Chapter 0: The Forgotten War

In the beginning, the skies burned. The world of Esantea was not born into peace, but into war—a celestial conflict so vast that it scorched the heavens and split the earth. Angels, radiant and terrible, clashed with the abyssal forces of the demonkin in a battle that raged across planes unseen by mortal eyes. Mountains shattered under the weight of divine wrath, oceans boiled beneath the touch of infernal fire, and the very fabric of existence frayed at the edges.

But in time, the angels triumphed.

With their victory, the heavens sealed the gates of the abyss, casting down the last of the demon lords into the churning void. They did not stay to rule. They did not linger to be praised. With the last flare of their light, the divine hosts vanished—leaving behind a ruined world and the trembling mortals who had survived it.

Peace, if it could be called that, settled like ash.

The humans, once hidden in the shadows of titanic gods, stepped forth into the open. They were no longer spectators. They now had the freedom to create their own civilization. Out of that silence rose the first nations. From scorched plains and salt-stained cliffs, kingdoms bloomed. Their borders were shaped by steel and starvation, and their kings wore crowns forged from old bones and desperate hope.

In time, the divine faded from memory.

There were no more angels walking among men, no more flaming swords in the sky. The voices that once sang in golden tongues grew quiet. And so, the stories changed. What had once been truth became a myth. What had once been myth became legend. The children of Esantea grew up hearing tales of winged saviors and horned devils, but they believed in neither.

The last High King declared the angels to be holy, though few remembered why. Temples were raised not from reverence, but from politics—empty stone altars that echoed with sermons written to control the hearts of men, not uplift them. Faith became a crown, religion a tool, and the divine a distant story told for the convenience of kings. As for the demonkin, they were not remembered at all. They were not mourned. They were not feared. They were forgotten.

But not gone.

Beneath the surface of the world, in places where even light dared not enter, the demons waited. Time meant little to them. Their hatred did not decay. And when the last echo of celestial presence faded from Esantea, they returned.

Not with armies. With whispers.

At first, it was a single village. Then another. Livestock turned inside out, their eyes smoking in the morning light. Children born with black skin and marks no midwife could explain. Wild beasts that refused to rot, their corpses twitching with black veins and unnatural hunger. When men tried to speak of it, they were dismissed. When they begged for help, they were silenced.

But the terror spread.

No one called it a war. It had no name, no declaration. Only blood. Only fire. The dead rose, and where they walked, they brought shadows that spoke and teeth that remembered hunger. The creatures that crawled into Esantea were not the armies of old. These were smaller, smarter, quieter. Beasts that had once been natural were now something else twisted by infernal touch. Some had been ordinary creatures, slain in agony. Others had died beneath the shadow of something far worse. Whatever their origin, they returned—feral, hateful, and wrong.

And still the darkness climbed.

In time, the creatures began to walk like men. Not all at once, but gradually—figures of shifting shadow, with no faces but endless rage. They wore the shape of humanity like a disguise, but their presence chilled the air. They did not speak. They only killed.

And then came the beautiful ones.

They appeared rarely, but when they did, whole cities vanished. They were tall, flawless, and wrong. Their skin was obsidian, their eyes glowed like coals, and their bodies bore markings that shimmered like lava—etched deep into their flesh like living scripture. Their horns curved like crowns. Some bore wings made not of feathers, but of ash and flame. They moved with elegance, but their touch left ruin. And when they spoke, it was with voices that seemed to echo with the screams of those they had devoured.

No one knew what they were, but they came. Again, and again.

And humanity bled. For years, the world endured slaughter. No divine savior came. No angel returned. The people, abandoned, turned to fear. And from fear came desperation.

In the darkest hours, the kings of Esantea turned on their own. The weak were gathered—the sickly, the malformed, the lost. They were tested. Used. Torn apart in hidden chambers beneath crumbling castles. No one expected results.

But something… worked.

Among the broken were a few who survived the rituals. Survivors whose blood boiled near demons, whose bodies burned with strange energy. Through pain, trauma, and near-death, humans found a way to touch power once thought divine—or damned. They called it magic.

The announcement shook the kingdoms. The royal family, once desperate, declared the news with pride. Hope returned. And from it, something new emerged.

Guilds.

No longer would men hide in their walls. Mercenaries, hunters, and outcasts gathered to form new orders—private armies bound not by kings, but by coins and conviction. They were given names, banners, ranks. They became Esantea's new defense—and its most profitable business.

The war had changed. It wasn't one sided anymore.

The Guilds forged new systems to measure the things they fought. Though no scholar could explain how demons grew, the hunters knew enough to distinguish the patterns. The weakest were the beasts—things that once lived and died but returned warped and full of rage. Worse were the shadowed ones—figures that mimicked human form but held no humanity. And at the top were the high demons—majestic, monstrous beings whose infernal markings glowed with terrible power.

Even now, centuries later, no one understands the symbols on their skin. No sage has deciphered their growth. Only this is known: they are ancient, and they are patient.

And they are not done.

So, the Guilds hunt. The kings built higher walls. The people pray to gods who do not answer. And still the demons come, rising from every crack in the world like rot in a tree thought whole.

Esantea does not remember the true war.

It remembers only stories. Tales to frighten children. Myths carved in stone. Legends of angels with wings of silver, and demons that wear the faces of the dead.

But the war never ended. It simply forgot its name.