The twenty-first century was the century of endings. Civilization had thrived, blind and arrogant, until the earth itself decided to reclaim what had been stolen from it. The seas rose like living walls, swallowing cities whole. Forests caught fire in a single, furious night. Winds shredded the sky, carrying with them ash and ruin. Mountains fractured, and the molten hearts of the planets themselves tore open, spilling their fury into the void. Humanity trembled, powerless, as the universe teetered on the brink of erasure.
Yet, just as extinction seemed inevitable, something unimaginable occurred. The planets converged, drawn together as though by a force older than time. Where once there had been chaos, there emerged a singular, battered world, scarred but alive. The planet's wounds began to close, and slowly, inexorably, the world began to heal. But it was no longer the same.
From the ruins of the old age, ancient cities clawed their way from the ground. Temples of gods long forgotten rose like monuments to secrets the world had tried to bury. They were silent witnesses, their architecture both awe-inspiring and terrifying, revealing the hidden truths of creation. For the first time, humanity understood that the world had been forged not by chance, but by four primordial elements: Fire, Water, Earth, and Air. These were not simple forces—they were the pillars of existence, the roots of the universe itself.
And yet, revelation came with consequence. As the world healed, its energy—wild, pure, and unrestrained—poured forth in torrents, saturating the earth. Humans who were attuned to it discovered how to harness it, bending it to their will. Fire became lightning. Water crystallized into ice. Earth boiled into magma. Air condensed into mist and storm. These humans were no longer merely mortals—they became Thieves of Creation, known also as Conjurers.
But to command the world's energy was to steal from it. Every spark drawn, every element bent to one's will, carried a debt. The pillars watched silently, and the world remembered each transgression. Humanity's grasp upon creation was not free.
The energy did not limit itself to humans alone. Beasts, creatures long confined to myth and legend, absorbed the same power. Wolves with eyes of flame, serpents that crawled through molten rivers, birds whose wings sliced the wind like blades—all emerged as the world healed. Some bore wisdom beyond their kind; others were nothing but violence incarnate. The era of legends had begun anew.
Centuries passed. Humanity rebuilt, step by painstaking step. By the time the world reached the Renaissance, kingdoms flourished once more, cities brimming with invention, art, and culture. Yet, even in this age of rebirth, whispers of an ancient legend haunted every corner of the earth.
It was said that seven keys existed, scattered across the world and hidden within the ruins of civilizations long dead. Whoever could gather all seven would open the domain of a being that could grant any wish. The cost, however, was absolute: the law of Equivalent Exchange, older than humanity, older than the world itself. Desire demanded payment. Power required sacrifice.
And so, the hunt began. Wars erupted not between nations, but between Conjurers. Battles were fought not with armies alone, but with storms, fire, and blood. The world itself became the weapon, as Thieves of Creation collided over keys that promised unimaginable power.
By the end of the war, seventy-five percent of Conjurers were dead. Entire cities lay in ruin. The energy of the world, once a gift, had turned malevolent. The beasts, infused with corrupted power, rampaged unchecked. Villages burned. Trade routes disappeared. Forests that had grown in the centuries after the rebirth were now laced with danger. Humanity came to fear the Conjurers, blaming them for the devastation, their greed having awakened a force that none could tame.
Those who survived were few but extraordinary. They were the last line against the corrupted beasts. Each Conjurer carried the weight of the world in their hands. Their power, once a tool of creation, had become a weapon of necessity. Towns and cities prayed for their protection, and yet, even they understood the truth: the pillars' energy was no longer safe.
The world had healed, but it had not forgiven. Every city that rose from the ruins was haunted by the echoes of the old age. Every temple unearthed was a reminder of knowledge that could both elevate and destroy. The air itself seemed charged with unspoken warnings, the wind whispering secrets to those who would listen and curses to those who did not.
In this fragile, scarred world, life persisted, but under a shadow that never lifted. Humans, Conjurers, and beasts alike understood a grim truth: power demanded vigilance. Creation carried cost. And in the heart of every legend, every whispered story of the seven keys, there was a darkness, ceremonial and solemn, that promised nothing but consequence.
This was the age the new world knew: the age after apocalypse, after rebirth, after bloodshed, in which every spark of ambition could ignite destruction.
And in the ruins of the old civilizations, in the temples that no map recorded, the world waited. It waited for those brave—or foolish—enough to take from it what was not freely given.
Because in the end, the pillars remembered. And they always demanded repayment.