Chapter One: The Forgotten Zone
No one remembers when the sky turned crimson.
But every human alive remembers the day the monsters came.
It started with whispers—rumors of creatures rising from the deep earth, from the black storms that swept across continents. The world's armies called it The Breach. Cities fell within days. Skies turned to ash. Mountains cracked under the footsteps of creatures that defied the laws of nature.
The humans fought back.
For fifty years, they bled for the world they once ruled.
The final battle was called The Last Stand of Humanity—a desperate, defiant attempt to reclaim the earth from the monsters that had taken it. But they were never fighting
There are Nine Factions, each ruled by a Monarch, creatures of unfathomable power that shaped the new world in their image.
1. The Fox Clan
The strongest of them all. Elegant, deceptive, and godlike.
At their head is The Queen of Monsters—a Nine-Tailed Fox, whose presence bends reality itself. Her power is said to be the flame that birthed all others. The air trembles when she breathes. Her eyes, silver and endless, see all truth and all lies.
The other foxes, though powerful, are limited—most with no more than four tails. The rarest among them, the Five-Tailed Foxes, are born once in a century, said to command both illusion and elemental destruction.
2. The Behemoth Clan
Towering beasts of flesh and bone, with hides like mountains and voices that shake the earth.
They are war incarnate—giant quadrupeds or humanoid titans with molten cores, feeding on chaos.
3. The Serpent Brood
Cold-blooded masters of manipulation and venom.
They slither through cities unseen, ruling the underworld with poison that melts both flesh and mind.
4. The Bloodwings
Vampiric horrors born from darkness.
They rule the night skies, feeding on the life essence of both human and monster alike. Their Monarch—Crimson Talon—is said to drink the hearts of stars.
5. The Iron Fangs
Wolf-like predators with an unbreakable code. They roam in packs, loyal to no one but their Alpha Monarch—Fenra, the Howling Moon.
6. The Abyssal Court
Creatures of the deep sea.
Silent. Ancient. Patient. They once ruled the oceans—now their Monarch, Thalessia, keeps watch over the drowned cities below.
7. The Reapers
Ghostlike entities formed from the souls of the slain.
They walk through walls, through dreams, through time. Their Monarch, Mournveil, is neither alive nor dead.
8. The Stoneborn
Giants made of earth and crystal. Their skin glows with the runes of creation. Their slow wrath can topple nations.
9. The Harrowed
Twisted experiments—mutations born of war. They are the remnants of human science gone wrong, now loyal to none but their Monarch—The Flesh Weaver.
In this world, every creature is ranked by the Tiers of Dominion:
Third-Class Monsters: mindless beasts of destruction.
They feel no fear, no mercy. Their only instinct is to kill and devour.
Second-Class Monsters: humanoid monsters—intelligent, emotional, capable of speech. They serve the First-Class as soldiers, overseers, and nobles.
First-Class Monsters: the Purebloods—ancient, royal beings with the power to destroy nations. They bend the elements and reality itself.
Above all are the Monarchs—nine creatures capable of destroying the world.
And above them stands The Queen, who has reigned since we humans could remember.
Under their rule, humanity was broken.
The survivors were branded as "The Lower Kind."
They live now in filth, working until they collapse, serving as laborers, slaves, and livestock in the shattered outskirts of civilization.
These wastelands are known as The Forgotten Zones.
The morning began with coughing.
The boy sat up in his bed—if you could call it that. A thin mattress stuffed with straw, torn at the seams. The ceiling above him was cracked, dust hanging like fog in the stale air. The light that crept through the broken boards was gray, lifeless.
His name was Vergile Blake.
Seventeen today.
Another year in hell.
He rubbed his eyes, his hands blackened with soot. The walls around him were patched with rusted metal sheets and half-burned wood. His shoes were torn, the soles taped together.
The room smelled of iron and old smoke.
Outside, the wind carried the low hum of machinery—the sound of humans toiling in the Waste Pits, where they broke rocks and melted scrap under the watch of monsters.
Vergile moved quietly, pulling on his tattered coat. His father's voice echoed in his mind—"Come in early today, son. I've got something to tell you."
He didn't know why, but his father's tone had felt… strange.
Heavy.
When he stepped outside, the cold hit him like a wall.
The streets were alive with noise and desperation—humans rushing by, heads low, hands clutching whatever scraps they could sell or trade. Makeshift vendors shouted hoarsely over the crowd, pushing rotten fruit or rusted tools. A baby cried somewhere. The air stank of oil, smoke, and sweat.
And towering above them all, in the distance, were the silver spires of the monsters' city—cold, bright, untouchable.
Vergile walked through the chaos, weaving between people and carts. His breath fogged in the morning chill, and though the streets were crowded, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching him.
A chill crept down his spine.
He turned once—twice—but saw only the restless crowd pushing forward, faces hollow with hunger.
Still, the feeling lingered.
Like unseen eyes following his every step.
The air inside the factory was thick with heat and ash.
Humans worked like machines—faces blank, backs bent, hands blistered. They shoveled coal, lifted steel, and fed the furnaces that powered the monster cities far away.
The overseer today was a Second-Class monster—a hulking, horned brute with gray skin and glowing eyes. His voice boomed across the floor.
"Faster, filth! You think the Queen's army runs on your pity?"
A worker stumbled beside Vergile, his hands trembling too much to lift a beam. Before Vergile could even think, the monster was on him—striking him down with a whip made of living flame.
The man screamed. The smell of burning flesh filled the air.
Vergile froze.
He wanted to look. To help.
But he couldn't.
He turned away, his fists clenched so tight his nails drew blood.
If he intervened, he'd die before his next breath.
So he did what every human learned to do.
He pretended not to see.
By the time the day ended, Vergile could barely stand. His body ached, his eyes heavy from the smoke. The sky had turned a dark, bleeding red—like the world itself was wounded.
He walked home in silence, the wind sharp and cold.
That feeling returned—the one from the morning.
A prickling unease, like unseen eyes crawling across his skin.
When he reached his door, the air felt… different.
He paused, hand hovering over the handle.
Something was inside.
Something waiting.
The silence around him grew heavy—too heavy.
Then, just before he stepped in, the wind whispered through the cracks of his home. It almost sounded like a voice.
A whisper.
Soft. Familiar.
Calling his name.
> "Vergile…"
His breath caught.