Red sky.
No clouds.
Two moons like eyes, silent and cold, stared down at the mortal world.
Dimensional cracks opened across the heavens from time to time—jagged scars in space—before sealing themselves shut like a doctor hurriedly stitching a wounded patient. The phenomenon had once caused panic, but now, it was as normal as rain.
Earth… was no longer Earth. The blue-green planet had long turned into a wasteland—barren, broken, drained of its warmth. The desolation stretched far and wide, a cruel reminder of the age when the sky first bled.
Mana, once abundant and rich in every corner of the world, had become scarce. It was being devoured by the rifts in the sky—absorbed, stolen, siphoned away by unseen forces from the other side. Those cracks led to another dimension… one no human had entered and returned from. A dimension still unknown, still watching.
Yet even amidst this dying world, scattered pockets of hope survived.
One of them… was the Camp of the Last Hunters.
