# The Era of Invasion: A Chronicle of Dark Days
Welcome, dear reader, to my second volume on the history of demonic invasions.
I hope you've read the first book. No, this isn't just a polite suggestion or a matter of vanity (though, yes, there is some pride on my part). But trust me, starting here is like jumping into a song halfway through and wondering why the chorus hits so hard. You miss the buildup. The weight behind the events. And in this story, every detail matters.
If you haven't read the first volume (oh, poor fool!), prepare for confusion. "Who are these demons?" "Why is my aunt biting my neck?" The answers? In the first book. But I am not so cruel—I will offer a brief summary.
The first fissure appeared on a frigid morning in the desolate lands south of Sorran. A tear in the air itself. A glowing wound in reality, no larger than a dagger. Insignificant. Or so they thought.
No one imagined that this tiny cut in the world would mark the beginning of the end for mankind.
Small details change everything. Humanity never sees the abyss until it's too late. The fissures multiplied. Grew larger. More frequent. The Lords of the South sent messengers north, seeking guidance from the scholars of Lyris. They were ignored. The North was too busy with trade wars and petty politics.
Politics—obsessed with trivial matters, blind to the inevitable.
If the Northern Lords had listened? If they had acted? Perhaps things would have been different. But the world doesn't fall because of one person's actions. It falls because too many choose to do nothing.
Then, the first creatures emerged.
Not beasts. Abominations. Twisted flesh. Burning eyes. Nightmares given form. Villages vanished without a whisper. No time to scream. No time to flee.
The land changed. Grass blackened. Wells turned thick and oily, reflecting red like a pulsating wound. The sky darkened, shrouded in an unnatural mist. The world itself was dying.
Then, the true demons arrived.
Some, as tall as towers. Others, so inhuman that a single glance drove men mad. They did not come alone. Armies followed. Lesser creatures, organized, intelligent. A nightmare legion.
The first battles? Slaughters.
Swords shattered like glass. Arrows bounced off their skin. The bravest knights were torn apart before they could land a single blow. Humanity stood no chance.
And yet—
Even in the face of annihilation, some refused to kneel. That is the terrible beauty of mankind: resilience. Stubborn, foolish, relentless.
Hope was born in those darkest days.
Her name was Valeria of Lyris. Not a warrior. Not a noble. A scholar. While others fought demons with steel, she fought with knowledge. She studied the patterns of their energy, the marks they left on the world. She searched for answers while the world burned.
And she found them.
"Demons are not creatures of chaos," she wrote. "There is an order to their power. A language of symbols and energy. If we can read it, we can replicate it."
The first runes were born.
Symbols, drawn with precision, fueled by mana—"vital energy." At first, they imitated demonic patterns. Then, Valeria went further. She translated them into the language of nature itself. Earth. Air. Fire. Water.
The Valerian Runes.
The first runeblade was forged. A knight wielded it against a demon. The enchanted steel sliced through its flesh as if through water. The creature screamed. For the first time since the invasion began, a demon felt pain.
Hope spread like wildfire.
Mages refined the runes, unlocking new powers. Blacksmiths carved them into armor, forging protections against demonic corruption. Warriors trained to wield both steel and mana.
And then—
Valeria and her scholars discovered a way to seal the portals. It was costly. Many died in the attempts. But one by one, the rifts were closed.
The war raged for three decades. Blood. Sacrifice. Loss. The South never recovered. Even now, entire regions remain cursed, uninhabitable. Corrupted beyond salvation.
And so, the war ended. But no one truly won.
Mankind survived. Changed. The old world was gone. Nobility crumbled. Power now belonged to those who controlled magic. The era of kings ended. The age of runes began.
Valeria did not live to see the final victory. She died at her desk, drained by the mana she had harnessed. But her legacy remained. In every rune. In every enchanted sword. In every mage who wields power she first unlocked.
She died, but she was never forgotten.
And when the wind howls from the south, carrying whispers in an ancient tongue, the wise remember:
The demons were not defeated.
They were only pushed back.
Somewhere, beyond the veil of reality, they wait.
And one day, they will return.