War has no true purpose—only survival. It is neither the battlefield nor the blades that bring bloodshed, but the choices made to endure it. Since the dawn of time, all life has fought—beasts against beasts, elves against demons, dwarfs against orcs. It is a law older than kings, older than empires, woven into the fabric of existence itself.
Once, mankind stood at the bottom of this unending cycle, fragile and weak, nothing more than prey for the stronger races that ruled the world. The forests belonged to the elves, the mountains to the dwarfs, the dark places to the demons. Humanity had no place, no power, no hope. They were offerings to the gods of war, little more than whispers against the roar of greater civilizations.
Then came the First War of the Western Sea—a clash that would drown the world in blood for three hundred and forty-six years.
It began with the rise of the Underworld Army, a force of pure corruption, a tide of darkness that swept across the land. The mighty Elven Kingdom of Elmwood fell, its emerald spires twisted by the abyss. The dwarfs, facing annihilation, abandoned their strongholds and fled into their mountain citadels, sealing their doors behind them. What remained of the Watcher Alliance—the fragile coalition of elves, dwarfs, and men—was left to die.
Until King Asher rose from the ruins of mankind.
A man touched by prophecy. A king chosen by the Light. The first ruler of humanity, and the savior of the Light Nation.
With sword in hand and faith in his heart, he united mankind, forging the broken tribes into a single, unyielding force. And when he marched against the Underworld, the sky itself trembled. The battle that followed was one of legend—a war not just for survival, but for the very right to exist. And against all odds, humanity triumphed.
The Underworld was shattered.
With mankind's strength now undeniable, the Watcher Alliance reforged their broken bonds. The Second War of the Western Sea saw their final victory over the darkness, ending the Underworld Army once and for all.
To commemorate their triumph, three monuments were built—symbols of unity, reminders of the blood paid for peace:
The Castle of Man – a fortress of stone and steel, marking humanity's rise from prey to rulers.
The Tree of Elves – a monument of wisdom, its roots entwined with magic older than time.
The Mountains of the Dwarfs – a fortress carved from the bones of the earth, unshaken, unbreakable.
For five centuries, the world knew peace. Five hundred years without war, without conquest. But peace is a fragile thing—a whisper between storms. And as always, the storm came.
The Third War of the Western Sea shattered the Watcher Alliance.
Old wounds reopened. Elves turned against men. Once revered for their wisdom, the elves revealed their greed, their arrogance, their deception—proving themselves as dangerous as the demons they once fought. Dwarfs waged war against an even greater enemy—the green-skinned orcs, the last remnants of the Underworld's taint.
The world burned anew.
Andraasher fell. The mighty city, the last beacon of unity, was reduced to ruins.
Elayern, the Tree of Life, was destroyed. The heart of the elves, shattered beyond repair.
Urkmount was bathed in blood. The dwarfs, outmatched, were driven from their ancestral halls, forced into exile.
The Watcher Alliance crumbled. The races turned inward, forsaking their ancient vows. And as their trust decayed, so too did their strength.
Yet the true danger had not yet come.
The Underworld's remnants had not perished completely. Though long buried beneath history's weight, their blood still pulsed in the veins of the Beastmen—the forsaken children of the abyss.
For centuries, they had waited. Hiding in the shadows, they watched as men, elves, and dwarfs destroyed each other. They did not fight, not yet. They waited. For weakness. For the right moment.
And now, that moment had arrived.
The fall of the Watcher Alliance was not the end. It was merely the beginning. The first crack in the dam. The first whisper of the storm. A war was coming—greater and more terrifying than any before it.
And in the midst of this chaos, a lone traveler arrived at the Western Sea.
A man with no kingdom. No banner. No past.
Yumire Kaito.
To most, he was just another wanderer, an outsider from distant shores, a soul adrift on the tides of fate. But destiny had already marked him. Around his neck, he bore a single possession—a Crest, ancient and weathered, etched with the sigils of three great races: humans, elves, and dwarfs. A relic of an era lost to time. A symbol of a history he barely understood.
He did not seek power, yet power followed him like a shadow.
He did not seek war, yet war lay in wait at every path he walked.
And so, his journey began in the city of Verlum, where old grudges festered, where whispers of Corruption and conquest stirred in the alleys, and where the fate of the Western Sea would be forever changed.