The sky turned crimson as the ancient seal broke, its glow scattering like shards of glass across the sky of Aeloria.

For a thousand years, the Demon King lay in his tomb of obsidian ruins, buried beneath mountains that had become legends. Silver fire chains, inscribed with divine wrath runes, restrained his enormous form. His soul was captured in eternity by a lattice of celestial scripture—a prison made not just by mortals but also by the gods. However, no prison lasts forever; holy wards weaken over time, and human kingdoms forget the debts they once vowed to uphold.

The earth groaned as the last rune shattered, splitting open with a huge fissure that spewed black flames, twisting like serpents into the sky. From the depths rose a figure more shadow than flesh, cloaked in the remnants of death. His bones shimmered through the darkness that wrapped around him like a shroud, and inside his helm, pale blue fire burned—cold suns that chilled the air. With his first breath, the winds stilled, the ground turned sour, and even the stars seemed to cower.

“Free... at last.” His voice echoed not merely as sound but as a quake that traversed mountain ranges and oceans, shaking everyone who heard it. It was thunder born from despair, announcing doom.

Panic swept through the human realms as bells rang out in a frantic chorus across countless cities. Kingdoms hurriedly called their armies, and banners once long forgotten were raised anew. The ancient knights, who had not wielded their swords in years, reawakened, bound by oath to a war they had hoped would never come. From the shadows, demonic armies stirred, their sleeping legions emerging from caves and old crypts, flooding the night like an unceasing tide.

In the marble hall of Arathen’s throne room, far from the chaos, the air vibrated with forbidden energy. The High Magi on the dais whispered ancient words not spoken since the Age of Sundering—syllables older than empires, each a sin against creation. Surrounding them, archmages inscribed complex sigils, merging streams of light and rivulets of blood into a spiraling pattern on the polished floor. The chamber quaked as the circle pulsed, resembling a star collapsing inward and consuming its own brightness.

Gravell, the King of Arathen, declared with a heavy crown and fear in his voice, "If there is any hope, we must summon champions not of this world but from beyond it.”

The summoning circle blazed intensely, white-hot and blinding, as if tearing a hole through reality.

Far beyond—the realm's veil, in a city of steel and glass towers, neon skies, and lives tethered to routine—two souls stood on the brink of their last moments in their worlds. Their ordinary lives were about to break apart, and from their destruction, two new destinies would emerge.