The night sky is expected to be serene—dark, studded with stars, and cold. However, on that particular night, the stars ceased to shine. They collapsed.
Initially, it appeared as a faint light in the distance, reminiscent of an aurora or a meteor shower. Individuals found it beautiful and eagerly captured it on their mobile devices. Yet, this beauty was deceptive. Within mere minutes, the light transformed into an atmospheric blaze. The clouds ignited, and the sky was torn asunder. Like a black curtain drawn from one end to another, the purple and black fissure emitted an unfamiliar light never before witnessed by humanity.
From that rift emerged something unfamiliar. It was neither a meteor, a falling satellite, nor an experimental aircraft. It was a gateway—a portal to an unimaginable darkness.
Witnesses of that night bestowed upon it various names:
"The Gates of Hell,"
"Star Mouth,"
"Cosmic Chart."
However, the name that endured was simply: Dungeon.
Regardless of the name, it symbolized one thing: death.
In the initial week following the breach, major cities succumbed as if the world were engulfed by a collective nightmare. Tokyo vanished, swallowed by the shadow of a black dragon emerging from the first sky rift. Rio de Janeiro crumbled, inundated by the blood of sea monsters. New York, the city that never sleeps, transformed into a vast graveyard as millions of forms flowed through its streets like rivers.
Humanity was unprepared.
In a mere seven days, half of the world's population vanished. This was not solely due to being consumed, torn apart, or hunted by those creatures, but also because of an imperceptible poison: some form of radiation or foreign energy that permeated the air, poisoning the flesh and unsettling the soul. Some humans perished in agony, some decayed slowly, and others transformed into something inhuman—savage creatures with pointed features and luminous eyes.
The world cried out, but no assistance arrived. Nations attempted to endure, yet modern technology proved futile. Missiles, tanks, even nuclear arms were deployed to halt the onslaught of monsters. However, the opposite occurred: nuclear explosions only exacerbated the situation, widening the rift and allowing more portals to open.
Earth, once known as the blue planet, abruptly became a layered hell. Cities became graveyards, villages transformed into monster nests, and the seas turned to blood.
Amidst this devastation, rumors began to circulate. Tales of a glowing object deep within the dungeon—a radiant chalice beckoning with subtle whispers. The Holy Grail. It was said that whoever succeeded in retrieving it would gain dominion over the new world, could reverse the destruction, and even become a god. Yet, those who failed would descend into endless madness.
Thus, the night was remembered—the night when the stars fell, the night when the world ended, and simultaneously began anew. Thousands of years later, humanity referred to it as the Day of Cosmic Disaster.
Transition to 4150 Years—Era Persephon
Yet time progressed—not merely in decades or centuries, but an entire millennium.
The year is 4150. The Earth once familiar to humanity is now transformed. It is now known as Persephon—a world reborn from the ashes of destruction.
Humanity is not extinct. From the remnants, they survived. Some were altered by radiation, others adapted to the foreign energy. From this, new races emerged.
Beastkin with sharp ears and eyes gleaming like a predator's.
Elves, believed to be born of human souls embraced by cosmic radiation.
Dark, pale-skinned beings who breathe this energy as if it were air.
They coexist—sometimes amicably, often contentiously—in a world no longer modern.
Traces of 21st-century civilization lie buried beneath the earth. Skyscrapers of steel and glass stand as empty monuments consumed by wilderness. Highways once bustling with vehicles have become rivers or valleys overgrown with moss. Artificial satellites have fallen, reduced to ruins in the desert.
Human civilization has transformed. From high-tech, it has evolved into a magical civilization, with ancient empires and cities rising from the vestiges of the old world.
Yet one thing remains constant: the dungeons persist.
These ancient chasms linger, like wounds refusing to heal. They exist beneath the sea, atop mountains, in deserts, and deep within forests. Within them, time behaves differently, and the world's logic is distorted. Deep within, the Holy Grail continues to shine, enticing individuals to claim it.
This marks the birth of a new era. The era of hunting. The era of dungeons. The age of blood.
For some, dungeons represent destruction. For others, they are a treasure trove, a source of power, a path to dominance. Every race, every nation, every adventurer gazes into the darkness with one question: Am I strong enough to seize the Grail?
The answer, more often than not, is no. Among the millions who venture in, only a few ever return. And those who do seldom survive unscathed. Some lose their minds, others their bodies, and some their souls.
Yet the influx of humanity continues unabated. Like moths drawn to a flame, they persist in entering the dungeons, aspiring to become the next legend.
And thus, the story begins.