The world began to die three days before the Red Moon.
At first, it was only whispers. The villagers of Aetherion complained of sleepless nights, hearing strange growls beneath their floors. In Glacia, fishermen swore the seas had turned heavier, as though the water itself resented their touch. In the forests of Sylvania, animals that once moved with grace bolted through the trees in blind terror, howling at phantoms no human could see.
But soon whispers gave way to screams. The very bones of the earth began to shudder. Mountains groaned, their peaks spilling snow into valleys. Trees, lush and green in midsummer, shed their leaves as though it were the final days of autumn. Flowers withered before their buds could open, collapsing into the soil like ash returning to fire. Farmers dropped their tools in the fields as cattle wailed with humanlike shrieks. The air itself felt thinner, every breath weighted by dread.
And then came the first sound that froze the blood of kings and peasants alike: a guttural rumble, echoing not from the skies but from deep beneath the ground. It was the sound of chains being dragged across stone, of teeth grinding against bone, of something ancient and hateful waking from a slumber that had lasted too long.
The Nexonites, soldiers sworn to protect humanity, felt their courage falter. These were not men unused to fear — they had stared into the eyes of monsters, fought beasts of fang and claw, defended villages against raiders and thieves. But this terror was different. It was not the fear of death. It was the certainty of doom. Fear sank into their bones and lingered like poison.
Across the realms, the Guardians felt the tremor as though it had been whispered directly into their hearts. Each of the Nine, scattered across their domains, abandoned their duties and listened.
Xu Ling Tau of Shaolin, master of balance and body, left his mountain temple when he felt the stone floors shiver beneath his feet.
Areinus of Aetherion, who bent the currents of wind, stood upon his floating citadel and felt the skies themselves convulse.
Talion of Glacia, draped in furs and ice-crystal armor, dropped his war-spear into the frozen sea as it cracked like glass.
Surtur of Nether, who ruled the flames of the underground, found his own fires trembling as though bowing to a greater blaze.
Zhenlong of Electraugus, lightning incarnate, felt his storms lose rhythm, their thunder swallowed by a deeper growl.
Nyara of Nylin, guardian of water's flow, held her crystal trident as rivers twisted unnaturally, currents reversing against the laws of nature.
Gidion of Sylvania, sworn to the wilds, watched his sacred beasts thrash and tear free of their chains, eyes rolling white with panic.
Zephora of Cryolla, a warrior whose breath froze armies, saw her glaciers crack and bleed black water.
Thior of IronHeart, last of his clan, pounded his hammer against the forge only to hear no echo — as though the earth itself refused to answer.
Each searched their realm, desperate to deny what they already knew. And each found the same truth.
The ground was splitting.
At first, the fissures were no wider than a man's hand. From them seeped steam, smelling of sulfur and iron. But when warriors leaned close, they heard whispers drifting upward. Some were cries of pain, others laughter, but all carried the same hunger. And beneath the whispers came the scrape of weapons — steel against steel, stone against bone — growing louder with every passing hour.
When the cracks widened, red eyes appeared. First one pair, then another, until the earth itself seemed to breathe with fire. Faces followed — not monstrous, but disturbingly humanlike. Ashen skin, marked with glowing cracks of crimson, and teeth sharpened into knives. Their bodies shimmered with ember-light, their arms bound in armor that pulsed like molten metal. These were not beasts. They were soldiers. They were demons.
The Guardians gathered. Through ancient pathways carved into the fabric of the realms, they converged upon the Hall of Nexon, where marble pillars reached the skies and every wall shimmered with starlight. Here sat Nexon Xenopheron, god of realms, his eyes reflecting constellations that no mortal had ever seen. He was more than their master. He was their anchor, the force that had kept the Nine united since the last war.
When they bowed before him, Nexon did not smile, nor did he rise. He only lifted his hand and conjured an image of the Red Moon, swollen and scarred, its surface veined with shadows like a beating heart.
"It has begun," Nexon said, his voice both calm and heavy, as if each word carried the weight of centuries. "The cycle has returned."
He told them the truth few still remembered. Every Red Moon, the demons rose from the underworld — Nadiros. They were meant to be sealed forever. Yet seven hundred years ago, a priest, blinded by ambition, had torn open the gate. The priest lived still, a shapeshifter who had cheated death for centuries. Every ninety-nine years, he opened the portal once more, so the prophecy might be fulfilled: the demons would kneel, and he would rule all realms.
But this was not the appointed year. Not yet. Which meant something had gone terribly wrong.
The Guardians exchanged looks, their faces set in grim silence. To fight demons was expected. To fight them before their time was an omen.
Nexon stood, the Eden Sword hanging across his back, its hilt faintly glowing with silver light. He stepped forward, and though he appeared calm, his gaze was heavy with sorrow.
"The ground will not stop splitting," he said. "The armies of Nadiros will rise. The priest stirs, though his year has not come. You must stand ready."
As if on cue, the world trembled again. The Hall itself shivered. And then — a sound split the silence.
A roar.
Not of one demon. But of thousands.
The marble beneath their feet cracked, spiderwebbing into fractures. The Guardians rushed outside, standing beneath a sky painted blood-red. Across the realms, great fissures tore open, vomiting fire and ash. From one of the largest, something colossal began to emerge — a claw of magma and shadow, gripping the earth like a conqueror laying claim.
The Nine knew then: this was not the beginning of a war. It was the breaking of the world.
And the Red Moon had not even risen yet.