Prologue — The End of the First World
A hundred thousand years ago, the world ended.
Not in fire. Not in ice. But in silence.
The sky split open, releasing a flood of darkness. A cosmic entity—older than the stars and hungrier than death—descended upon the mortal world. Mountains crumbled. Seas boiled. Entire civilizations vanished in a single breath.
Humanity, elves, dwarves, beastKin—every race fought, but their weapons shattered like toys against the creature's shadow.
And when all hope died, He appeared.
A deity wrapped in blinding light, wings stretching across the horizon. His voice shook the heavens.
"Rise, children of the mortal races. Take my blessing… and fight."
Seven beams of divine radiance shot from his hands, each striking a warrior from a different race. Their bodies ignited with power.
Thus, the Seven Champions were born.
With the deity at their side, they pushed back the cosmic entity. The final battle raged for seven days and seven nights. When the creature finally fell, its death scream tore a hole through reality itself.
From that wound, a new dimension was born—twisted, corrupted, alive.
The Abyssal Realm.
And from it crawled the first Abyssal Walkers.
The deity sealed the Abyss with the last of his strength, whispered a prophecy, and vanished.
"My power will not return. But the scars of the Abyss will."
The world rebuilt. The Champions faded into legend. Their bloodlines weakened.
Yet fragments of the deity's essence lingered—scattered across the world, waiting to be claimed.
And the Abyss waited.