A tale between the factions of the Blessed Ones and the Cursed Ones
Long ago, before the world was divided between light and shadow, there was one among the Blessed who shone brightest of all. A warrior of immense power, wisdom, and heart — known simply as the Fallen. However, he was not always referred to by that name.
Once, he was a hero, blessed with divine energy, the ancient source of all balance. Yet it was not fate that broke him — it was betrayal.
One of his own, a companion he trusted as a brother, deceived him. The betrayal cut deep, igniting within him a fire of rage and hatred that burned away his virtue. The energy that once healed is now cursed. The power that was once protected is now destroyed. Life itself wilted at his touch — trees withered, creatures turned feral, and the skies darkened.
When the Blessed Ones realized what he had become, they had no choice but to act. They united the Four Clans — the Vanguards — and banished him from the Empire. They cast him into exile, sealing his memory in chains of honor and sorrow, hiding his name in silence.
But even banished, his power only grew.
From the depths of his exile, his influence crept like a plague. Slowly at first — whispers in the wind, a dark fog upon the rivers — but then with force. He reached into every corner of the world, infecting lands and minds alike.
The region he touched became cursed. No light could penetrate it. Life twisted into monstrous forms. That land became known as Helvas — the Kingdom of Shadows.
The Four Clans fought to contain the corruption. They formed sacred orders to protect the Empire's borders, to keep the people safe. But nothing they did could cleanse Helvas. Every attempt at purification failed. The darkness was too deep.
And the Fallen's power? It was far greater than they ever imagined. His hatred had become a force of its own — endless, hungry, and growing stronger with each passing year.
Even the Blessed Ones began to fear the prophecy:
That one day, darkness would rise, and light would fall.
From the heart of Helvas, the Fallen raised a kingdom of his own. He built great cities, gathered cursed souls to serve him, and forged a monstrous army. His blood became the source of his new magic — dark, powerful, and seductive.
But only those strong enough to withstand his blood could wield his power.
Years passed. Wars came and went. The Blessed Clans believed they had bought themselves time.
They were wrong.
At last, the Fallen found one — a one capable of bearing his blood without breaking. A perfect vessel. And through this chosen one, the Fallen would return. The one who would bring ruin not just to the Empire, but to the world itself.
And in the silence of Helvas, his voice echoed like a storm:
"My descendant shall be the harbinger. Through them, I will rise again. Through them, the world shall burn. The Fallen shall return."