Blood stained the soil.
Smoke billowed into the skies.
All across the overworld, humanity groaned beneath the weight of punishment—or trial.
No one truly knew.
Ever since Prometheus gifted them fire, the monsters came in waves—beasts that defied nature, creatures with eyes that glowed in the dark and bodies like twisted shadows of man and beast.
Villages burned.
Children cried.
Elders wept. And still, the gods did nothing.
But mortals, stubborn as ever, endured.
Among them was Herios.
His tribe was small but stubborn, surviving through sheer grit and clever traps, they live near a reason rhat has now become a sen of monsgees.
Herios, tall and sharp-eyed, led them through forests of ash and plains riddled with scorched bones to reach the agreed meeting place—an ancient ruin with a single circular stone table cracked in the middle, left behind by a people long gone.
Around it now sat eleven men and women, each bearing the scars of battle.
