Chapter 1: The prophecy
Beneath a sky painted with clouds of molten silver, the veil between realms shimmered, barely visible to mortal eyes. Known to some as the Rift, this boundary was the last line between the human realm and the dark world of Tartarus—a chaotic, cursed dimension home to horrors and monstrosities beyond imagining. The Rift held them at bay, but it was an imperfect seal, a guardian with cracks just wide enough to let in a whisper of Tartarus' ancient malice.
In distant regions, where magic ran wild and fierce, the land seemed to throb with power. These places, called hazardous regions by those who knew of their danger, were littered with twisted forests, dark mountains, and barren wastelands. Here, the air crackled with otherworldly energy, and magical beasts prowled, drawn by the thick, intoxicating magic. Hunters learned to fear these lands and the beasts within them—creatures mutated by magic, their forms warped to something stronger, wilder, and more dangerous.
Occasionally, Tartarus' energy would seep into the mortal world, invisible but potent, sparking a Magic Overflow. When these moments struck, they were nothing short of cataclysmic. A shiver would run through the veil, sending a flood of dark energy into the mortal realm, a kind of magical storm. And in that flood, things moved—beasts and beings that were not of this world, transported into the mortal realm. Their howls echoed through the night, a reminder of Tartarus' insatiable hunger.
The signs were always there if one looked close enough. During a Magic Overflow, trees would twist into gnarled, unnatural shapes, rocks would glow with unholy light, and the creatures, influenced by Tartarus' touch, grew restless and violent. It was as though the dark realm was leaking its anger into the mortal plane, a foreboding of a much larger calamity to come.
And among the scattered villages and city-states, whispers of dread grew louder. The cultists claimed that the veil's weakness was proof of the prophecy. They insisted that the Rift was thinning, heralding the approach of The War, when Tartarus' forces would spill into the mortal realm in full. They spoke of demonic forces flooding the world, and of worshiping the demon lords as the only path to salvation.
For now, most could only wonder at the hazardous regions and the monsters within, hoping the stories were mere legend. But deep down, some sensed the truth. The veil would not hold forever, and with each Magic Overflow, the time of peace grew shorter. The creatures were already here, scratching at the edges of the world, leaving their mark on villages and lives like a silent, dark promise. And somewhere, in the depths of the Rift, Tartarus waited, and watched.
....
(Western Nation ; village of Valthorn)
The sun was beginning to dip over the small village of Valthorn, casting a warm glow over the rooftops as villagers moved through the square, going about their daily routines. Children chased each other past the open stalls, where farmers sold fresh produce. Men led donkeys loaded with baskets of grain, and herders steered their cattle through the dusty street, each of them pausing only briefly to glance at the lone figure in the center of the square—a hunched priest wrapped in dark, threadbare robes.
"Listen to me!" the priest called, his voice rough but carrying above the low hum of village life. He held an old, tattered scroll above his head, its edges frayed with age. "The Rift—the veil that holds back Tartarus—weakens! The prophecy foretells a time of darkness, when the monsters of Tartarus will roam freely among us. Only a deity reborn among mortals can hold back the coming storm!"
A group of boys paused by the well, snickering as they threw rocks into the bucket. One of them cupped his hands and shouted, "Old man, you're losing your wits! We've heard these tales a hundred times, and look! The Rift's still there. No 'deity' is going to save us because there's nothing to save us from!"
Laughter rippled through a passing group of women carrying baskets on their hips. One muttered to her neighbor, "Prophecies and demons, the poor fool doesn't know what he's talking about."
The priest ignored them, his fervent gaze sweeping over the crowd. "Mark my words—the Rift will break, and the horrors beyond it will flood this world! You can mock now, but when the darkness comes, where will your laughter be?"
A farmer hauling a bale of hay shook his head. "Look around, priest! We're fine. Been fine for years, and we'll be fine for many more. This Rift of yours has held for centuries. Why would it fall now?"
The priest's voice lowered, though it lost none of its intensity. "The Rift grows weaker with every passing day. You've felt it, haven't you? The creatures in the forests grow fiercer, the air heavier. The world knows what's coming, even if you choose to ignore it."
A woman rolling her eyes as she herded a flock of goats down the path called back, "And I suppose this 'deity' you speak of will be our savior? Some mystical being that'll just appear out of thin air and fix everything?"
"Yes!" the priest snapped, his face wild with conviction. "It is written in the scrolls! The light of the heavens shall walk among men, reborn in mortal flesh, to seal the Rift once and for all. This is not a tale—it is our only hope!"
But his words only seemed to fuel the crowd's laughter. One old man passing by slapped his knee and cackled, "And I suppose you're the one who's going to guide this 'deity' when he shows up? Tell us, priest, will he have wings and a halo?"
As the laughter died down, a few of the villagers who remained grew quieter, unsure. The words "monsters" and "Rift" weighed on them in a way they couldn't quite ignore. The elderly blacksmith paused mid-hammer strike, his expression troubled as he remembered the tales from his youth, stories of creatures in the woods that were nothing like the animals they hunted now.
The priest's eyes, seeing a crack in the crowd's doubt, softened but grew no less intense. "Mock me if you will, but when the time comes, remember this moment. The Rift weakens. And if you are wise, you will pray for the one the prophecy speaks of, the one who will rise to keep our world from falling into darkness."
He lowered his scroll, his voice barely above a whisper now, but somehow it carried, lingering in the minds of the villagers as they began to disperse. "May the deity hear us… before it's too late."
And though most laughed as they continued with their routines, a strange silence settled over the square, as though the very air was listening. For those who believed him, the words hung heavy and unwelcome, while the rest walked away dismissively, trying to shake the shadow of his warning from their minds. But the priest knew—he could feel the Rift's weakening, a shiver in the very fabric of existence. And he knew, as surely as the sun would rise, that this was only the beginning.
(At the Forest of Valworn- marked as a hazardous zone - [Areas where magical overflow occurs] )
The forest around them lay in shambles, the remnants of their battle littered across the forest floor in broken branches and twisted roots. Flickering light from blue-green torches danced across three hunters as they caught their breath. They were seasoned—each bearing scars of past hunts and hardened expressions. C-rank hunters, renowned and resilient, each one bound by duty and ambition. The oldest, a man called Garrick, wiped the sweat and blood from his face as he surveyed the carcasses of magical beasts they'd just taken down.
"It was supposed to be an easy job," he grumbled, kicking at the dead Guardian's form. Its body was twisted, petrified in its last moment of fury, an ancient stone creature with vines woven across its torso like armor.
"Easy? Against a Guardian?" Liora, the youngest of the three, laughed bitterly. She brushed dirt from her cloak, her eyes sharp and unyielding as she scanned the nearby clearing. "Next time, I'd appreciate it if our 'informant' could give us the whole story. This thing nearly got us killed."
"Quit whining, both of you," replied the last of them, a man called Ivor, stoic and severe. "We came for treasures, didn't we? Guardians don't defend a place unless there's something worth guarding."
As if on cue, a glint caught Garrick's eye at the base of the Guardian's pedestal. Embedded within a cracked stone tablet, a faint shimmer pulsed, revealing symbols and runes no longer familiar to any mortal eye. He approached cautiously, his gloved hand brushing away dust and grime. And then he froze.
"Liora, Ivor, get over here," he called, his voice low and urgent.
The two hunters exchanged a glance before moving closer, peering over Garrick's shoulder as he knelt by the tablet. In the dim light, the words began to glow, faintly at first, until they formed a clear inscription in Old Celestial—a language none of them had seen for centuries.
"Is that...?" Liora's voice trailed off as she read aloud, her words a hushed whisper.
"'And when the Great Veil trembles, a light will fall to the realm of men, cloaked in the guise of flesh,'" she read. "'For in the Hour of the Rift, a mortal born of celestial flame will bear the final dawn...'"
Garrick frowned, his brow furrowed deeply. "A mortal born of celestial flame? Sounds like more of that apocalyptic nonsense. Prophecies are always dramatic like this."
"It's no nonsense," Ivor said sharply, his gaze uncharacteristically intense. "If this is real, if it's talking about the Great Veil, then we're dealing with the prophecy. The one that the cults have been whispering about for years."
Liora glanced between them, unease clear in her eyes. "But... a mortal? Born of a god? What's it supposed to mean?"
They fell silent, the words hanging heavily between them. In the stillness, even the shadows seemed to lean closer, listening.
Garrick shook his head, half in disbelief. "So what? Some celestial being is going to 'fall' and help us out against the demonic forces? That's a story for fools and desperate men. Just another way for people to sleep at night."
"Then why does the Guardian protect this?" Liora asked, her voice quiet but pointed. "Why carve this prophecy into stone if it's all nonsense?"
"Because maybe it isn't nonsense." Ivor's voice was steady, but his eyes showed a hint of something else—something darker. "And maybe... the cults were right. Maybe the rift will open soon."
Garrick's jaw clenched, his gaze unwavering as he continued to study the tablet. "If that's true, we're already out of time."
The three hunters stood in silence, the forest heavy around them. Suddenly, Liora's gaze drifted upward, toward the darkened sky, where a faint glimmer seemed to pulse, high above the canopy. She shivered, though she couldn't say why.
"What is it?" Garrick asked, glancing up to follow her gaze.
"Nothing," Liora replied softly, though a feeling of unease prickled at her. "Just... a strange feeling."
The wind stirred the leaves, carrying with it an otherworldly whisper, an echo of something ancient and unseen. And as the hunters gathered their weapons and made their way back through the twisted woods, the words of the prophecy lingered, as though the forest itself remembered a truth long forgotten.
Meanwhile, in the Celestial Realms…
[TBC]