In the beginning, there was only light. It was pure, omnipresent, and bright, yet far from benevolent.
It wasn't just bright; it was consuming. It didn't warm; it burned. This light was the will of the gods, an indomitable force that ruled the world by imposing its blinding glow on every living thing.
Those who bowed to this light adored it fervently, offering prayers, sacrifices, and absolute devotion in return for immeasurable blessings. The chosen ones, the children of monarchs and noble families, were blessed by divine grace and elevated to the status of saints. Their blood was golden, and their souls were forged in the sacred fire of heaven. They were called the Sons and Daughters of Light, the Holy Kings, and the Earth Archangels.
Their bodies were perfect, without defilement or imperfection; the gods modeled them to embody the splendor of their reign.
The saints lived in radiant cities of ivory and crystal palaces where night never fell. Streams of wealth flowed like enchanted rivers; heavenly wine filled their cups; and their tables groaned under the weight of foods that no one else could hope to taste. They walked high above, never creeping through the impure land of mortals.
Each of them possessed unique gifts, magic shaped by the gods as a reward for their faithfulness. They were infallible, invincible, and untouchable beings whose presence alone inspired admiration and fear.
Beyond these perfect cities, beyond the walls of light and divine towers, lie the Forgotten Lands. It was a kingdom of ashes and shadows where the gods exiled those deemed unworthy of their brilliance.
These lands had no gold, silk, fat, or opulence. The villages were made of rough stone and blackened wood and were swept away by icy winds that carried the murmurs of abandoned souls. These were the lands of the exiled, the banished. They were called sinners.
But what interests us is what lies beneath these forgotten lands. In the depths of the Tartar, where light did not enter; in the underground cities where the cursed lived.
Demons weren't born this way. They had once been like the others, men and women with names, families, and homes. But they opposed the gods, dedicated themselves to killing them, and were damned to live in the Tartarus without ever setting foot on the surface again.
Each of them bore a different curse engraved in their flesh and printed in their blood. Over the centuries without an ounce of light, their bodies changed; their skin became dark black, and their eyes became red flames.
It was in this lightless world that Sōgiya was born. A little demon orphaned, loathed by all, whose simple touch leads to the grave and whose curiosity will sound the end of the reign of the gods.