The sky trembled under the screams of war.
The Northern Plains shook as tens of thousands of armored boots trampled the earth. The clash of metal drowned even the thunder. Blades sang, arrows rained, blood spilled.
At the head of the black army stood a man in a billowing dark cloak—Vael'Tharon, the Lord of Ruin.
He was no demon, no god.
He was once human… but long ago, he had cast off his soul.
His eyes burned like coals, his voice carried the weight of a thousand dead empires. He had razed cities, slaughtered kings, and silenced the gods who dared to defy him.
Now, five kingdoms united for one purpose: to end him.
Before him stood the final hope of the world—five heroes, each from a different nation, each wielding relics said to be forged by forgotten gods. Behind them, their armies waited, nervous but ready.
Vael'Tharon stepped forward, lifting his sword—Tenebris, the blade that had drunk the blood of thousands.
> "You come bearing light," he growled, "but you forget... it is in darkness where truth is born."
With a single motion, he unleashed a torrent of shadow across the field. Screams erupted as his vanguard collided with the allied frontlines. Magic exploded, steel clanged, and within minutes, the open plains turned into a storm of death.
The Heroes Engage
The first hero to confront him was a giant of a man clad in silver—the Shield of Aeloria. He swung a hammer blessed by the Sun Priests themselves.
Vael'Tharon caught the blow with his bare hand.
> "Strength is wasted on the righteous," he said, and pierced the man's heart with a whisper of shadow.
The second hero, a swift rogue from the East, tried to strike from behind. She vanished mid-air—her body consumed by a shadow serpent.
One by one, they fell. Each death, each heartbeat, pulled the world closer to ruin.
The fourth hero—a battle priestess—managed to wound him. Her spear, glowing with celestial runes, tore through his shoulder. He laughed.
> "Pain reminds me I still breathe," he whispered, and dragged her into the ground with a curse older than time.
Only one hero remained.
Clad in crimson armor, bearing a sword of flame, he stood firm despite the corpses of his comrades.
They fought for what felt like hours—steel against darkness, fire against void. Their duel split mountains, scorched the heavens. And then, with a cry from the depths of his soul, the final hero pierced Vael'Tharon's heart.
But even in death… Vael'Tharon smiled.
Kneeling in the mud, blood spilling from his mouth, he reached into the void and began to chant:
> "Let not my story end here… Let no light shine where my shadow once fell… I cast thee, O soul, beyond time, beyond death..."
A crimson sigil burned into the air.
> "I shall be born again..."
The ground trembled. The winds howled. The sky cracked.
The final hero shouted, "What have you done?!"
Vael'Tharon's voice was barely a whisper now:
> "A curse... upon your blood…
May your descendants tremble when they hear my name."
And with that… his body turned to ash, scattered into the storm.
The war was over. The world had won.
Or so they believed.