The cosmos trembled. Not with destruction, but with the resonance of choice.
Where once the Spirits of Light and Darkness wove their influences subtly, a spark ignited—small at first, yet destined to burn across the ages.
It began in Eryndral, a fledgling city of crystal spires, where mortals and giants once built in harmony. Kaelith, the fearless explorer, had returned from the subspace rift with a relic unlike any other: a shard of condensed Stardust, pulsating with primal will. Serenya, scholar and mage, declared it to be an echo of the First Breath—the very moment Primovast had shaped matter from formless infinity.
But such power could not remain hidden.
The Whisper of Darkness
From the Abyss, Umbryth coiled its shadowed essence around mortal hearts. The shard's radiance, to mortals, became not just wonder but temptation. In secret councils, whispers turned to ambition. "Why serve the Great Spirits when we can ascend ourselves?" murmured rulers and warlords.
Thus began the first corruption. Humans, their veins lit with Stardust, turned on one another for possession of the fragment. Giants, torn between loyalty to Primovast's law and mortal alliances, found themselves divided.
Vorynth, the Harbinger of Chaos, rejoiced. Where mortals faltered, his influence thrived. Soon, the skies above Eryndral were painted with fire, and the rivers ran with the reflection of crimson.
The Assembly of Spirits
For the first time since creation, the Great Spirits convened in the Hall of Boundless Flame, where stars themselves bowed to their authority.
Lumiaris, radiant beyond compare, declared
"Mortals are not ready. Their hearts crack like fragile glass when offered divine fire. The shard must be reclaimed."
Umbryth laughed, its voice like infinite caverns collapsing
"They are ready because they falter. Perfection is stagnation. Let them bleed, let them fall, let them rise again stronger."
Chronalis, guardian of time, demanded the relic be sealed in an epoch-vault. Spatiora, keeper of space, resisted, arguing that freedom—no matter the danger—was the essence of existence.
And while the Spirits quarreled, mortals warred.
The Birth of Heroes and Tyrants
Kaelith, torn between his discoveries and his city's descent, gathered companions to protect the shard. Serenya joined him, wielding the first spells of true runic magic, her voice alone capable of rewriting the flow of rivers. Giants like Gorath forged weapons from Stardust-metal, luminous and terrible, meant to pierce even Abyssal flesh.
But in the shadows, a new figure arose—Vaelor the Broken, once a mortal king, now corrupted by Umbryth's whisper. His body fused with abyssal matter, his eyes twin voids, he declared himself the First Abyssal Lord. With him marched armies of corrupted mortals, their blood boiling with unnatural power.
Thus began the First Divine War—a war not of mortals alone, but of Spirits themselves.
The War Unfolds
The sky was torn asunder. Light and shadow clashed as Spirits descended into the mortal plane for the first time.
Lumiaris wielded spears of solar flame, scorching Abyssal legions.
Eclipsara, mistress of twilight, cloaked armies in illusions so vast they resembled entire worlds.
Magistron unleashed torrents of raw arcane chaos, bending oceans into towering spears.
Oblivara, serene and dreadful, dissolved entire battlefields into silence, her touch weaving decay into both mortal and divine flesh.
Mortals, though fragile, did not cower. Kaelith and Serenya led the first mortal coalition, wielding relics forged with giant-craft. Lyrielle, the mystic, entered a trance upon the battlefield, weaving prophetic illusions that turned tides before they even began.
But the Abyss answered with horrors unbound. Vaelor's laughter shook mountains, and with each mortal he slew, shadows birthed new abominations. Subspace anomalies burst across the battlefield, tearing open gateways into realms no eye was meant to see.
The Cardinal World itself wept—forests withered, oceans boiled, and the very laws of existence bent beneath the conflict.
Primovast's Will
Through it all, Primovast watched. Its galaxy-black form arched across the dimensions, wings folded yet vast enough to eclipse worlds.
Mortals cried out for aid. Spirits begged for judgment. Even the Abyss roared in triumph, demanding recognition.
Yet the First Dragon did not intervene.
For this was the consequence of its choice—to abandon perfection and embrace imperfection. To allow existence to stumble, bleed, and rise again.
Instead, Primovast whispered, not to gods nor spirits, but to the smallest of mortals
"Choose. Struggle. Rise. Only through imperfection shall eternity bloom."
The Dawn of Legend
As the war raged, prophecies ignited. Lyrielle's voice cried across dreamscapes:
Of heroes forged in shadow, who would betray gods yet save the cosmos.
Of giants who would fall, yet leave bridges between worlds eternal.
Of a dragon beyond all dragons, who would one day shatter both Light and Darkness.
And above it all, the Shard of the First Breath pulsed—brighter, hungrier, more alive than ever—its fate yet undecided.
The First Divine War had begun.
And with it, so too began the Eternal Age of Legends.