The air smells of rot.
A figure in white stands at the crumbling top of a wasteland mountain.
The stale winds that lift the hems of its robes bring the smell of grime and death. It's been a long time since any life was spotted on this lonesome mountain.
Yet, here is this figure, with its withered arms raised to the blood colored sky. In the figure's shaking hands, is an obsidian stone sword. An ominous red glow surrounds it.
Far away from here, the weary sound of a temple bell rings steadfast. The bell never stops. It can never stop.
Legend speaks of the time from long ago when there were no bells to sing the holy tune. Of a time when the earth was plunged in horrid mayhem.
Of a time when the cries of humans could be heard across the six realms of Samsara; when rivers were of blood and viscera and when rain was of acid and fire.
Many have forgotten of those times— many believe them to be tales of the crazy elderly. On top this mountain, however, is one of the last believers. A self-proclaimed son of disorder and chaos.
The wind lifts the holy white veil off his face, exposing him to the dormant dark mana in the air. He ignores the threat of death and continues on, chanting in an ancient tongue, the stone sword pointed at the sky.
Something begins to change in the air, a strange turbulence starts to form. The winds whip about the man in white, they rip the veil entirely off his face and riddle his robe with tears.
He plants his feet to the rocky earth with such force that they leave jagged imprints. The wind pushes him back but his chanting grows longer and louder. His face scrunches up as he fights with the sky.
"Samsara of old, bear me witness!"
His voice is loud. So loud that it shakes the mountain. A few boulders hanging on even in the fierce winds, topple off at the sound of his mighty voice. The blood red sky begins to change, into a swirling whirlpool of dark sticky matter: dark mana in its tangible form.
From within the whirlpool comes terrible, horrible wails of agony. Flashes of demons, personification of sins and beasts of torture appear in the man's mind.
He resists the temptation to surrender to death, to become a slave of hell. His face begins to morph. Hellish creepers have seeped underneath his skin, crawling about his eyes, feasting on his moving tongue and seeping out of all his orifices.
Scattered across the mountain, were bones of both humans and animals from a time past. As the dark mana in the air rises, so do they.
Rotten flesh grows on their browned bones. In their eye sockets, nasal cavity and mouth, are worms and maggots that swirl in likeness to the whirlpool of Mana above. They chant along with the man, repeat his every word. They laugh, human and beast alike, at the foolishness of this lowly mortal.
The man previously in white, was now stripped to the bareness of his skin and assaulted by the foulness of hell. He shouts to the sky. His determination excites the flow of Dark Qi above him.
"Depths of Naraka! Gates of the eighteen hells!! Heed the cry of this lowly servant. Accept the sacrifice of a thousand souls and give me the honor of being your host! "
A loud clap of thunder reverberates deep within the whirlpool. Deafening cries of agony escape once more, threatening to rip the fabric of space itself.
Naraka heeds his call. A thick cloud of dark matter escapes the swirling mass in the sky. It approaches slowly at first, dancing about the head of the so called human host. Then it slams directly into the stone sword, entering his body through the weapon.
The world stills.
The sound of the temple bells cannot reach the mountain. It is deathly quiet for a second.
Now, a great distance from this mountain, lies a prosperous little village. The inhabitants are normal humans catered for by a few monks assigned to their homeland.
Many of these people have never even heard of the existence of cultivators. Cultivators are akin to gods. Anyone who could reach the true essence of qi was considered divine. Even more rare was talk of Dark mana.
Simple folks, these villagers. All they knew were the three simple rules given by the holy monks who lived on the green hill.
Rule one, never step outside the village without the guidance of a blessed lamp or bell. Both of which were extremely expensive to purchase for majority of the village. Only a few had actually gotten close to these objects. Going outside without them would mean being exposed to the dormant evil in the air and risk mutation or death.
Rule two, offer incense sticks to the Glorious emperor at dawn and at dusk. Good luck, it would bring, said the monks.
Rule three, any sign of demonic possession by evil spirits and unnatural behavior shown by any one of the villagers was to be reported. The reported person would be placed underneath the sun next to the village's bell for a total of seven days without food. After which, he would be considered purified and released.
Again, simple folks they were. They knew nothing but what was told to them. So when the temple bell suddenly went silent, the village went into disarray.
It first started with a subtle and sudden chill which many disregarded for winter drafts, as it was autumn and the cold months drew near.
However, the sudden pressure and a wave of unsettling energy that permeated through the village was a sign that there was something wrong. The last and surest sign of trouble was when the air froze and breathing became a grand chore. The exact time the bell stopped singing.
"Oh heavens above! The gods are angry! We have sinned, we have forgotten to worship our glorious emperor! Spare us, spare us!" cried an ignorant fellow who got on his knees and kowtowed in the middle of the once noisy market.
As expected, the rest of the villagers did the same, bowing in the direction of the silent bell. "Forgive me, my Lord Emperor! I neglected to burn an incense stick in your honor!" Proclaimed a robust lady that did her very best to kiss her forehead to the dust.
" Oh emperor, I cursed at my neighbor today!"
"Forgive me, Lord. I stole a fruit!"
"Pardon, your Grace!"
"We beg for mercy!"
On they went, foolish souls lost in the teachings of a deceitful monastery. For as they bowed and screamed their sins, the monks they believed greatly in trembled in the hill temple above.
These monks were lowly trash to those with true power. They were the runt of the cultivation world assigned to be caretakers of a remote land.
Now they were faced with this dilemma where the low rank blessed bell that protected them from the evil corruption outside the village failed. The fragile minds of the monks shook from fear.
Their last resort was a talisman colored gold and red. A call for imperial help.
The head monk ran as fast as he could, to the peak of the hill— the very center, marked with deep red coloring. There was a floating lamp just above this red spot on the hill.
A strange lamp it was, for the light did not reflect at all. It only burned within and its light remained inside the lamp. The monk raised his shaky arms, opened this wooden source of light and placed the talisman inside. He looked far south, and watched a strange dark mass move in powerful circles, turning the air about it violent. A storm was coming. One long forgotten.
The monk cried aloud in a foreign tongue, begging gods that had long fallen asleep to arise and fight for their children. The heavens, however, did not belong to the gods anymore.
The talisman finally reacted, bursting bright golden light that spread through out the village. The light was so bright that from hundreds of miles away, the village resembled a glowing torch. It wouldn't last long though. Only a day or two. Not enough time for ordinary Qi novices or masters to make it and save the village.
Full fledged cultivators were so rare to be seen in mortal lands, and even at that, none would come to their aid. As it was, the best they could hope for was a Qi master to lead them to safety.
A day passed.
The second day came and went by as well.
The Lamp of Light was slowing giving out.
This lonely village was surrounded on all sides by the roaring dark mana that came from the depths of hell.
The villagers cried and confessed every sin, but many were beginning to understand that this was no ordinary punishment of a glorious unseen emperor, but something far worse. The might of a realm so gruesome.
And oh, did the simple dwellers of the hidden village fear.
But on the third day, it was too late and the light from the lamp died out.
Hell descended on earth and with the sacrifice of a thousand unfortunate souls, the Gates of Naraka were opened once more.
As hell and earth had met, all that could follow was madness. Heros would rise and fall. Crazed, power hungry cultivators would bleed for a taste of hell's essence. The immortals would scheme and play.
Ordinary folk would be cannon fodder. Those without true power would be sacrifices.
Madness. Strife. Impending damnation.
It was the beginning of an era.