In another world, in another dimension, there were three entities so vast and terrible that the universe dared not name them. To speak their titles was to gouge holes in reality and bleed madness into the world.
They were known only as the Unnamed.
From blackness, death, and blood, the Unnamed sculpted monstrosities, pure nightmare given form. For centuries uncounted, they shaped horror, perfected it, birthing thousands, , millions, of creatures whose only purpose was to rend, to devour, to end.
When at last their work was done, a silence settled. A dreadful peace. But one question festered like rot: Who would rule them?
Arguments boiled into war. Cosmic blows shattered dimensions. At last, a compromise: they would craft three Monster Lords, each a sovereign, their power split evenly to keep them in check. Balance through shared brutality, a perfect plan.
But perfection is a fragile thing.
As one of the Unnamed carved flesh from the void and sculpted the third Lord, a sliver of his divine essence, raw, volatile, uncontrollable, slipped into the creation. An accident. A whisper of godhood.
It was enough.
Within a year, that Lord rose and tore the others apart, ripped them limb from limb, and claimed the entire monstrous horde for himself. The betrayal was complete. The Unnamed, enraged at the loss of their chosen champions, destroyed his throne and cast him into exile, banishing him and his loyal beasts into a cursed realm, far from their own.
There, he became a legend. A god without a seat.
The Throneless King.
He drifted through galaxies like a plague, conquering worlds, leaving them hollowed and howling. Yet no worthy challenge rose. He was made to slaughter, to revel in suffering, and the hunger to do so drove him mad. It chewed his mind down to the bone.
Then, he found Earth.
He returned to his realm and tore the veil between worlds. Portals bloomed like open wounds, and his starved creatures surged through, desperate for blood, their claws eager for flesh.
The slaughter began.
Humans were shredded like paper dolls, their screams smothered beneath the howls of the damned. But there were too many humans. Billions of them. And only millions of beasts.
So mankind fought back.
Missiles, bullets, fire, they rained death on the monsters, and for a moment, it seemed the tide might turn. But old habits are hard to kill. Nations fractured. Greed rotted through diplomacy like maggots in meat.
The world descended into its final war. The Third. The last.
The skies burned. Oceans boiled. Cities crumbled. Humanity turned on itself, and in that chaos, the monsters feasted.
Earth became ripe. Overripe. Soft, screaming, and defenceless.
Yet out of the rubble, the strong survived while the weak died. A new era. A stronger and better era. Gangs were formed, competing for survival. The lost kin was formed, who took in stragglers and survivors, growing in size, yet still struggling to make ends meet.
Earth was no more.
The invasion was complete.
And thus began the age of ash and bone.
The Days of Mors Hominum.