Once, the Isles had been called the Lunar Kingdom—a land blessed by harmony and light. Ancient tales spoke of grand cities with marble spires that reached for the heavens, of vast libraries where the secrets of the cosmos were guarded, and of people who thrived under the protection of a lunar goddess. But golden ages never last. One fateful day, a shadow fell from the heavens, cleaving the skies in two.
It was not a falling star, nor a celestial blessing. It was a demonic deity, a being alien to this world. No one knew where it came from or why it had descended, but wherever it walked, the earth bled. Its arrival was not a conquest. It was annihilation.
The deity arrived in an eruption of red and black flames, as if the sky itself had collapsed. Mountains crumbled, rivers turned to blood, and the Crimson Mistwas born. Whether the Mist came from the deity's blood or was an extension of its will, none could say. But it spread—crawling, insidious, unstoppable—and corrupted everything it touched.
The mages of the Lunar Kingdom, the most powerful of their age, rose to resist. They erected barriers of light, summoned celestial forces, and called upon the ancient power of the goddess. But nothing could halt the deity. With a single motion, it shattered their fortresses, broke their spells, and twisted reality itself.
At the heart of the kingdom, in the capital where the lunar throne once shone, the deity planted its seat. The earth collapsed beneath its weight, and a grotesque black palace rose in its place. This palace, now called the Black Palace, became the epicenter of corruption.
At the deity's side rose a mortal, a man twisted by its blood and magic. Once a king of a neighboring realm, he had sought to challenge the deity's power. But instead of destroying him, the deity transformed him. Stripped of his humanity, he was reborn as the Demon Emperor.
The Emperor became the deity's right hand, its instrument to rule over the Isles. Though not as infinitely powerful as the deity itself, the Emperor commanded enough strength to dominate the forces left in its wake—specters, demons, and the land itself. He wielded the Crimson Mist as a tool of control, letting it spread patiently, like a conqueror waiting for his moment.
From his throne in the Black Palace, the Demon Emperor ruled the Isles with an iron fist. The surviving mortals dared not speak his name, for it was said he could hear every breath drawn in the Mist and every whisper of the lost souls it consumed.
Centuries have passed since the Lunar Kingdom fell. Today, the Isles are nothing but a graveyard. The capital, once the jewel of the land, is now a corpse. Broken bridges and leaning towers whisper of forgotten glories. Entire districts lie submerged beneath dark waters, while jagged ruins claw at the blood-red sky.
The Crimson Mist is everywhere, a suffocating presence that seems almost alive. It seeps into cracks, spills over stone, and drains the vitality from all living things. Those who die in the Mist do not rest. They rise again as specters, wandering, corrupted souls bound to haunt the places where they fell.
In the Mist's deepest reaches, even more horrifying creatures are said to dwell. Monstrous beasts, warped by its corruption, and demons the tireless servants of the Emperor, stalk the ruins, ensuring that no mortal escapes their grasp.
Despite this desolation, a few survivors cling to life in a part of the capital known as the Upper Quarter. Situated on a hill shielded by a fading magical barrier, the district houses the last mortals of the Isles. They live in constant fear, knowing that the Mist's reach grows closer every year.
Among them are the children born of the Mist, rare and extraordinary. Immune to its draining effects, these children are both feared and revered. Their blood, touched by the deity's influence, marks them as different. Some call them monsters in disguise, while others see them as saviors. Yet their very existence raises a terrifying question: why do they survive, and what will they become?
Far from the Upper Quarter, in an abandoned and desolate part of the capital, a forgotten cathedral rises against the gloom. Once dedicated to a goddess of light, its cracked walls and faded carvings are a testament to a time of balance and peace. Though the structure is in ruins, an eerie serenity lingers, as if the Mist itself hesitates to fully claim the space.
Here, in this sanctuary, live Kheron, the Last Guardian, and Arion, his ward. Kheron, once a protector of the Lunar Kingdom, now exists as a specter—a soul who has defied the Mist's control. Though his spectral form burns with blue flames, his essence remains unbroken. He devotes what remains of his existence to protecting Arion, a boy he considers a son.
Arion is no ordinary child. Marked by the Mist, his pale skin, hair streaked white and black, and eyes of black with crimson pupils make him a mystery even among the cursed. He has survived, but he is also an enigma. Why does the Mist shy from him? Why do its tendrils seem to linger, almost watchful, when he draws near?
Sitting on a smooth stone near a crumbling balcony, Arion gazed out at the **Black Palace** in the distance. The Mist swirled around its spires, an endless sea of crimson haze. His fists clenched, a glimmer of defiance in his crimson pupils.
"One day…" he murmured. "One day, I'll leave this place. I'll see what lies beyond the seas."
Behind him, Kheron stood motionless, his lance spectral and cold. His voice, deep and resonant, broke the heavy silence.
"The lands beyond the seas are not as free as you imagine. But your dreams—they keep you alive. So keep dreaming."
Arion's jaw tightened. Dreams, no matter how fragile, were the only light in a world consumed by shadow. He turned his gaze back to the horizon, to the towering shadow of the Black Palace, before finally standing and stepping away from the balcony.
"I'll find a way," he said softly. "I'll find a way to change it."
In the oppressive stillness of the horizon, a faint ripple stirred the Crimson Mist. It was barely perceptible, but it moved with a deliberate rhythm, like the heartbeat of something vast and unseen. Kheron's lance glimmered faintly, a ripple of blue energy coursing through it.
The Mist was moving.
"Come inside, Arion," Kheron said, his voice calm but firm. "The Mist stirs."
Arion hesitated, his gaze lingering on the palace before stepping into the shadows of the cathedral. Kheron watched the horizon a moment longer, his spectral form glowing faintly against the darkened stone.
The Mist never rested. And in its shifting tendrils, it whispered of something coming.