The world was not always divided.
Before the Reset, Earth was one vast network of cities and light. Steel towers touched the clouds, and oceans glowed with neon ports. But human greed drained the planet dry—machines consumed more than the sky could give, and the weather began to revolt.
At first, it was only storms. Then came fire.
A century of climate wars followed—floods swallowed nations, heat melted borders, and new ice walls grew where deserts once stood. Entire governments fell, and humanity scattered.
When it was finally over, the map had changed. The old continents were gone, broken into eight new lands, each shaped by the scars of the Reset.
To the north lay Winterland, a kingdom of endless snow and crystal lakes, where the air shimmered like frozen glass. Its people learned to build warmth from silence, their cities buried in frost and lit by blue fire.
South of it burned Summerland, where the sun never rested and the deserts sang with storms. The strong survived there—gangs, traders, and mercenaries thrived in the heat of chaos.
Autumnland was a land of gold forests and mist, a quiet continent where time felt slower, ruled by scholars and monks who rebuilt from the ashes.
Springland, bright and green, became the center of trade and invention. Iron City, built from the skeletons of old machines, stood proudly as its heart—half industry, half ruin.
Far across the ocean was Dreamland, a floating paradise of glass and illusion. Its structures hovered in the air, powered by remnants of lost tech. Here, imagination had no rules; everything that could be dreamed could be built.
Beyond that were Cherryland, a peaceful continent of crimson petals and rivers of light; Stormland, where lightning storms painted the night sky and wind cities drifted on the air currents; and finally Duskland, the shadowed frontier—half real, half myth—where explorers disappeared and the stars glowed closer than the moon.
The world called it a rebirth. But the scars of the Reset still bled beneath the beauty.
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Blade Vayne Wilson was born in Winterland, beneath a storm that never ended. He didn't remember the faces of his parents, only the voice of the snow that whispered his name. When he was five, a blizzard swept through his village. The storm carried him far beyond the mountains, guiding him toward the metallic glow of another world—Springland.
He wandered for days, barefoot and starving, until Iron City swallowed him whole. That was where Razor Leon found him—a man whose name made criminals tremble.
"Got eyes like ice," Razor had said, lighting a cigarette under the rain. "You'll live."
He became Blade Vayne. The gang's youngest ghost.
He learned to fight, to shoot, to read people like maps. Razor taught him that survival was a language of silence. By fifteen, Blade had already stopped being a child. By seventeen, he was a legend whispered in alleys.
Then the night of fire came—the Crimson Spire attack. The city burned, Razor fell, and the only father Blade ever knew died laughing. "Go north," he had said. "To Winterland. Don't come back."
Blade never did. He buried the name "Wilson" with Razor that night.
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Now, years later, the world stood still again. Snow fell gently across Frostvale City, his quiet home on the edge of Winterland. The neon lights had long faded. People lived simple lives again—machines still worked, but only those rebuilt from fragments of old tech. The Reset had forced everyone to start over.
Sometimes Blade would stare at the skyline and wonder if the Reset ever truly ended, or if humanity was still breaking, piece by piece.
He didn't know who he was before Razor found him. He didn't even know if his real name was Blade. But every time the snow whispered through the glass, it called him back to that night in Iron City—the night he stopped being a lost boy and became something else.
The Reset had changed the world. Razor had changed him.
And now, the game called Ascender Online—the forge of creation—was beginning to change everything once again.