— Thirty Years Ago —
Verdaal was… idyllic, once.
A world painted in broad strokes of emerald plains, crystalline rivers, and cobalt skies. Its cities were modest but thriving—red-bricked train stations, steam-churning airships, and lantern-lit streets. The hum of innovation buzzed in every corner, a quiet symphony of gears, glass, and grit.
They had hope. Potential.
Not Earth's level of technology, no. But their science had matured. Advanced hydroculture fed millions. Atmospheric generators purified city air. Fusion cores powered slow-moving airships and geothermal grids. Medicine cured most ailments. Propeller aircraft zipped across trade routes. Their ballistic missiles sat dusty in underground silos—more deterrents than threats.
It was a good world.
But even the strongest roof cannot hold when the sky itself collapses.
It began with a whisper.
Then a tremor in the air.
And then—chaos.
The first rift appeared above the coastal capital of Kaireth. A scar in the heavens, jagged and bleeding crimson light. Within minutes, more followed—tearing open across continents like fractures in glass. From them poured the Veilflux—a substance neither liquid nor gas, yet moving like both. It danced with color, shimmered with unnatural beauty… and reeked of cold iron and blood.
And from the Veil came monsters.
They had no name. No taxonomy. No logic.
They didn't belong.
Some skittered like insects, all limb and chitin. Others floated on tendrils of glassy flesh, whispering songs that shattered minds. And then came the titanic beasts—elephantine horrors with too many eyes, maws that split vertically, and screams that made men bleed from the ears.
Entire cities vanished overnight. The digital age collapsed within days. Networks failed. Power grids blinked into silence. Panic spread faster than infection.
And Verdaal bled.
Governments tried to fight back.
Missiles. Drones. Bombers.
But Veilspawn didn't die like normal creatures. When slain, their bodies dissolved into mist—only to reconstitute hours later. Fire, steel, radiation—none of it mattered.
The final global broadcast lasted twenty-seven minutes.
A weeping newscaster, hoarse from screaming, begged the heavens for deliverance.
And the heavens… answered.
It happened in silence.
The rift clouds split—just once.
A shape emerged. Immense. Infinite. Its form bent around comprehension itself.
Some described it as a celestial engine of clockwork and flame.
Others swore it bore wings of starlight, stretching from horizon to horizon.
The only constant was this: all who saw it wept.
A single word etched itself into the minds of every living being—burning like truth.
Nytherion.
Its voice was not sound. It was presence.
It thundered in thought, deep and layered, like hearing eternity speak for the first time.
"You stand at the brink. You burn, break, and beg—but I will not extinguish you."
"I am Nytherion, the Threshold Warden. Guardian of the Crucible Beyond."
"I offer no salvation. I offer purpose."
Then, nothing.
A heartbeat.
And everything changed.
All across the world, individuals—randomly, inexplicably—collapsed in convulsions. Markings, black as ink and bright as lightning, carved themselves onto flesh. Not tattoos. Not brands.
Sigils.
Crucible Sigils.
Symbols of power, of pact, of potential.
Those who bore them… were forever changed.
The first Lords had risen.
And through their Sigils, they opened the Crucible Plane—an otherworldly domain layered beneath Verdaal like a submerged mirror. It was a world of chaos—landscapes shifting under will, where time warped and dreams solidified into matter.
There, Lords forged their Fiefs—domains of science and sorcery where rules bent like reeds. Inside, one could train for weeks while hours passed in the real world. Matter could be reshaped, studied, enhanced. Knowledge became weaponized.
They returned with gifts:
Skybind Engines that allowed ships to hover without fuel.
Fluxforged Blades that cut through matter and mana alike.
Ward Drones, powered by Veilflux cores, that could map, survey, and incinerate threats in seconds.
And most precious of all—Veil Harmonization Chambers that let humanity begin to adapt to the very force that had almost ended them.
The Lords became gods in all but name.
Humanity didn't just survive.
It evolved.
But it was no longer one world.
It was now a patchwork of power:
Green Zones — Bastions of the elite. Ruled by Prime-Class Lords who mastered their Crucibles and returned as paragons. Towering arcologies, floating citadels, AI-governed cities. Veilflux energy hummed through every structure. Crime? Minimal. Innovation? Constant.
Blue Zones — Fortified bastions ruled by Second-Class Lords. Efficient, militarized, austere. Production hubs for weapons, armor, scouts, and transports. A place of duty over comfort. Security was high—but so was pressure.
Yellow Zones — Fringe territories governed by Third-Class Lords. Border settlements and survivalist enclaves. Incomplete walls, rebuilt power stations, half-lit streets. Every resource mattered. Alarm sirens were frequent. Trust was rare—but hope lingered.
Red Zones — Wildlands. Overrun. Broken. Cities swallowed by Veilgrowths—twisted, coral-like infestations. Creatures roamed freely. Veilstorms crackled across the sky, warping time and thought. Entry meant death… or worse.
Black Zones — The Unspoken Lands.
Ruled by beings beyond classification—Veil Sovereigns, Corrupted Lords, and things without names.
Myths spoke of:
Walking cathedrals that wept black oil.
Forests where time reversed your age until you vanished.
Thrones that offered power in exchange for memory.
No rescue missions were authorized.
Entry was death.
Even Nytherion itself had gone silent.
What had it been? A cosmic shepherd? A predator? A jailer?
No one knew.
And still, every year…
Young ones reached their sixteenth year.
Every year, the Rite of Ascendancy was held.
And every year, new Lords were born.
Some would die in their first Crucible dive.
Others would rise to rebuild cities.
But all of them would be changed.
Forever.
— Present Day —
Beneath a cracked dome sky, in the Duskwatch Ward of the Yellow Zone border settlement called Ebonreach, a boy tossed in his sleep.
The dormitory smelled of iron, dust, and old candle wax. Dim lanterns flickered under broken ward-glass. Wind howled beyond the boarded windows.
The boy's eyes shot open.
He gasped, choking on breath.
Sweat soaked through thin linen sheets.
"Haah… haah…!"
His fingers clawed at the mattress.
Alaric Thorne sat upright, eyes wide with confusion—and memory.
Flashes of a world long lost.
Of parents.
Of pavement.
Of headlights.
Of death.
Then… of Sigils. Of monsters. Of Nytherion.
He stared at his hands—smaller, softer than they should've been. Trembling. Fragile.
"Was it… real?" he whispered.
The bunk creaked beside him.
A girl peeked over, groggy but alert.
"Alaric? Another nightmare?" she asked, rubbing her eyes. Her silver hair shimmered faintly in the moonlight. "That's the third time this week."
Her name was Lyra Caelis.
Sharp-eyed. Cautious. Fiercely loyal.
More than a friend. The closest thing this broken world had given him to family.
"I… think I remembered something. From before," Alaric muttered.
She blinked. "Before what?"
He hesitated.
Before… everything.
Before Verdaal.
Before this life.
"…It doesn't matter. I'm fine now," he lied.
But deep down, he knew the truth.
Something was stirring.
Not just inside him.
In the world.
In the Crucible.
And soon… it would call.