In the dark expanse between realities, where stars die and gods whisper their secrets, eight ancient powers wage an eternal war for supremacy. These are the Regimes—not mere kingdoms of flesh and bone, but primordial forces that tear at the very fabric of existence. Welcome, seeker, to a universe where nightmares reign and dreams bleed.
Any Regime is a cancer on reality-a black ink spreading through the water, tainting everything it touches. They are the cogwheels in a cosmic engine designed by mad gods, grinding against one and another in an endless ballet of annihilation. When they collide, reality screams.
Regime I: The Dominion of Time (Chronos Regnum)
Deep within the obsidian walls of the Twilight Citadel, where the shadows writhe like dying serpents, is the throne of Time itself. Here, in halls where seconds scream and centuries whimper, the Elders of Time orchestrate their grand symphony of temporal horror.
At the heart of their power lurks the Orologio, a monstrous clock whose every tick echoes with the death rattle of a thousand futures. Carved from the bones of dead moments, its hands move in slow motion; its face is stained with the blood of lost eras. The Elders-ancient beings now long since turned to dust-exist as nothing more than consciousness trapped in the machine's eternal grinding.
But such is their power that its cost is a terror that would shatter lesser souls with madness. For they are bound to the rhythm of the clock-very souls entrapped in the mechanical heartbeat of it. Bleb of it, and they bleed. Break it, and they shatter.
Regime II: The Empire of Memory (Memoria Regnum)
Above the Shattered Horizon, where reality fractures like broken glass, floats the nightmare realm of Memory. Here, in this twilight domain of forgotten dreams and stolen thoughts, the Memory Weavers spin their webs of consciousness like spider-gods tending to their prey.
These dark artisans don't just steal memories; they devour them, wearing the stolen moments like cloaks of flesh. Every forgotten kiss, every lost childhood, every dying breath becomes a thread in their tapestry of power.
But beware the void-wounds they leave. Where memories are ripped apart, reality bleeds darkness. Cities have been utterly consumed by such cosmic ruptures, leaving nothing but haunted screams from that which is forgotten. In Memoria, even oblivion has teeth.
Regime III: The Empire of Flesh CORPUS REGNUM
Beneath the skin of the world, in a place with chambers that pulse with unholy life, the Lord of Flesh conducts his symphony of suffering. The Abyssal Core is his laboratory, where screams echo down corridors lined with living tissue and walls weeping blood.
Here, human forms are the clay of his twisted hands: The Lines of Life, veins of raw power that pulse through his domain, allowing him to reshape flesh like wet clay, making dreams nightmares and nightmares real. His creations crawl through the dark, beautiful in their horror, perfect in their wrongness.
Those who enter his realm become his canvas, their bodies transformed into art that defies both nature and sanity. In the Abyssal Core, death is not an escape; it is but the start of a new transformation.
Regime IV: The Dominion of Thought (Mentis Regnum)
The Etheric Spire rises from clouds of madness, a needle through flesh to the sky. Inside its twisted corridors, the Cerebral Overseers weave their web of control, oozing their influence into minds like poison into wine.
They not only control thoughts but also breed them, twist them, and turn them into weapons of mass destruction. Every idea is a blade, every conviction a noose. And the citizens of this realm are nothing but puppets, their minds galleries of elaborately curated horrors.
Freedom here is not an illusion but a crime. The mind is chained, and the Overseers have the keys to every prison they have erected in the mind. Not even your nightmares are your own in their domain.
These Regimes, these cancer-gods of reality, wage their eternal war across the cosmos. Each seeks not just power but the very essence of existence itself. They are the architects of apocalypse, harbingers of entropy, masters of a universe in bleeding.
And you, dear reader? You're standing at the edge of this chasm. Will you let their corruption take you, joining the other pieces in their cosmic horror game? Or will you seek the truth lying beneath it all?
But let this serve as a warning to you, inscribed in the blood of those who went before: in this realm of eternal darkness, the truth is not salvation—it's damnation. And knowledge is not power—it's poison.
Welcome to the Infinite Regimes. Welcome to your nightmare.