# The Era of Invasion: A Chronicle of Dark Days
Welcome, dear reader, to my second volume dedicated to the tumultuous history of demonic invasions. I sincerely hope you have already read the first book. This is not a simple invitation or a matter of vanity (though I admit, there is a spark of pride on my part). The reality is that starting with the second book is like jumping midway through a song and wondering why the chorus has so much emotional charge. You miss the crescendo, the details that give weight to the events. And trust me, in this story, every detail matters.
Now, if you are here without having read the first volume (oh, poor fool!), let me warn you: you risk finding yourself with questions like "Who are these demons everyone is talking about?" or "Why is my aunt biting my neck?". I assure you, all these answers are in the first book. But, since I am not so cruel as to abandon you in confusion, I will grant a brief summary.
The first fissure appeared on a frigid winter morning, in the desolate lands south of Sorran. The shepherds who saw it spoke of a tear in the very air, a luminescent wound in the fabric of reality no larger than a dagger. No one could have imagined that this single cut in the world would mark the beginning of the end of the age of men.
Sometimes, a small, insignificant detail can change the course of everything. It is in these tiniest fragments of reality that men do not see the precipice awaiting them. And despite the appearance of these fissures, no one could have imagined that the world was destined to change forever.
In the following months, similar rifts appeared, increasingly frequent, increasingly large. The Lords of the South sent messengers north, seeking counsel from the scholars of Lyris and other city-states, but their concerns were initially ignored. The North was too preoccupied with its trade wars and petty politics to pay attention to the ravings of some southern shepherds.
Politics, always so attentive to the most frivolous details, so blind to the inevitable. Just imagine what would have happened if the Northern Lords had listened, if they had acted promptly... but no, they preferred not to. And this is how it often happens: the world does not change because of one person, but because of many who do nothing.
It was only when the first creatures emerged that the world comprehended the true horror of what was happening. These were not ordinary beasts that slithered out of the fissures: they were abominations of twisted flesh and burning eyes, creatures that should not have existed in this world. The first villages fell in silence, without even having time to call for help.
The land itself began to change around the portals. The already sparse grass of the southern plains blackened and died. The water in the wells became dense and oily, with reddish reflections that seemed to pulse with a life of their own. The sky was dyed with unnatural hues, and a perpetual mist descended upon the contaminated lands.
There was death not only in the creatures but in the land itself. The portal's corruption did not just touch men, but the entire world. The sky itself became a shadow, as if reality had become too fragile to bear what was happening. Nature was permeated by a dark power that mutated everything, even the air we breathed.
When the true demons emerged, even the most skeptical had to accept the terrifying truth. They were no longer small creatures emerging, but imposing and terrible beings, some as tall as towers, others of such inhuman forms that they would drive mad anyone who looked at them too long. They brought with them armies of lesser creatures, organized with an intelligence."
The first battles were massacres. The finest swords forged in the furnaces of Kalthar broke against demonic flesh as if made of glass. Arrows bounced off skins that seemed harder than steel. The most valiant knights were torn to pieces before they could strike a blow. The victory of the demons seemed inevitable.
Yet, even in the face of this carnage, there were those who did not surrender, who did not bend. This is what makes humans so terrible: the ability to resist, even when every probability is against them. And it was precisely in those darkest moments that hope was born.
It was in these darkest days that Valeria of Lyris emerged. She was not a warrior or a noble, but a scholar from the great city library. While others sought to fight demons with steel, she studied them, observing the energy patterns they emanated, the traces they left in the world. During her sleepless nights, surrounded by parchments and corrupted crystals recovered from the South, she began to understand.
You see? It is not always strength that makes the difference. Sometimes it is the mind, patience, knowledge that can change the course of an entire war. Valeria was not a soldier, had no battle experience, but she had something others did not possess: the ability to observe, to study, to think. Sometimes, the greatest weapon is the one that cannot be seen.
"Demons are not creatures of chaos as we think," she wrote in her first notes. "There is an order in their power, a language of symbols and energies that we can learn to read. And if we can read it, perhaps we can replicate it."
The first runes were born from those feverish nights of study. Valeria discovered that certain symbols, when drawn correctly and fueled by what she called "vital energy" - mana - could replicate some demonic effects. But her greatest insight would change the course of the war: instead of directly copying demonic symbols, she translated them into the language of the natural world. Thus were born the first four Runes in history, the Valerian Runes: Earth, Air, Fire, and Water.
The first time a Magic Knight confronted a demon with a runic sword, the entire course of the war changed. The blade inscribed with Valeria's runes cut through demonic flesh like butter, and the creature's scream of pain resonated like a bell of hope through the devastated lands.
The wizards learned to manipulate the runes to create increasingly powerful effects. Blacksmiths began to incorporate runic symbols into armor, creating protections that could resist demonic attacks. New orders of warriors were born, combining swordsmanship with mana manipulation.
But the true turning point came when Valeria and her students discovered how to close the portals. It was a long and bloody process - many wizards died in the first attempts - but in the end, they found a way to seal the rifts in reality, one after another.
The war did not end in a day, nor in a year. It took three decades of battles, sacrifices, and immense losses before the last great portal was sealed. The South never fully recovered - even today, entire regions remain contaminated and uninhabitable, places where demonic corruption has forever changed the nature of reality.
And so, as often happens in wars, this one had no true winner. The victory of men was marked by scars that would never heal.
But the world of men had survived, though profoundly changed. Runes had become an integral part of society, creating new hierarchies and powers. Wizards and Magic Knights became figures of enormous influence, while the ancient noble families that failed to adapt faded into obscurity.
Peace had arrived, but not in the form one would have expected. The world was no longer the same. The old hierarchies had collapsed, along with the conviction that nobility was the true source of power. Now, power was in the hands of those who could manipulate runes, those who controlled magic. And those old families that had not known how to adapt were destined to fall. Society was evolving, and those who did not adapt were lost in the darkness of history.
Valeria did not live long enough to see the end of the war she had helped win. She died in her study, consumed by mana and the effort of creating ever more powerful runes. But her legacy lives on today, in every rune carved, in every enchanted sword, in every wizard who manipulates the power she first understood.
Valeria died, but was never forgotten. Her death marked the end of an era, but also the beginning of a new one. Like many great heroes in history, she never saw the end of her work, but her name remained etched in humanity as a symbol of resistance against the impossible. And, ultimately, this is the truth about all the stories we tell ourselves: it is the sacrifices of those who gave everything without ever seeking a reward that remind us that we are still here.
And on the darkest nights, when the wind blows from the south carrying strange whispers, the wise remember that the demons were never truly defeated - they were only repelled. Somewhere, beyond the veil of reality, they wait. And perhaps, one day, they will find a new way to return.