In the beginning, the world was whole.
There was one continent, unbroken by sea or storm, where mana flowed as freely as wind and light. Magic was not feared, nor hidden. It was studied, refined, and governed. Wizards shaped cities from stone and flame, bent rivers to their will, and etched laws not only into parchment, but into reality itself.
At the center of the continent stood the Grand Library.
Its spires pierced the sky, its foundations sank deep into the veins of the world, and within its halls lay every spell ever discovered. The Emperor—first and last ruler of a unified world—had gathered them all. Not to destroy knowledge, but to control it.
Magic was rationed.
Across the continent, schools flourished. Students learned charms, elements, and rituals from carefully translated grimoires written in the common tongue. They cast spells that worked—most of the time. But the true language of magic, the Language of the Universe, was never taught beyond the Grand Library's walls. Its phrases were too precise, too powerful, too dangerous to be spoken freely.
Prosperity followed.So did resentment.
And then came betrayal.
Surrounded by those he trusted most, mortally wounded by conspirators who sought the Library's power, the Emperor spoke his final spell. No record of the words survived. Perhaps they were never meant to.
The world screamed.
The continent shattered. Mountains split, oceans were born in an instant, and leylines tore apart like severed nerves. Where the heart of the world once stood, the Central Continent remained—sealed behind eternal mana storms, unreachable, untouchable.
Magic broke with it.
In the centuries that followed, spells failed. Grimoires lost meaning. The carefully translated words no longer aligned with reality. Within three hundred years, wizardkind dwindled into irrelevance. Magic became unreliable, then unusable, then unbelievable.
By the fifth century, it was a myth.
The world adapted.
Steel replaced spellwork. Powder replaced incantation. Guns and cannons reshaped warfare, and science rose where magic had fallen. Cities grew louder, faster, brighter—without a single spell among them.
Then mana returned.
Leylines reformed. The world plane stabilized. Magic once again saturated the air.
Wizards born again.
First among ancient families—those who still remembered the old signs. Then, without pattern or warning, among ordinary people. These new-born wizards had no language, no structure, no spellwork. Their power answered only emotion and intent.
Fear burned cities. Rage shattered streets. Love warped reality.
Chaos followed.
For two hundred years, witches and wizards were hunted across the continents. Some were slain. Some vanished. Some learned to hide. And while the world burned its monsters, the ancient families endured in silence, preserving fragments of the old truth.
Then came war.
A hundred years that reshaped the world yet again.
In the western and southern continents, wizards emerged victorious. Thrones fell, armies burned, and governments bent beneath spell and sigil. Power was no longer debated—it was demonstrated. Mage aristocracies rose, ruling openly through bloodline, mastery, and control of spell knowledge. Here, magic was law, and those without it lived under its shadow.
In the eastern continent, magic was not merely defeated—it was erased. Wizard bloodlines were hunted to extinction, grimoires burned, and even the idea of spellcraft was outlawed. In its place rose a civilization of steel and calculation. The East led the world in technology, developing instruments that could detect mana fluctuations, measure magical aptitude, and identify anomalies before they became threats. To them, magic was a disease—one to be identified, isolated, and eliminated without mercy.
In the northern continent, neither extreme prevailed. Instead, compromise was forged through necessity and blood. Wizards and non-magical leaders ruled together, bound by treaties rather than fear. There, magic was disciplined by science, and science was empowered by magic. From this union arose magi-tech—engines that drank mana, weapons that responded to thought, and cities that adapted to their inhabitants. Prosperous beyond measure and feared by all, the North became the world's silent arbiter, balancing power not through dominance, but through precision.
And at the center of it all, beyond storms that never ceased, the silent continent waited.
The Grand Library waited.
And with it, the truth of magic—not as it was taught,
but as it was meant to be spoken.
'Na jñānaṁ naṣṭam, na vismṛtam.Ayogye loke, tat saṁrakṣitam.'
Meaning:Knowledge was not destroyed, nor forgotten.In an unworthy world, it was protected.