The world of Yggraeth was once a masterpiece of life, a realm where the great races lived side by side upon the colossal body of the World Tree. Its trunks stretched like continents, its branches reached the unreachable sky, and its roots delved into unfathomable depths. Life coursed through the veins of wood, nourishing cities carved into its bark, and each generation believed the blessings of the World Tree to be eternal.
All of that changed with the First Demon Invasion. From the deepest rift within the roots, the Hellroot Abyss spewed forth its legions of demons. They crawled upward like poison through the veins of the Tree, burning every city they touched and rending all living things apart. Races that once lived in harmony were swept by endless terror. Kingdoms fell one by one, races perished without even being recorded in history, and the air reeked of blood and brimstone. Even the World Tree itself groaned; its once-clear sap turned black, a sign that hell's venom had tainted its heart.
The war raged for generations. No corner of Yggraeth remained unstained by blood. Cities that had stood for millennia vanished overnight. The gods, once hailed as protectors, stood silent amid the ocean of dying screams. At last, the surviving races—once bitter enemies—were forced to form the Last Alliance. Through untold sacrifice, they drove the Hellroot legions back into the darkness that birthed them, sealing the rift with wards forged from the mightiest sorcery and the sacred blood of the World Tree itself.
But their victory was a hollow one. The price was their own civilization. Vast forests lay in ash, great kingdoms crumbled to dust, and once-glorious races were scattered to fragments of their former selves. The world they saved was a world forever changed.
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Amid the ruins, they rebuilt. The Middle Trunk, a broad expanse of living wood still kissed by sunlight, was chosen as the heart of a new civilization. They named it the New Bastion, not as a symbol of triumph but as proof that they refused extinction. Here, the surviving races sought to knit life together once more: humans, elves, dwarves, beastkin, and others who had endured.
Yet the scars of war clung to every layer. Scorched lands stretched as far as the eye could see, remnants of demonfire that had seared deep into the Tree's core. Rivers of hardened sap formed amber cliffs, freezing the memory of battle screams in place. Even as marketplaces bustled and towers rose anew, the air still carried the faint scent of brimstone. Whispers of the Hellroot Abyss lingered in every corner of the city—whispers that never truly died.
Peace, however, was not trust.
The Alliance that had driven back the Abyss had been forged from shared fear, not faith. With the threat banished, old enmities resurfaced. Elven princes looked down on human rulers, beastkin clans nursed grudges against dwarves, and humans regarded all others with suspicion. The once-united armies splintered into petty kingdoms, each clawing for territory and power.
Within the Concordium Council, the body that governed the New Bastion, debates often devolved into bitter conflict. Accusations of betrayal were louder than pledges of unity. Beyond the council walls, petty treacheries thrived: trade-route ambushes, secret pacts with dark powers, and political assassinations staining the streets.
Beneath all this intrigue lay a truth none wished to face:
the Hellroot Abyss was never truly destroyed.
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Survivors of the First Invasion still recalled the Great Seal, a network of runes and sorcery that locked the demon legions deep below. It had been forged by the sacrifice of thousands of magi and the World Tree's own blood, the crowning achievement of mortal power. Yet even the strongest seal is not eternal.
Cracks began to form. Explorers of the Lower Trunk spoke of voices from the darkness: prolonged screams that shook the soul, thirsting for blood and vengeance. Hunters sent to investigate often did not return—or came back broken, their bodies marred by black, untraceable stains. In the high towers of the academies, scholars bent over candlelight, poring over weakening rune patterns and arguing how long the seal could yet endure.
Most of the Bastion's citizens chose to look away. Markets bustled, festivals were celebrated, and a new generation was born into a world that knew only the echoes of past horrors. Yet beneath the heartbeat of daily life, every soul knew this fragile peace was only a pause.
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Far below, in the labyrinth of roots plunging deep into the earth, darkness stirred once more. The remnants of the demon legions gathered, gnawing at the seal for centuries. The Archfiends, seven lords of the Hellroot Abyss, whispered to one another, their voices dripping with venom and hate. They remembered the taste of mortal blood, remembered their defeat, and awaited the hour of their return.
One truth remained for them alone:
they would rise again.
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Deep in the lowest root layers lurked something older than even the demons—the Primeval Darkness, an entity so ancient and dreadful that even the Archfiends dared not speak its true name. They only called it the Source, the origin of the Hellroot Abyss and all destruction ever wrought upon Yggraeth. The Source had never slept; it merely waited, its pulse creeping upward, shattering the seals one by one.
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In the taverns of the Bastion, whispers spread of the Scream Beneath the Roots—a sound heard only by the desperate or mad. Some claimed it was the World Tree's lament for millions of lost souls. Others swore it was the demons' imprisoned wail, a promise of vengeance echoing through every fiber of wood.
Children recounted the tale by firelight, of nights when the scream grew loud enough to shatter windows and kill livestock outright. Most adults dismissed it as superstition, a lingering myth from wartime.
But the veterans of the First Invasion never laughed.
They knew that sound: a warning.
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Centuries passed, and life once more took root amid Yggraeth's scars. Villages sprang up on the Middle Trunk, their lights like fireflies across the living wood. Towering spires housed the remnants of nobility, while scholars ceaselessly monitored the weakening Great Seal below.
Yet at times, when the night wind carried whispers from the depths, the Scream Beneath the Roots would resound again, reminding all that the horrors of the past were far from gone. The tremor spread through the trunk, and the world seemed to hold its breath.
For deep down, everyone knew the truth:
the war had never truly ended.