The first claw withdrew into the fissure, but the echo of its roar carried through every corner of the realms. Villagers fell to their knees, clutching their ears as if the sound itself could break them. Birds hurled themselves from the skies, wings snapping as they hit the ground. Rivers foamed red, their currents reversing as though dragged back into the abyss.
The Guardians scattered. Each returned to their domain to witness the truth with their own eyes.
Xu Ling Tau descended the thousand steps of Shaolin, the chants of his monks silenced as cracks snaked across the temple walls. He pressed his palm to the stone floor and felt it trembling like the chest of a dying man. From the fissures below came whispers, mocking his discipline. "Balance is nothing. Harmony is a lie. Only chaos remains." His disciples begged him to stay, but Xu Ling Tau only tightened his sash and left. Some wars required solitude.
Areinus of Aetherion, master of the skies, walked across the highest bridge of his floating citadel. Below him, the endless blue expanse had grown stormy, lightning flashing where it should not. From the clouds rose hands — gray, clawed, pulling themselves upward before crumbling back into vapor. He turned to his sentries. "The air itself revolts. Gather the people. Do not let them look down." His robes whipped in the furious wind as he set off for the Hall.
Talion of Glacia stood upon the frozen sea, where fishermen wept as the ice split beneath their feet. When he thrust his spear into the cracks, steam hissed upward, smelling of rot. A voice followed: "Your ice cannot bind us forever." He yanked his spear free, frost exploding across the fissure, but he knew it would not hold. The sea itself had become a battlefield.
Surtur of Nether was the first to taste irony. The very flames he commanded turned against him, flaring wildly, scorching his own soldiers. When he looked into the fire, he saw faces grinning back at him — demon visages made of smoke and ember. He slammed his warhammer into the ground, scattering the flames, but their laughter lingered. Even the element he ruled trembled before what was rising.
Zhenlong of Electraugus watched his storms falter. Thunder cracked, but instead of striking downward, the bolts clawed upward into the sky, as though pulled by unseen chains. He roared against the heavens, summoning lightning into his palms, but the clouds ignored his command. For the first time in centuries, Zhenlong's will was not absolute.
Nyara of Nylin crouched by the riverbank, her fingers brushing the surface. The water recoiled, twisting against her touch, carrying whispers that gurgled like drowning men. She raised her trident, summoning waves — but they collapsed, crushed by some weight far below. She whispered a prayer, though she had no gods left to answer.
Gidion of Sylvania ran through his forests, the beasts stampeding past him. Wolves gnawed at trees, bears clawed their own hides, deer screamed like men. He tried to calm them with words of old magic, but their eyes rolled white, blind with terror. When he reached the great oak at the heart of his land, he found its roots burned black. Something had poisoned the soil.
Zephora of Cryolla stood atop a glacier as it cracked apart, chunks of ice sinking into waters that churned with fire. She raised her arms, breathing frost into the air, but her breath turned black, smoke curling from her lips. She dropped to one knee, horrified. Something had corrupted even her essence.
Thior of IronHeart hammered his anvil in desperation, forging weapon after weapon, praying the rhythm of creation would drown the whispers. But each strike echoed weaker than the last, as though the earth itself no longer wished to sing. When his hammer finally cracked, splitting in two, Thior stared at the broken metal and knew his forge had been silenced.
One by one, the Nine left their realms, answering the summons of their master. Through gates of light, through storms and rivers, through shadows that clawed at their feet, they traveled to the Hall of Nexon.
The Hall was vast, carved from celestial stone, its dome a map of the stars. Yet tonight even the stars seemed dim. Nexon sat upon his throne, the Eden Sword at his side. His hair, white as moonlight, stirred in an unseen wind. He had known this moment would come, but even he had not foreseen it would come so soon.
The Nine knelt, their armor clashing against marble. The silence was heavy. Each wanted to speak, to tell of their realm's collapse, but words felt useless when the truth was written across their faces.
Finally, Xu Ling Tau spoke. "The balance is broken."
The others nodded. Their stories were different, but their conclusion the same. The world was unraveling.
Nexon rose. His presence alone steadied the trembling Hall. He lifted a hand, conjuring an image in the air. The Red Moon swelled, its surface cracked, veins of crimson pulsing as though alive. Beneath it, shadows writhed like chains straining to break.
"The cycle has returned," Nexon said, voice like thunder muted by sorrow. "Every Red Moon, the demons of Nadiros rise. They were sealed seven hundred years ago. But the seal was broken by a priest who betrayed his vows. That priest still walks, wearing many faces, opening the gate once every ninety-nine years so the prophecy may be fulfilled."
The Guardians shifted uneasily. A man — not a god, not a demon — had doomed them all.
"But this is not the ninety-ninth year," Nexon continued, his voice tightening. "The gate has opened early. Something has changed the design. Either the priest has grown stronger, or something even darker has awakened."
He stepped down from the throne, his hand resting on the Eden Sword. Its glow flared brighter, as though hungry for battle.
"You must prepare your realms. Call your armies. The war will not wait for the Red Moon's rise. It begins now."
Before the Guardians could reply, the Hall shook. Dust rained from the ceiling. The marble split, widening into a black chasm. From it came a sound none of them would ever forget: a guttural laugh, deep and mocking, echoing through stone.
A shape rose from the darkness. A figure clad in obsidian armor, a sigil blazing upon his chest: the number 4. His eyes burned with cruel intelligence.
Nexon's voice cut through the silence. "Silvanus… The All-Knowing."
The first of the Black Fangs had come.