depended entirely on their natural bodies—or on the healing magic provided by the Church, a service that came at a price.
And so, the Magical Humans chose a new name for themselves:
Magicians.
At first, the world existed in a fragile peace.
Each group fulfilled the role assigned to them by Sanctus.
But as magic advanced, the Magicians discovered new methods—faster, more efficient—for food production through magic.
Slowly, the place of the Unmagic was displaced.
When the Unmagic protested, pleading for their livelihoods to be considered, they were not met with solutions—
They were met with mockery.
They were not given new work.
They were turned into work.
Farmers became slaves.
Producers became property.
They were forced to serve without rest, sent to hunt Magical Beasts without magic, and made to obey their masters' every command.
Resistance was answered with torture.
Defiance was answered with slave collars—artifacts that stripped away free will and reduced humans to obedient puppets.
Years turned into centuries.
Centuries turned into custom.
Men were worked until their bodies broke.
Women were violated without mercy.
Children were sold.
The elderly were discarded like refuse.
And this cruelty was not committed by Magicians alone.
Other races followed—eyes empty, hearts unmoved.
Those who aided the Unmagic were imprisoned.
Those who protected them were executed.
There was no city without oppression.
No day without suffering.
Even the Church, which claimed holiness, chose to avert its gaze.
Rumors spread that it, too, collected Unmagic as subjects for secret experiments.
Then, centuries later—
A lone sailor accidentally passed through a sea of mist and discovered an unfamiliar land.
It felt as though he had crossed into another world.
There was no flow of magic.
No resonance of mana.
As he explored and recorded his findings in a journal, he realized the land was vast—filled with islands and biomes rivaling the Magical territories themselves.
Its creatures were different.
There were no Magical Beasts.
Only life—without magic.
When the journal spread, nobles and adventurers from every race followed to verify its truth.
Their conclusion was unanimous.
The land held no value.
Its inhabitants were merely empty shells.
And from that judgment, an idea was born.
The Unmagic—deemed impure, useless, and troublesome—would be exiled there.
All races agreed.
They named it Unmagic Land.
Thousands of Unmagic were shackled and crammed into narrow ships.
Many suffocated.
Many starved.
Each second aboard those vessels was hell—
to the body, and to the mind.
Upon arrival, they were abandoned across the eastern and western reaches of the land.
No food.
No tools.
No hope.
The Magical believed one thing with certainty:
The Unmagic would perish on their own.
But they failed to understand one truth about the Unmagic—
Their ambition to transcend.
From despair, they forged their own hope.
From barren soil, they raised civilization.
From seeds, they cultivated knowledge.
From time, they carved history.
The verse of Sanctus that confined them to farming and herding was now defied by reality.
If Angels claimed proximity to the gods because they dwelled in the skies—
then the Unmagic had already reached the realm those gods inhabited.
If Demons proclaimed themselves the strongest—
then the Unmagic had forged weapons capable of erasing cities in mere seconds.
If Elves declared themselves the truest scholars of the world—
then the Unmagic had mapped the universe itself.
If Dwarves boasted of their craftsmanship—
then the Unmagic had forged artificial beings and towers that pierced the heavens.
If Beastskins mastered the body—
then the Unmagic had studied it beyond its deepest limits.
And when the world questioned who deserved to rule—
The Unmagic had already surpassed that right.
Thousands of years.
Thousands of histories.
Thousands of discoveries.
Now, the people without magic rise.
Not as the lowly—
but as the shadow that will eclipse the world.