In the ancient war between the 12 Gods, the rule of chaos and destruction reigned supreme. As they clashed in a battle beyond mortal comprehension, all 12 universes, each governed by a divine being, were obliterated, their fragments cast into the endless void.
The devastation was absolute, and billions of lives teetered on the brink of eoblivion. In their final moments, the gods, realizing the consequences of their war, made the ultimate sacrifice. They relinquished their own existence, channeling their remaining divine power into the remnants of their worlds.
From this act of creation and redemption, a new world was born—Mundus Novas. A world forged from the remnants of destruction, where the echoes of past civilizations merged into one.
Here, twelve distinct races emerged from the ashes, each carrying the legacies of their fallen gods. However, in this new realm, there were no deities to guide or govern them. Nature and karma became the ultimate law, dictating the balance of existence. Some races sought harmony, while others vied for dominance, each carving their own destiny in a world devoid of divine intervention.
In this reborn world, a new chapter of existence began—one where mortals, no longer bound by the chains of fate, carved their own destinies.
The echoes of the divine war still lingered, carried by the winds that whispered through ancient ruins and untouched lands. The gods, once rulers of all, had faded into legend, their presence now mere remnants etched into forgotten scriptures and the bloodlines of those who unknowingly carried their will.
The world pulsed with mana, an untamed force that wove through the fabric of reality, granting power to those who dared to wield it. Some sought to harness it for creation, forging wonders beyond imagination. Others coveted its might for destruction, seeking dominion over this newfound age.
Amidst this era of chaos and rebirth, heroes and tyrants alike would rise, their journeys filled with peril, discovery, and the ever-present shadow of an ancient past. For in the wake of gods, it was now mortals who shaped the world, and their choices would carve the path of history itself.
The Boy Who Walked Through Death
The barren lands of the north were a place where even the strongest of men would hesitate to tread—an endless, frozen wasteland where the wind howled like a starving beast, and the sky remained an unfeeling, endless gray. Life was a rarity here, and death lurked behind every gust of icy wind.
Yet, a lone child walked forward.
A boy, no older than five, staggered through the snow-covered ground, his small body trembling violently against the merciless cold. His dark hair was matted with frost, his lips cracked and bloodied, his once-fair skin now a sickly pale. His once-beautiful dark eyes had lost their warmth, replaced by a hollow, deathly stare—focused only on the distant horizon.
It had been two days since he started walking. Two days without rest, without food, without shelter. His tiny feet, barely protected by torn shoes, had long since gone numb. The howling wind bit into his flesh, cutting deeper than any blade, but he did not stop. He could not stop.
By the fourth day, his movements had slowed to half their pace, his body collapsing time and time again. Five times he had fallen unconscious. Five times he had woken up, his body screaming for rest, yet he still forced himself forward. Each time his body betrayed him, his willpower dragged him back to his feet. His mind had long since blurred the line between reality and delirium—yet the pain reminded him he was still alive.
But on the fifth day, even that was fading.
His body was no longer his own. His legs refused to move more than a few steps at a time. His breath came in weak, ragged gasps, barely visible against the frozen air. Even taking ten steps was a struggle. His vision blurred, and his consciousness wavered with every moment.
This was it.
His legs gave out beneath him, his small frame crashing into the snow. The world around him felt distant, the cold finally numbing even his suffering. He could feel the weight of death pressing down on him, inviting him into its embrace.
And in that moment, as his vision dimmed, the only thought that surfaced in his fading mind was not fear, nor despair.
It was her.
A warm, gentle smile. Soft hands that once caressed his face. A voice that called his name with love.
His mother.
He remembered running through a sunlit garden, laughter filling the air. He remembered her warmth, her embrace, her love—so distant now, yet still the brightest thing in his dying world.
Tears did not come. Even his body refused him that comfort.
Just as his eyes fluttered shut, surrendering to the abyss, a shadow fell over him.
A presence. Dark. Unfamiliar.
Something—someone—was approaching.
And as he took his last shallow breath, welcoming his end, the darkness reached for him.
what happens next? Who or what is the shadowed figure? Is it a savior, a threat, or something unexpected?