Long ago, before the nations were named and the world had settled into peace, the sky turned dark—not from nightfall, but from fear itself.
A being of immense power had emerged.
Not from a kingdom, nor born of nature, but shaped from chaos and ancient magic that had long been forgotten.
Diablo.
He was no mere Monster. His presence bent the world around him. Storms followed his steps. Forests withered at his touch. The weak called him a demon. The wise called him a curse. None could stop his advance.
Kingdoms fell in days.
Magic, no matter how potent, faltered against his growing strength.
And when even the greatest swords shattered against his skin, the people lost hope.
Until, one day, someone arrived.
Not a king.
Not a hero from legend.
Only a man in a simple robe, carrying a staff marked with unfamiliar runes.
His name was never known.
He gave no speeches.
He offered no grand promises.
Only this:
"I will face him."
The world would come to know him only as the Unknown Mage.
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The Battle at the Ruined Heights
Their meeting place was a place once full of life—rolling hills, golden plains. Now it was ash and ruin. Diablo stood at the center, his shadow stretching miles. Monsters lingered at his feet, summoned by his will alone.
The Unknown Mage walked alone.
Diablo, amused, spoke:
"One man. That is all that remains?"
The mage did not answer.
He raised his staff, and the light gathered—not harsh or blinding, but steady, warm, alive.
And so the battle began.
Magic cracked through the sky, more powerful than anything the world had known. Diablo unleashed the Dark Arts—twisting blood into weapons, raising the dead to serve him, using threads of puppet magic to try and turn the mage's own limbs against him.
But the Unknown Mage had mastered something older—Light Magic, nearly lost to time. Each spell he cast restored what Diablo had broken. The ground steadied. The wind calmed. For a moment, the world seemed to breathe again.
They fought for days.
The land bears the scars even now—craters turned into lakes, mountains split in two, ancient forests petrified mid-growth.
But Diablo could not be destroyed. His power was not of this world. It came from something deeper—fear, anger, ambition, all bound into one eternal hunger.
So the mage chose another path.
He began to cast a spell unlike any before. Not to kill, but to seal. A binding spell layered in light, memory, and sacrifice. It required more than magic—it required everything.
The last words the mage spoke were quiet, almost forgotten:
"Let the world rest."
With that, the light expanded, enveloping them both. When it faded, Diablo was gone.
The Unknown Mage had vanished, leaving only his staff, planted in stone.
Peace returned—slowly.
The monster hordes scattered. Magic began to flow freely again. Villages rebuilt. New cities rose. Among them, Elvon, the Capital of Magic, and Reverb, home to the greatest swordsmen.
People called it a miracle.
But those who study Magic knew better.
Diablo had not been destroyed.
He had been sealed—deep beneath the earth, locked in a prison of magic and light. And though the seal held, it was not eternal.
For Diablo's aura, even in slumber, began to corrupt the very magic that bound him. Slowly. Quietly.
A warning was left at the site of the battle, inscribed in gentle runes by the Unknown Mage himself:
"Peace is earned, not permanent. Shadows return when light is taken for granted."
And so, across generations, stories were told.
Of the Unknown Mage.
Of the day the world almost ended.
And of the quiet fear that one day, Diablo will rise again.
And someone must be ready.