Everything began in the year Kristian 1980. After that year, the world entered a new era—the Age of Solem.
The golden-orange sun shone brightly over the skies of Solmira, and within the heart of the continent's capital, a boy was born.
His name was Caelus Veyndar, the only son of King Veyndar, the high sovereign of Solmira. He was born exactly at noon, as the sunlight struck the peak of the Holy Spire—an omen, a sign from the heavens.
He was blessed by all 15 gods and was granted divine power beyond mortal comprehension. A once-in-a-millennium talent. He was the 37th Hero foretold by prophecy—the chosen one destined to defeat the undying Demon Lord.
But on the other side of the world...
Varkharn Zegrim was not born in temples, nor in the light. He was born underground, in the shadowed ruins of a race long rejected by the gods.
He was a Dark Elf, a race branded as "the sin of the divine." His village was burned. His people slaughtered. The survivors, including his family, were enslaved and tortured—in body and in soul—worse than death.
Varkharn was just a child. He survived not by miracle, but because fate simply forgot to kill him. He grew up scraping through filth and hatred, doing whatever it took to survive.
He took on every dirty job—assassinations, corpse disposal, mock executions... He even offered himself to die in place of strangers. All to earn enough money to buy his family's freedom from the holy order.
He nearly made it.
But just before the day came, a friend he trusted betrayed him, stole everything he had, and left him crippled and bleeding, his leg severed and body broken.
Yet Varkharn did not die. He crawled—one hand, one elbow, one breath at a time—until he returned to the temple, clutching the few coins he could still gather.
He begged the priests to free his family.
Instead, they summoned the holy knights.They severed his remaining limbs, dragged his mangled body to the public square.
There, he watched.
His family—stabbed repeatedly—then beheaded before his eyes. The crowd laughed. They mocked his screams. They threw scraps of food at his bleeding torso.
And then, the blade fell. But he did not die.
Something beneath the world heard him. A voice older than any god. A presence darker than all shadows embraced him.
He opened his eyes again—not as a boy, but as Varkharn Zegrim, the Crownless Demon Lord.
In Solem Year 1, the Hero Caelus Veyndar, now age 21, pulled the divine sword from its altar. He had survived countless assassinations, trained for a decade, and emerged as a living legend.
By Solem Year 10, when the Gate of Hell opened once more, Caelus—now 31—entered alone, clad in white-gold armor, with one hundred thousand Holy Knights standing guard outside.
For one full month, he fought inside the gate, slaying demon after demon. With every passing decade, fewer demons emerged, and people believed it was because he was purging Hell itself.
He was the hope of mankind. A symbol of righteousness. A true hero.
But one day before the gate was set to close, something enormous flew out.
The sky cracked open. A massive, green, winged beast emerged in silence. The Holy Knights froze in terror—but it did not attack. It simply vanished into the distant skies.
That Monster it would later be named, but at that moment, it had no name.
When the gate finally closed, Caelus returned unharmed.
The knights reported the green beast, but Caelus only laughed.
"Ha! Don't worry," he said. "Have you forgotten? When the Hell Gate closes, all demons are dragged back in."
Before he could speak further, a royal messenger arrived.
"A Holy War has been declared."
The mission: to destroy the Demon Lord Varkharn Zegrim once and for all.
The Hero was summoned immediately. The war would begin in three days.
The Rise of the Final Holy War
With grim resolve, the Hero Caelus Veyndar teleported directly into the Sanctum of the Fifteen—where the Fifteen Popes and the Fifteen Saints of the world had gathered.
None dared to speak first. The silence cracked only when Caelus unsheathed his divine blade, its golden radiance illuminating even the shadowed corners of the cathedral.
"The time has come," he declared. "The Holy War against the Demon Lord Varkharn Zegrim begins now."
And the world moved.
All major holy orders united:
50,000 Sixth-Circle Magi assembled, forming the first arcane division.
49,900 Seventh-Circle Magi joined them—veterans of the last four hell gates.
100 Eighth-Circle Archmagi—each capable of summoning cataclysms.
29 Ninth-Circle Grandmasters, whose spells could shatter mountains.
And at last, 2 Tenth-Circle Magi—whose names were forbidden to speak aloud—stepped forward from eternal isolation, pledging their power to the war.
Ten million High Priests from across all churches marched behind them, robes flowing like waves of divinity across the battlefield. Each bore relics and chants to purify the darkest sins.
Beside them—ten Grand Divisions of Holy Knights, each consisting of 100 million warriors, forged in faith and bound to the will of the gods.
Even the merchant guilds of all human kingdoms set aside profit and pride—sending caravans of supplies that never ceased flowing. Food, weapons, armor, holy water, spell scrolls—transported by mage-run teleportation arrays to the frontlines.
The world had never been more united. Not since the birth of light.
Because this was not just a war. It was the greatest mobilization in all of recorded history. A final stand not only to destroy Varkharn Zegrim… but to preserve the concept of divine order itself.
The ground trembled not from magic—but from the sheer weight of millions marching in one direction.
And the one leading them all… was a man born in light, forged in divinity, and destined to face both darkness and what lies beyond it.
The War had begun.
And somewhere, in the far reaches of land not yet mapped, the silent gaze of The Monster turned… toward them.
Meanwhile, Beyond the Edge of Maps…
For over a thousand years, Varkharn Zegrim had reigned. He was not merely a demon lord—he was a king, a sovereign ruler of all non-human races cast out by mankind.
He had slain 36 Heroes. He had watched empires rise and fall like the tides.
And in the forgotten lands—far beyond the five known continents—he built a kingdom.
A kingdom of the forsaken:
Orcs, once hunted as beasts, now walked as free warriors.
Elves, whose forests were burned by holy orders, rebuilt their sacred groves.
Dwarves, cast out from the mountains, forged cities beneath blackened stone.
Half-dark elves, hybrids hated by all, stood as generals under his banner.
And more unknown races.
Under Varkharn's law, there were no "lesser races." Only people.
To humans, he was a demon. But to the non-human world, he was the true Hero.
He had forged nations beyond the reach of church and empire. Nations with laws, order, and peace. Their people no longer prayed for salvation—they followed Varkharn.
But now, the Holy War had begun. And he knew.
In the desolate war halls built on buried cities, he stood alone—watching over maps that stretched beyond human understanding.
"Three days," he whispered. "Three days until the world tries to erase us again."
He did not call for retreat. He did not summon his council. He simply raised one hand—and the entire war camp moved.
Over 200 million soldiers of every race and creed gathered:
Beasts with blades for bones.
Warlords scarred by divine fire.
Magi, assassins, warpriests—all prepared to fight not for conquest, but for survival.
Because this time—they were not the invaders. This time, they were defending home.
Far away, the Hero Caelus Veyndar stood in silence. His eyes glowed faintly—as he peered through the veil of fate itself.
He had seen Varkharn's army. He had seen the battlefield. And he had seen what waited beyond that…
Not yet named. Not yet known. But there. Watching.
Both the Hero and the Demon King now carried the weight to reshape the world. In three days… the age would burn anew.
The Third Day: Light and Shadow Collide
Three days passed. And finally, the forces of Light and Darkness stood face to face.
But those names meant nothing. They did not reflect the truth of their bearers.
Across a barren field—scarred by time and prophecy—two armies stretched into the horizon. Millions upon millions of souls, weapons in hand, waiting for the silence to break.
The Hero, Caelus Veyndar, stepped forward. His every stride was measured, radiant—the air around him shimmered with divine presence. No fear, no hesitation. Only destiny.
From the opposite side, Varkharn Zegrim walked out. The dark wind stirred behind him like a tide of ash. His gait was calm. Heavy. Unyielding. He was not a villain. He was a king defending his people.
When they stood only 100 meters apart, the world seemed to hold its breath.
Caelus unsheathed the Holy Blade, its golden edge humming with ancient chants. Varkharn followed, drawing his Demonic Fang, a blade forged in agony and fire.
They pointed their swords at one another—no hatred in their eyes. Only resolve.
And then—Caelus shouted, his voice echoing across the battlefield:
"For Humanity!"
From behind him, the divine host roared like thunder. Holy Knights surged forward like a sea of light.
Varkharn's voice followed, deep and proud:
"For Our People!"
His armies responded not with rage—but with purpose. The step of orcs, elves, dwarves, and forgotten kin shook the ground.
The two titans—Hero and Demon Lord—charged. And in that instant, history split open.
Their blades clashed. Light against shadow. Faith against fury.
And the war began.
The Great Clash – War Without Mercy
The skies burned with arcane fire. The ground trembled beneath the weight of gods and monsters alike.
On the battlefield, light and darkness collided, not just in blade—but in belief.
From the frontlines of the divine:
Magi of Light unleashed spell after spell—torrents of holy fire, blinding rays, and celestial bombardments.
Clerics and High Priests chanted without rest—healing the wounded, reinforcing morale, bestowing blessings that shone like stars.
Paladins—the golden wall—stood firm at the vanguard, shields raised, blades lit with divine wrath.
From the ranks of the forsaken:
Elven warcasters summoned storms of thorns and piercing winds.
Dark Elves whispered curses that twisted flesh and turned light to shadow.
Orcs charged in wild fury, breaking ranks and bones alike with unstoppable force.
Dwarves, clad in darksteel armor, wielded siege weapons of ancient terror—axes that ignited on impact, warhammers that shattered shields with a tremor.
And from the skies and rear:
Beastkin—the forgotten children of the wild—struck the light's flanks from behind.
Half-Dragons, hybrid titans with wings and breath of ruin, charged with primal rage.
Even dragons themselves descended into the fray—ancient and furious, no longer watching from afar.
The battlefield was chaos incarnate.
Each side gained ground only to lose it again. No retreat. No surrender.
To one side, it was for humanity. To the other, for their people.
Neither could lose. Neither was allowed to lose.
And amidst the storm, the Hero and the Demon Lord clashed.
Each strike shook the sky. Each spell carved scars into reality itself.
The Hero, Caelus Veyndar, invoked Time Magic—halting the world for a heartbeat to gain the upper hand.
But Varkharn Zegrim countered—nullifying divine power in a breath, unraveling blessings with cursed will.
Their swords tore through dimensions. Varkharn swung a blade that sliced space itself—his attacks vanishing and reappearing from impossible angles.
Caelus deflected them with Null Techniques—divine skills that negated anything they touched, even the laws of reality.
They used every trump card. Every spell. Every secret. Every drop of power their souls could muster.
This was not a duel. It was the death throes of an era.
And above it all… the world watched. Not knowing that something far older than both stood silent beneath its skin.
(But that... will come later.)
When the World Itself Could Not Hold Them
The battle had surpassed mortals. Even armies of millions became background noise to the duel of two beings who could bend reality.
Varkharn Zegrim raised his hand—and the world trembled.
He unleashed his Forbidden Invocation—a spell so ancient that it was never recorded in any tome: Erase From Reality.
He sought not to kill Caelus... but to remove him from existence itself.
But Caelus Veyndar—the Hero blessed by fifteen gods—reflected the spell, twisting space and sending it hurtling back at its caster.
The Demon Lord didn't flinch. He devoured the magic, absorbing it as dark energy surged through his veins, amplifying his power with every fragment of Caelus's essence.
The tides turned.
Every second, Varkharn drained more of Caelus's strength. But Caelus endured—deflecting with divine barriers, striking with light-infused counters.
And as the strain mounted, both combatants retreated for but a breath.
The world sighed with relief—then screamed again.
Caelus began to chant.
Circle Ten Magic.
He raised his sword skyward—and the heavens answered.
From beyond the clouds, one hundred meteors—each the size of a fortress—descended like the wrath of the gods.
He followed with storms of flame and lightning, rains of acid, earthquakes that split the battlefield.
The sky darkened with destruction—as if the world itself sought to annihilate the Demon Lord's army.
But Varkharn did not waver.
He invoked Gravity Domain—a magic that did not destroy, but controlled.
The meteors halted mid-air, then were flung back into the void. The storms froze in place, their energy dissolving into silence. The acid rain reversed, flowing back into the sky. The earthquakes… never came. The ground held firm beneath his will.
The battlefield fell into stunned silence. Two armies watched—realizing they were no longer witnesses to war, but to the collision of concepts.
Light could not destroy Darkness. And Darkness could not consume Light.
The world would break before either side would fall.
Final Clash – The World Cannot Withstand Them
It was time.
Neither the Hero, nor the Demon Lord, could allow this to go on.
They looked into each other's eyes—not with hatred, but with an understanding forged in pain and sacrifice.
No more spells. No more armies.
Just one final strike.
Caelus Veyndar lifted the Holy Sword above his head.
He began to chant, calling upon all fifteen gods, channeling every fragment of faith, every breath of light, every element ever known to the world.
Fire. Wind. Lightning. Water. Earth. Time. Void. All converged into one divine arc.
And then—he invoked Time Acceleration, forcing his body, soul, and blade into a state faster than causality itself.
"This ends with me."
Varkharn Zegrim, in turn, raised the Blade of the Abyss.
Into it, he poured:
Darkness deeper than death
Gravity heavy enough to collapse dimensions
The magic of erasure, capable of unmaking reality
His own life force, without hesitation
Everything he was, is, and ever would be—now lived within one strike.
"Let the gods watch."
They charged.
And the world screamed.
Their blades met with such force that the sky split open. Not from the blow, but from the very conflict of concepts.
Faith against Fury.Hope against Hatred.
The impact did not explode outward.
It bent, twisted—then ricocheted sideways, into the armies on both sides.
Tens of millions vanished in a blink. Others were crushed, frozen, burned, or disintegrated.
There were no sides anymore—only casualties of gods and monsters.
As the dust settled, both Caelus and Varkharn stood, bloodied and unmoving.
The battlefield was silent.
No cheers. No cries.
Only wind, and ashes.
In the end, no one knew who won.
Was it Faith, born of divine light? Or Hope, forged in shadow and pain?
The world would not remember a victor.
Only a wound. A scar that whispered:
"Once, two titans tried to save their people. And the world was not worthy of either."
The Awakening – A Mistake That Broke the World
But what neither the Hero nor the Demon Lord could have foreseen...
Was that their final clash— that one impossible strike filled with divine will and infernal wrath— did not disappear.
It missed them both. And instead—
Struck something sleeping.
Deep beneath the battlefield, in a hollow no map had named, it stirred.
Something ancient. Something immense. Something from other skies.
Something that should not exist.
The ground cracked.
Then shattered.
A roar tore through the skies— not a sound, but a shockwave of madness, as if reality itself screamed.
Every soldier, from both armies, froze.
The battlefield went silent.
All eyes turned skyward—
And saw it.
They did not yet know its name.
Later, they would call it El'Kharuz.
But in that moment... it was only the Monster.
Its scales were green like rotting jade. Its body towered over 200 meters while walking— and stretched over 400 meters tall when it fully rose, its wings spanning the horizon.
Its head was not that of a dragon, but a mass of tentacles, squid-like, ending in a maw filled with endless spiraling teeth.
Its claws raked the earth as it rose. Its wings beat once— and the ground shook like a continent breaking apart.
Then it flew.
And charged.
Not at one side. Not with intent. Just… toward everything.
The Hero and the Demon Lord, still bloodied, didn't hesitate.
They moved. They cut through space, blades forged to end entire wars.
And yet—
Nothing happened.
The cuts closed. Reality around the Monster… rejected the rules.
They leapt forward.
But before they could strike—
Its claw swept across the sky.
It didn't just strike them.
It hurt them.
That shouldn't have been possible.
For the first time in centuries, they bled from something other than each other.
And for the first time, they shouted in unison:
"Fall back!!"
The armies didn't argue. They ran.
Because the true war…
Had just begun.
Its name would come later. But its hunger had no name. Only silence followed where it walked.
The Sacrifice – The Day the Sky Cried Blood
Though both the Hero and the Demon Lord possessed the power to shatter worlds with a mere breath, they could do nothing to this Monster.
They tried. They fought together. For the first time in history, light and shadow stood side by side, not as enemies—but as remnants of a world still hoping to survive.
And still… they failed.
The armies of light and darkness—uncountable in number—were torn apart in less than an hour. Blades shattered. Spells fizzled. Curses crumbled. Divine light faded like candle smoke. Nothing worked.
The Monster—what would later be called El'Kharuz—was not invincible. It simply did not belong to this world. It rejected rules. It rejected damage. It rejected existence itself.
Those who survived the massacre were not the strongest. They were the weakest—the ones farthest from the front lines, the ones who barely dared to raise a blade, the ones who fled when ordered to stand. And perhaps that is why they lived.
Now, only Caelus and Varkharn remained. One dressed in tattered divine armor, the other cloaked in cracked obsidian steel.
They didn't speak. They didn't need to. They understood.
This was not about victory. This was not about revenge. This was not about light or dark.
It was about buying the world one more breath.
They raised their blades one final time. Their power surged—not with glory, but with everything they had left. Their life force. Their souls. Their hopes. Their sins. And the last fragments of faith the world still carried.
They poured it all into a single, final strike.
The Monster felt it. Its sixteen eyes widened.
The strike landed. And it worked.
Sixteen monstrous eyes were destroyed. Its wings—vast enough to eclipse cities—were torn off at the roots.
The beast screamed. Not in pain. In rage.
It could no longer see, but it heard. Through echolocation. Through vibrations in the air. And it focused—on Caelus.
He tried to flee, but the moment El'Kharuz came close, his power vanished.
The Monster lunged. Tentacles coiled around him, tightening.
And then—he was devoured alive. Flesh. Soul. Sword. All swallowed by something that should not be.
Varkharn roared in fury.
He charged—knowing it was over.
He didn't fight to win. He fought to follow.
The same fate awaited him. The same agony.
The Demon Lord died like the Hero. Devoured. Forgotten. Swallowed by silence.
The sky bled. The gods said nothing.
And the world would never forget that day.
After that, the Monster vanished with terrifying speed. The ground quaked as it left, and those who had taken part in the war were left trembling. The trauma etched into their bones would never fade. None of them would ever forget.
Above the skies, in the outer atmosphere of the world, the Fifteen Gods watched. They could only shake their heads and sigh, bound by the law that forbade them from interfering.
But higher still—beyond the stars and the known universe—were the Outer Gods.
One of them spoke with a voice that rippled through the void.
"Hey! I thought we agreed to start the game together?"
Another answered, amused and scolding.
"Why did you throw your piece onto the board already? That's against the rules. We must choose from within the world."
The first voice replied smugly.
"I didn't throw it in. I left it in Hell. it escaped on his own."
A third voice joined with disdain.
"You left El'Kharuz—your so-called child—in Hell? It's not even grown! That was reckless, Kahr'Zuun."
Kahr'Zuun responded coldly.
"And you, Sethvyr? Still haven't picked a piece? We can't start the Great Board until all of us have chosen."
Sethvyr laughed without shape or form.
"My piece hasn't been born yet. Besides, call it even—your 'child' just broke the rules."
"How long until your turn?" Kahr'Zuun asked.
"Five hundred years. That's all. Just a blink, really."
The others sighed as one.
"Fine."
"And your piece? What will his name be?"
Sethvyr smiled—though it had no face.
"I shall name him... Froy."
And so it was.
After the tragedy of the Holy War, the world began to fracture.
Faith turned. Hearts twisted. And from the ashes of shattered temples rose new shrines.
Some to demons. Some to gods now cast aside. And many... to those Outer Gods whose names should never be spoken.