And so it was written…

Three hundred years before the world was broken, when the fields were green and the bells of mankind rang pure—

A priest, devout beyond reproach, knelt not in doubt… but in hunger.

Not for bread. Not for mercy. But for more.

And in the silence between prayers… something answered.

Not with thunder.

Not with flame.

But with a whisper that knew his name.

ᙎᖾᥲt ɩ⳽ ᑯᥱʋotɩoᥒ... ɩƒ ɩt ᑲɾɩᥒɠ⳽ ყoᥙ ᥒotᖾɩᥒɠ?”

“Ꙇ ᥴᥲᥒ ƒɩꙆꙆ ყoᥙɾ ᖾᥲᥒᑯ⳽ ωɩtᖾ ɠoꙆᑯ ᥙᥒtɩꙆ ƙɩᥒɠ⳽ ᑲoω to ყoᥙɾ ⳽ᖾᥲᑯoω.” “Ꙇ ᥴᥲᥒ ᥙᥒ⳽ᖾᥲᥴƙꙆᥱ ყoᥙ ƒɾoຕ ᑯᥱᥲtᖾ... ᥲᥒᑯ ຕᥲƙᥱ tɩຕᥱ ɩt⳽ᥱꙆƒ ƒoɾɠᥱt ყoᥙ ωᥱɾᥱ ຕᥱᥲᥒt to ᥱᥒᑯ.” “Ƴoᥙ ᖾᥲʋᥱ ƙᥒᥱꙆt ყoᥙɾ ωᖾoꙆᥱ Ꙇɩƒᥱ... ᥲᥒᑯ tᖾᥱ ᖾᥱᥲʋᥱᥒ⳽ ᖾᥲʋᥱ ᥒot oᥒᥴᥱ ᥲᥒ⳽ωᥱɾᥱᑯ ყoᥙɾ ρɾᥲყᥱɾ⳽.”

“工 山工㇄㇄.”

He listened. He prepared the rite. And when the final word was spoken— Heaven did not answer.

廾㠪㇄㇄ ᗪ工ᗪ.

Thus came the first opening. Thus came the first scream that did not end. Thus came the first night that did not see dawn.

And from that wound in the world—

The primordial evil beheld mankind… and smiled.

Humanity cried to the heavens to be saved

And the heavens spoke then—not in comfort, nor in kindness—

but in decree:

“Ｓ𝚝ａ𝚗ｄ.”

“𝙴ｎ𝚍ｕ𝚛ｅ.”

“𝙲ｌ𝚎ａ𝚗ｓ𝚎.”

And from the ashes, the paladins rose. Not as men reborn… but as men remade.

Yet not all who rose did so in light.

For where the holy flame claimed some… the abyss claimed others.

Thus two paths were carved into the bones of the world:

The Radiant, who burned away their humanity in service of the divine— and the Forsaken, who clung to it with bloodstained hands, even as it rotted.

And so began the long war.

Not for victory.

Not for glory.

But for the promise of tomorrow.