In a silent, desolate world where the sun refused to rise, a deep cobalt light bled through the clouds each night—as though the heavens themselves were torn open and the blood of a thousand shattered stars rained upon the earth. Legends spoke of a being beyond those clouds, a dormant goddess whose awakening had once plunged the moon into crimson for a millennium. That ancient catastrophe was recorded only in a single relic: an archaic journal said to be written in blood—the same blood that had fallen from the sky.
Clyde Menorbi was born into this wretched world. In the City of Cristae—a metropolis named after the folds of mitochondria, its silver towers and hollow tunnels forever dim beneath the cobalt firmament—he lived quietly, keeping to himself. He wore black formal attire trimmed with faint gold, his pale features framed beneath a tilted top hat long out of fashion. His slender figure and somber expression gave him an aura of calm isolation, as though he carried the night inside him.
Cristae's people rarely spoke of the sky. They feared what hid behind it, whispering of eyes that watched from the void above and voices that pierced the soul. Clyde had learned to respect that fear, even as he hungered for the forbidden knowledge it concealed.
He excelled in history during his years at Cristae Academy, tracing the fragmented whispers of the Cataclysm through texts so ancient that their ink had almost turned to dust. Yet the truths he sought were always buried—until the day he stepped into the city's forgotten library.
A few days after his graduation, while searching for remnants of lost knowledge, Clyde discovered a book hidden deep within dust-covered shelves. It resembled a journal, its cover dark and stiff with dried blood. The moment he reached for it, something pulled at him—an invisible force, subtle yet alive.
When his fingertips brushed the surface, whispers surged into his mind. A single name echoed like a heartbeat inside his skull:
Noxella.
His surroundings dissolved. His vision blurred. The library vanished.
He found himself standing in a field of pale, glowing flowers swaying beneath a blue moon. The air was cold—unnaturally cold. A presence pressed against the back of his mind, watching, waiting.
He turned.
Above him hung a colossal moon, blood-red and monstrous, covered in countless crimson eyes that blinked slowly across the cobalt sky. Clyde staggered back, breath trapped in his chest. Blood trickled from his eyes as the whispers intensified—louder, heavier—like a thousand voices clawing at his thoughts.
Noxella… Noxella… Noxella…
The pain was unbearable. His skull felt as if it were splitting.
Then—just as suddenly—he was back in the library. His reflection flickered in the glass case beside him, pale and trembling. His hand moved on its own toward an old flintlock resting atop a display shelf, a relic of the old world.
He pressed the cold metal to his temple.
A single shot shattered the silence.
The book fell open on the floor, its pages flipping slowly as though turned by an unseen hand. The scent of iron thickened in the air. The pages came to a stop, revealing a message written in fresh, dark blood:
Do not gaze upon the gods.
Scarlet pooled across the stone tiles, spreading from the lifeless body lying still beside the fallen book.