Once, the world thrummed with the pulse of magic, an invisible current coursing through air and stone, blood and bone. It was a gift that the world gave freely—yet not equally. The elves, born of the forests, danced with the energy, their veins singing and spirit with its harmony. The dwarves channeled its force into their forges, crafting wonders that defied nature. Even the beastkin, wild and untamed, wielded it instinctively, their strength amplified by its power.

And then, there were the humans.

They were fragile creatures, fleeting as the breath of winter, and blind to the magic that enveloped their world. To the other races, humans were an afterthought—a laboring horde, useful for their numbers, amusing in their ingenuity, and pitiful in their weakness. For centuries, they toiled in servitude, their short lives consumed by the will of their masters.

But humanity, like weeds growing in the cracks of a stone path, has always found a way to endure.

It began in whispers. The faintest flickers of magic sensed by a handful of human children born after countless generations. These sparks were weak and chaotic, more curse than blessing, and the other races dismissed them as anomalies. Yet, with each passing century, more sparks appeared. Humans began to change, their bodies adapting to the mana-rich air. The potential was there, but it was wild, undirected—a candle flame in a storm.

Until Velen.

No one knows where he came from or what first drove him to his obsession. Some say he was a slave who stared too long at the shimmering spells of an elven master. Others claim he was born to a dying mother on a battlefield, the cries of his people seared into his soul. Whatever his origin, Velen was no ordinary man. He was the first to see what others could not: that the spark of magic in humans was not a gift waiting to be claimed—it was a barrier waiting to be broken.

Velen work was not born of revelation, but of blood. He stole knowledge from elven archives, infiltrated dwarven forges, and bargained for forbidden truths. His experiments were ruthless, his methods unspeakable. He dissected the bodies of the dead, seeking the secrets of their mana-rich forms. He carved into the living, etching pathways into flesh and bone in a desperate bid to mimic what nature had denied. Most who followed him died screaming, their bodies twisted beyond recognition.

But Velen did not stop.

And then, one day, it worked.

The first human Channeler rose from the ashes of Velen failures, their body marked by the intricate pathways that Velen had carved. They were no elf, no dwarf, no beastkin. They were something else entirely—something new. The other races watched in horror as more followed, each stronger, faster, more precise than the last. Humanity had found its way to touch magic, but it was not the harmonious resonance of the elves or the primal force of the beastkin. It was mechanical. Precise. Relentless.

The world changed.

Yet this upheaval was not the first to shake the balance of the four continents. Hundreds of years before the story begins, portals to the demon realm began to appear without warning. They erupted across the lands of the elves, dwarves, beastkin, and humans alike, releasing waves of demonic beasts and creatures. Some were minor threats, easily defeated, while others unleashed devastation.

Curiously, these portals were not one-sided. Adventurers and armies discovered they could enter the demon realm, a world filled with untold riches and resources. For those brave enough to face its dangers, the realm became both a curse and a prize. Its sudden appearances and vanishings remained a mystery, and the races could only guess at the forces behind it.

In the shadow of these events, humanity's rise gained momentum. The humans, once slaves, began to grow in power, their Channelers carving through the ranks of their former masters with an efficiency that could not be ignored. The other races, united only in their disdain, were forced to reckon with humanity's resurgence.

But humanity's path was never without cost. The power of Velen discovery came with shadows. The carving of channels was not without pain, and the process often claimed as many as it saved. The very act of wielding magic strained the fragile human form, and some wondered if the cost of power was worth the toll it demanded.

As for Velen, the man who had ignited the fire of human ambition, he disappeared. Some say he was consumed by his own experiments, his body unable to withstand the magic he had unleashed. Others whisper that he vanished into the unknown, seeking an even greater truth.

Hundreds of years have passed since Velen carved the first channel, and humanity stands at a crossroads. The world is no longer ruled by the ancient races, but it is not ruled by humans either. The scars of centuries of servitude remain, and though humanity has risen, their place in the world is far from secure.

In the cracks of this fragile peace, new stories are waiting to be written. Whispers of an ancient secret buried in Velen notes. Shadows of a power greater than anything the world has ever known.

And in those shadows, humanity's fate will be decided.