Year 447 of the Holy Calendar.

It was the age of myth, when gods, spirits, and magic ruled over the land. The war between the Dark Lords' Armies and the Six Heroes was approaching its conclusion.

Bones piled upon bones. The remains of countless skeletons littered the ground, blanketed by a heavy black smog.

"—And so my capital of Necrozoa, too, is destined to fall."

The Undead King, Leonis Death Magnus, sat upon a throne in the deepest recesses of the black fortress known as Death Hold. He sighed, exhaling a thick miasma. He was clad in a pitch-black robe cloaked with a smoky mist thick with curses and dark magic. His visage was as death incarnate and stood as a symbol of fear and awe for mankind.

At the moment, however, the Undead King's capital of Necrozoa and its dark lands were being overrun by an alliance of humans, demi- humans, and spirits. His realm was teetering on the edge of destruction.

The Six Heroes blessed by the gods had already attacked the other Dark Lords' fortresses across the land. The Crag Castle of Dizolf, the Lord of Rage. The Ironblood Castle of Gazoth, the Lord of Beasts. The Otherworldly Castle of Azra-Ael, the Devil of the Underworld. The Demon Dragon's Mountain Range of Veira, the Dragon Lord. Even the Underwater Stronghold of Rivaiz, the Lord of the Seas. All of them had fallen.

The only bastion remaining was Necrozoa.

Through a crystal orb in his hand, the Undead King, Leonis, watched over the battle. The clattering sounds of bones clicking together rode

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the breeze across the field of battle. Countless skeleton soldiers created by Leonis's mana filled the wasteland. An army of the undead, impervious to swords or spears. But even this vast assemblage was being torn apart... The violence swept across the battlefield and left soldiers scattered like petals in the wind.

"The Six Heroes...!"

A massive tree bathed in shining light sprouted in the center of the battlefield. Its roots burst from the ground, blowing away the skeleton soldiers and crushing them to splinters.

"The Archsage Arakael. So even you have discarded your humanity. To think you would debase yourself to a servant of the gods...!" the Undead King whispered in annoyance, crushing the crystal orb in his grip.

Having accepted the gods' blessings into their bodies, the Six Heroes had gained the power to evolve without end. The wisest of the six— the Archsage Arakael—had consumed the Holy Tree, guardian of the Spirit Forest, and made its power his own.

"It's time I joined the battle. My dark flames shall feast on these fools."

The Undead King Leonis took up his staff and rose from his throne, his black robe swaying in his wake.

"Wait, Lord Magnus."

The Undead King turned to face the voice calling out from behind him. A black wolf held the hem of his cloak in its mouth and looked up at Leonis. It was Blackas Shadow Prince, the prince of the Realm of Shadows and longtime comrade and friend to the Undead King.

"You are the last remaining Dark Lord. That one would not wish for you to fall here," he said, raising his gaze to meet Leonis's.

Leonis stopped in his tracks. His grip tightened around his staff.

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"Yes...I suppose you're right."

Leonis remembered it well. The mission she—the Goddess of Rebellion—had bestowed upon him.

"In one thousand years' time, when stars fall from the heavens, a vessel for my power will appear in the form of a child of man."

Finding the goddess's vessel and re-forming the Dark Lords' Armies was his mission. The final mission given to the last remaining Dark Lord.

"Be content in knowing that I acknowledge my defeat this time, foolish humans. But I am the Undead King. A millennium from now, I will be reborn and reclaim this throne!"

—And so it was that the Undead King sealed his own soul in the depths of the Grand Mausoleum.

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