ZawGyi:The Myth
Prelude: Ashes of Red Smoke
"The Zawgyi are no more."
That is what the scrolls say.
That is what the monks chant at dusk.
That is what the silence of the jungle wants you to believe.
Long ago, beneath mountains now lost to time and cloud, they walked barefoot on ash, breathing in iron and flame. They were alchemists, but not the kind who turned lead to gold. No — they wove spells with blood, crafted fire into orbs, carved death into bone. They bent nature, not for wisdom, but for power. For defiance.
They called them "Zawgyi".
Immortal, it was said. Touched by heaven, feared by the underworld. But even immortality has rules. And the Zawgyi, for all their brilliance, broke too many.
When the stars bled red and the rivers turned to smoke, the world pushed back. Something older than gods, deeper than spells, rose from the black between time.
The Zawgyi vanished.
Some say they were sealed.
Others, that they burned themselves into dust.
A few believe… they wait.
Now, centuries later, the world has changed.
Skyscrapers rise. Satellites orbit. Cities hum.
And no one remembers the old language of alchemy.
But something stirs.
Deep in the green shadows of the Htamanthi jungle, under ruins no one dares map, an ancient circle pulses with dull red light. One seal. Just one. Cracked by accident, or by fate.
And far from the jungle, in a dusty corner of a university library, a lazy, debt-ridden student named "Thuta" yawns, stretches, and picks up a scroll that hasn't been touched in 300 years.
The world will wish he hadn't.
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