For centuries beyond memory, Brahma's Apex stood as the pinnacle of creation: seas that sang, forests that breathed light, cities threaded with living architecture—a planet where life flourished in impossible splendor.
But that age is gone, reduced to ash and memory.
Now the skies churn with the Kali Army. Refugees, they say, from a dying universe or a lightless void—no one knows for sure.
Some say they descended from blackened skies, beings that feed on flesh and memory, twisting the living into husks.
Their most vile weapon is deception itself—a waking nightmare.
They wear the faces of loved ones as obscene masks, their familiar voices hollow, their grasping hands never their own.
But against this silence, a fragile resistance ignites. A handful of people awaken to the planet's pulse—Prāṇna Warriors who can bind their own life-force to a weapon. They fight with awful grace—not as mere warriors, but as martyrs, each a spark of their life for tomorrows—for the chance to save the world's.
They are the final barrier between the hungry dead and the last wonders of the world, their weapons blazing with spirit in a war whose price is their very essence.