Prologue

"The Age of Gods has ended, leaving man to his own fate, the world now under his fingertips. Thus, it ushered in what is perhaps the greatest pinnacle and glory of the human race, the age where cities prospered and grew, where countless adventurers from across the land sought fame and fortune in the hopes of making it big, where the greatest and most iconic monuments, landmarks and paintings were created, and eventually gave birth to the legendary heroes that will forever leave their mark in the annals of history."

In what was once a flourishing civilization has now descended into anarchy and chaos. Many countless bodies littered the streets of each city, the suffocating smell of sulfur lingering in the air as if a warning to those who were still alive.

The forests remained barren, devoid of tree nor wildlife, their once fertile earth merely a stale blanket of earth where even microorganisms won't survive.

The mountains turned into volcanoes that spouted hot molten lava from its mouth, with the ash blanketing the sky like a dark shroud.

The seas and the oceans have turned into a crimson color, as if the blood of countless men were made into syrup.

The roads remain empty, with only the deathly whispers and suffocating silence of the wind the only evidence that there were once people who traveled it and now have abandoned it to nature.

However, none can compare to the carnage, death and bloodbath that followed the fall of the Rune Midgard Continent.

The red burning sky was covered in a dark, thick smoke, with the smell of death and destruction permeating in the air. On the battlefield lay swords, axes, pikes, broken arrows and even the corpses both men and beast. The blood, red sun gave the scene as if the gates of hell have opened on earth.

Too many deaths too count. Too much blood spilled. Too many lives wasted on a futile resistance against the dark army whose innumerable numbers simply spilled into the masses of men and horses, sweeping them down like a raging tide.

The few remaining survivors continued to fight, knowing that a slight hesitation or a hint of cowardice will be enough to kill them. To them, it was a fight to the death, a fight against impossible odds that cannot be overcome.

Their faces were grim, with the grime and dirt covering their faces and armor, their breaths labored as they gasped for air to prepare for the next wave of enemies. Their grip on their weapons as firm as steel, draining their hands of their color as they directed their gazes unto the massive numbers of orcs, elves, undead, magical beings and animated armors assembled in front of them.

It was a dark army that thrived on death and destruction. An army led by the Dark Gods, who themselves were former heroes who have joined the dark side. Former men and women whose heroic feats led to their fall from glory and their descent into darkness.

It was a dark army that showed no mercy nor left prisoners.

It was a dark army whose sole purpose was to destroy the world.

It was a dark army that consumed everything that blocked its path.

It was a dark army that nearly conquered the entire continent, granted powers that no man can match:

The Power of Death.

The Power of Chaos.

The Power of Destruction.

The three primary powers the dark army possessed that not even the most stalwart man nor the most fanatic believer can match or surpass.

To them, man were like bugs that needed to be exterminated as per the prophecy dictates

"When the world is on the brink of destruction, so too must man be destroyed.

For in his actions lay the consequences and outcomes that plagued the earth.

His pride led to his downfall, his greed taking control of his life, his lust leading him to a life of debauchery.

Thus, the Gods left man to his own fate, to let him be the judge of his fellow man.

To create the rules and to enforce them, and to follow them, and obey them.

To shape the world to their liking as they see fit, ruling over their own domains like kings and royalty.

And to be judged by the Gods when the end of time is near."

Thus, the remaining survivors hoped and prayed that a miracle will occur, that the world will be saved from destruction. The haunting cheers and frightening roars made some of the survivors flinch, their bodies shivering in fear, their faces as white as snow.

Nevertheless, they steeled themselves for the inevitable, knowing that they will die fighting to the death, to be reunited with their loved ones and their friends in the afterlife, if there was an afterlife in the first place.

Then, like a mass of black fog that slowly shrouded everything it passed through in eternal darkness, the dark army marched forward, their footsteps making the earth tremble and the sky weep in sorrow with their spears raised high, the swords in their hands oozing with bloodlust.

The elves themselves had a blank look on their expressions, as if they were mere puppets without a will of their own, with their bows strapped on their backs with banner bearers upfront, their banners fluttering in the wind and moving ahead of the frontline.

The orcs had a maniacal grin on their faces, their lust for battle overriding all trace of common sense, if they had common sense in the first place. Their thick, green and bulky bodies were like stone, difficult to cut but not impossible to break.

The magical beings on the other hand were a different bunch: succubi, incubus, necromancers, dark priests, mayas and floating eyes mostly composed the group, with a host of other creatures forming the rest.

The undead featured death knights, former knights who were turned into walking, corpses of death armed with their previous experience and knowledge of combat. Alongside them came necromancers, undead magical beings who were formerly humans but turned to the dark arts to achieve more power. Leading them were abysmal knights, intimidating with an aura that was even more sinister and suffocating than death.

They marched in unison, their steps aligning with one another, their thirst for destruction uniting them as one. The eerie atmosphere that descended the battlefield only added to their terrifying sight.

Suddenly, lightning cackled in the sky as a torrent of rain suddenly fell, soaking the ground with wet benediction. The ground became mud, mud became a brown, viscous liquid that turned into a mini-landslide that managed to unbalance some of the dark forces.

Then a storm of blades that appeared from the sky skewered the rest of the dark forces, their green and black blood staining the earth like slime.

From there, the sky illuminated a divine and holy cross made from light itself, destroying all undead forces in the battlefield, which was brighter than the sun and forced the survivors to close their eyes. When they opened their eyes, all they saw was white smoke on the battlefield, with some of survivors continuing their advance, undeterred by the death of their comrades.

From the clouds came a large silhouette of a hammer, descending the ground from the sky like a bolt of lightning. It struck the ground and the splattered insides of some of the dark beings littered the ground, while those who were at a distance were stunned, three small stars circling their heads, their gazes out of focus.

When all of this was happening the survivors bravery and resolve suddenly came back, as if the Gods themselves have descended from the heavens to push back the raging tide. The gate that spawned the dark army continued to bring troops from the void, a never ending stream of black figures marching towards them.

A bright light appeared and engulfed the battlefield and after a few seconds six figures stood in front of the survivors, covered in light brown cloaks that danced with the wind.

The first one held a large sword on his left hand.

The second had an elegant and beautiful staff engraved with gems held on her right hand.

The third had an extremely heavy hammer that was hoisted on his right arm.

The fourth had a katar on each of his hands, their menacing shape giving off an aura of death.

The fifth had a bow on her left hand, with her quivers visible from her back.

The final member had a small white cross dangling from her neck, with a golden mace fastened on her waist.

All of them had an aura of power, an aura of authority that was similar to the Gods. They were called the Divine Six, a group of humans who transcended their humanity and achieved the impossible: The attainment of the power of the Gods in the body of a human being.

They were the first demi-humans in history: Half-mortal, Half-god, blessed with both the limitations and potentials of a human and a god.

Together, they led the charge against the dark forces, the survivors following their lead. They tore their way into the enemy formation like giants on the attack. Their arrows never missed and struck true, never missing their mark. A brown blur weaved in and out, decapitating and slicing off some of their number.

As they slowly made their way towards the dark portal, the number of enemies that they fought increased to the point that they were now fighting side-by-side among each other literally.

Then, as they came near they were met with the silhouette of the six Dark Gods, who were now mere knights clad in black smoke that both obscured and hid their features and never danced with the wind. They were merely vessels for the darkness that made them fall from glory.

Without stopping the divine six engaged the six Dark Gods, who were simply outmatched against their furious attacks. Although they fell easily to their attacks, they couldn't be killed normally like an ordinary human person and realized that if they were to permanently kill them, then they need to kill the head, the one who leads them.

Nevertheless, they persevered and were met with the first and only King of Glast Heim, King Reginald, who stood in front of them, with his Chaos Guards flanking him on both sides. The Chaos Guards were the personal elite unit of the King himself hand-picked from the most loyal and talented of knights.

They were covered in a full helm that only revealed their eyes, full plate mail that covered their torso with iron pauldrons on their shoulders and their long cloaks that fluttered in the wind paired up with iron greaves. They wielded a vanguard shield on their left and a lance on their right.

They stood in attention with eight of them flanking his sides. The King himself was dressed in a blood red armor and a full helm that covered his entire face with only slits present, with spiky protrusions on his shoulder armor and blood red greaves with a long blade protruding upward from the middle reaching up to his knees. He also wore a cloak made of blood and twin swords were hanging from his waist.

Both sides stood facing one another, without a word being said between them as their armies clashed around them. Then, they dashed towards the other, signaling the start of their battle, the battle for the world...

Nobody knows how the battle went nor how it was won by them but legend has it that the kings' power was too powerful to be sealed and the only viable option was to sacrifice their lives to become seals that will keep the king shackled for the next thousand years.

Thus, the legend of the six was born, and out of the ashes came reconstruction, recovery and the start of a new beginning. Yet, the threat hasn't ended for in the horizon the dark forces slowly recovered their strength, to again finish the task that they never accomplished.

And a thousand years pass, the continent prospers and adventurers of all kinds flock towards its fields and dungeons as the winds of change come and go for a new legend waiting to be born...