Before the fall, there was balance.
Not peace — but balance.
A fragile deal struck between mortals and the divine, paid in fear, blood, and memory.
The world was carved by belief.
In the north, Zeus ruled with thunder and ego, Olympus burning bright above cracked marble and fallen kings.
In the sands, Ra's sun lit deserts of gold, while Anubis weighed hearts in silence and shadow.
In blood-soaked temples of the Mesoamericas, Huitzilopochtli, the war sun, rose over pyramids fed by sacrifice.
In the east, Amaterasu shined with grace, while Susanoo screamed war into storm and sea.
And in the islands of the South Seas...
Bathala walked barefoot across ash and wind.
Apolaki sharpened the sun into a blade.
Mayari mourned quietly, her silver tears feeding the tides.
The forests whispered the names of Diwatas, and even the wind bowed in respect.
These weren't bedtime stories.
These were living contracts.
But men stopped keeping them.
Faith became noise.
Spirit became superstition.
The gods, once crowned in memory, started to starve.
Then came the silence.
No chants. No offerings. No fear.
And in that hollow stillness…
something else answered.
A dark echo.
Not born of fire, but of neglect.
A parasite that fed on forgotten names, twisted sacred bloodlines, and curdled myths into monsters.
The mighty Kapres — once guardians of the trees — now stalk the canopy with hollow eyes and hands stained in gore.
Tikbalangs, once noble pathfinders between spirit realms, now trap wanderers in endless loops where time folds and screams vanish.
Even the Diwatas, once the beauty and breath of the land, became forest-wraiths, roots driven through their own hearts, vines drinking flesh.
And across the globe…
Hades abandoned his throne — now a soul trafficker hiding in dreams.
Set, devourer of balance, became rot incarnate.
Quetzalcoatl, the feathered serpent, was ripped in half — one half bound beneath obsidian, the other free and burning cities with every wingbeat.
Olympus cracked. The Nile boiled. The moon bled.
The heavens didn't fall —
they were betrayed.
And mortals?
We paid in screams.
Cities became mass graves.
Oceans swallowed islands.
The sky turned red and stayed that way.
Some knelt. Formed cults. Praised monsters wearing old gods' faces.
Others locked themselves inside steel cities ruled by demi-god tyrants drunk on inherited power.
But a few—just a few—remembered.
Jose Leonardo was one of them.
A blacksmith with calloused hands and a soul full of chants older than books.
He didn't preach. He forged.
Reforged the Kampilan—a blade kissed by Bathala's breath and sharpened with every ancestor's whisper.
His wife, Corazon, healed not just bodies but memories.
She carried the old rituals in her fingers. Mixed herbs with prayer. Fought monsters with knowledge and love.
They knew death was coming.
But they met it with steel and fire.
They died fighting—not for themselves—but for a child.
Their son: Miguel Leonardo.
Born in a dying world.
Raised in ashes.
Trained by whispers.
He carries their blood, their fire,
and the last living weapon of the old gods.
He's not a hero.
Not a savior.
He's a reminder—
That what we forget, will one day come back to collect.
The Age of Man is over.
And the Age of Myths?
It's waking up in flames.