A long time ago—so long that the years have blurred into myth—there existed a land where harmony was not just an ideal, but a truth lived every day. Generations upon generations would pass this tale down, calling it the story of the beginning of time.
The land itself was a paradise. Rivers, pure as crystal, woven like silver threads across the valleys, their waters feeding fields of grain that bent in golden waves beneath the wind. Trees rose tall and proud, their branches filled with fruits that needed no tending, as if the earth itself delighted in nourishing its children. The air was sweet, alive with the fragrance of blooming flowers, and the skies stretched endlessly in hues of blue, never too harsh, never too dim.
The people prospered. They lived without fear of hunger, for the soil was generous. They lived without fear of war, for there was no need to fight when the land provided so much. They lived as though the world itself had been made only for them, and in return, they cherished the ground they walked upon.
This place—neither a nation nor a kingdom, but something older, something eternal—was where these people thrived.
But harmony is fragile.
What followed would be remembered only as the Great Fall.
It began without warning.
The rains ceased. The skies grew pale and silent, not with storm but with emptiness. Clouds vanished, and the sun bore down day after day until the rivers shrank and the fertile soil split into jagged scars. Crops withered before bearing fruit, their roots curling into dust. Trees once strong shed their leaves and stood hollow, their bark flaking like ash.
The people despaired. They prayed, they pleaded, but the heavens gave no answer. Some whispered that the land itself was being stripped of its life force, as though unseen hands had reached into its heart and stolen its strength. Others believed it was punishment—retribution from a god for an offense too great to understand.
Years of suffering passed. Famine hollowed families, disease crept into villages, and despair weighed heavier than the dry air itself. Children grew frail, families vanished one by one, and the once-bright songs of the people faded into silence.
The land that had raised them now betrayed them.
And so, the people divided.
Seven great clans were formed, each appointing a leader to guide them. Together, they resolved to leave the cradle of their birth in search of new lands where life still bloomed. They set out across the barren horizons, scattering like seeds into the wind, each desperate to root themselves in places not yet touched by death.
Among the seven clans that had divided, one had stayed back and chosen to remain.
Among those who remained was a man whose name has long been lost to time, though his deeds remain immortal. One night, he declared he had seen a vision.
He spoke of a being—a presence so vast, so otherworldly, that no mortal tongue could describe it. He called this figure the Creator.
In his vision, he stood in a realm of living light. Colors bled into one another, hues that no human had ever known, shifting and blending like rivers of flame and ocean combined. The air thrummed with a weight that bent his knees, yet filled his lungs with a sweetness that was neither air nor breath.
And then came the voice.
It rolled through him like thunder over mountains, like waves breaking upon cliffs, mighty enough to split stone, yet carrying within it the gentleness of a lullaby.
The Creator spoke, and in that voice was command and compassion entwined. The man was shown a path, a way to restore the earth and bring life once more to his people. But the path would not be easy. The journey would demand blood, courage, and the endurance of horrors no man should ever see.
When the vision ended, the man awoke trembling, his body drenched in sweat, yet his eyes blazed with purpose. From those who had remained in the dying land, he gathered warriors—strong men and women who still clung to hope. Together, they set forth into the unknown, vanishing into the horizon.
Years passed. Three long years.
Only the man returned.
His body bore scars that no earthly beast could have left. His clothes hung in tatters, stiff with old blood. His eyes carried shadows, the kind that spoke of battles not merely fought, but survived at the cost of something unseen.
Many believed him dead long ago, and yet here he was—a lone survivor who refused to speak of the horrors he had endured. He never once spoke of his companions. He never revealed what claimed them, nor why he alone stood alive.
But he had not returned empty-handed.
In his possession was a stone.
It glowed with a warm, radiant color—like the sun at dawn, golden yet soft, its brilliance gentle enough to gaze upon without pain. The man told the people," a gift", he said, from the Creator himself. A reward for surviving trials at the farthest corners of the earth. A key to reviving the land.
Following his instructions, the people prepared a ritual site. They dug a circular hole in the earth, deep as a grave but narrower, about the size of a great wheel. Around it, seven wooden stakes were driven into the soil, each bound with flames that crackled in the night air. Markings were carved into the ground, weaving from flame to flame like veins of fire, all leading toward the pit.
When the moon stood high and the stars looked down in silence, the man stepped forward.
He chanted words no one could understand. Even now, through centuries of retelling, those words remain unknowable, as though the very air refused to let them linger.
Then, he poured water into the pit, and with a solemn bow of his head, he lowered the stone into its depths.
The flames extinguished one by one—until only a single fire remained. The man exhaled, and the last flame flickered out.
The markings blazed to life with the golden radiance of the stone. The ground shuddered violently, an earthquake ripping through the earth, and then the pit erupted with light. It surged upward like a pillar of flame, yet it burned without heat, roaring into the sky.
When the light subsided, the hole was gone. In its place, a door of brilliance stood.
A door of light.
Without hesitation, the man and the people stepped into it.
Far across the lands where the seven clans had scattered, doors appeared as well. And as their people entered, all paths converged to the same place.
A new world.
It was a place that seemed to exist between the earth and something beyond. The light of the stone radiated from the center like a sun that did not blind. The ground shimmered with green, grasses and trees flourishing as though they had been tended by the Creator's own hand. The air was fresh and alive, carrying scents of spring after rain. The horizon stretched endlessly, neither land nor sky, but something greater—an eternal garden where time itself seemed to rest.
From that day, the earth began to heal. The skies brought rain again, the soil grew fertile, and life blessed humankind once more.
The man was remembered as the Forefather of Light.
Yet mysteries clung to his tale like shadows. What did he face in those three long years? Why did none of his companions return? What truths lay behind the stone he bore?
Only those chosen by him—and by those chosen after him and so on—were entrusted with fragments of the secret. The knowledge passed in whispers, generation to generation, always hidden, always guarded.
The world grew. People multiplied. Lands once thought empty were discovered to be home to others, and the people realized that they were no longer alone, they never had been. Kingdoms rose, empires stretched, and the clans that had once scattered found themselves neighbors to strangers, all living together in peace.
But peace never lasts forever.
Civilization grew and progressed, nations arose and with them conflict emerged—some resolved and others lingered along with the passage of time. The people from the seven clans still remained, retaining and protecting the truth behind what kept the earth in subtle but intentional harmony.
And now, after centuries of slumber and works in the shadows, the same evil that once sought to plunge the world into ruin stirs again—awakening to finish what it began at the dawn of time.
And so the tale of the Forefather of Light is not merely a story of what was, but a warning of what is to come.