The world didn't explode. It rotted from the inside, like a tongue bitten until it bleeds—never truly torn out, just left to fester. The great nations faded one by one—not through nuclear war, nor through a virus, but through the slow erosion of time and the ugliness of mankind. There was no more France, no America, no China—only Zones. Purified Zones. Unstable Zones. Recycling Zones. Silent Zones. The world hadn't been rebuilt, it had been redrawn by hands soaked in blood.
England, master of mechanical industries and the last bastion of monarchy, collapsed when its dams were swallowed by the rising sea.
The United Arab Emirates, heir to the ancient riches of the desert, was devoured from within.
The United States, a technocratic superpower, fell beneath the weight of its own paranoia—its AIs deeming all human life a primary threat.
And as everything disintegrated, the World Government was born. A soulless hydra built on the ashes of fallen powers, merging remnants of the High Church, private banks, genetic research centers, and military consortiums.
And amidst the ruins of the world, a lone man walked against the current.
Kang Soo Jin, known as the Banished One.
"Jin", for the truth buried deep. "Kang", for the river that cannot be stopped. "Soo", for water, because one day you will drown this world.
His actions became songs for the hopeless :
— He blew up Delta-9 Laboratory, a secret haven of child experiments, freeing 324 altered children.
— He forced Cardinal Avarenn, guardian of the sacred archives, to read aloud his own crimes before skinning him alive on an altar. — He slew the Black Archangel Altheron, Klein's right hand, by driving a stone stake through his belly, forcing his body to implode in a storm of flesh and wings.
The Earth, long gangrened by pride, sin, and shamelessness, received him like divine punishment. To the devout, he was the Hand of God. To others, a harbinger of the end.
The black meteors, bearers of corrupt energy, brought decay to everything they touched. Forests rotted, oceans blackened, cities dimmed. The white meteors, rare and coveted, emitted a pure energy—but none were without cost.
Humans and animals mutated. Some died in excruciating agony. Others rose anew, changed, awakened, bearers of supernatural gifts. But these powers, however mighty, came at a tragic price—ostracized, hunted, hated, they became pariahs. The world descended into a new age of darkness.
Whole nations collapsed. China, a millennia-old bastion of science and culture, was consumed by the "Awakened". Other countries were quarantined, abandoned to degeneration, forgotten by the rest of the world.
The white meteors, rare and inaccessible, crashed into zones now controlled by the great Western powers. Their gifts—cellular regeneration, clairvoyance, telekinesis—were monopolized by governments. Powers of "light", accessible only to the elite. A new world was built around them. There, people live longer, cleaner, better—and more false.
The black ones fell elsewhere. Into deserts, jungles, ruins of fallen nations. Their power is unstable, impure. Those who touch them are never the same. Their flesh twists. Their minds crack. Corruption takes root in them, a poisoned seed sprouting slowly. Yes, it gives them strength—but at the cost of their humanity.
Dimensional portals, ruptures in reality caused by the black meteors, allowed demonic creatures to invade the world of men. Ancient gods stirred. Mythical beasts awoke. And humanity—fractured, scattered—was reduced to memory.
From the chaos rose a figure of light : Klein Illias Seraphiel, the Seraph of the End Times, elected head of the New Church shortly before the cataclysm. The former Pope had vanished under mysterious circumstances, and without opposition, Klein ascended—by divine will and popular demand. A prophet with a voice like velvet, his presence calmed the masses, his gaze pierced the soul. They said he foresaw the meteors before they fell. Under his banner, a new era of faith and redemption dawned. He was the messiah of a burning world, the archangel of a dying empire.
But elsewhere, another figure rose. A man born from ashes and struggle—Jin, called "The Red Plague" by the powers that be, and "The Last Hero" by those in the lost zones. He was no prophet, no angel, but a broken man, a fugitive, carrying a dream—the dream of freeing the damned from the chains of hypocrisy. In the No Man's Lands—desolate, corrupted regions—Jin became legend. He gathered outcasts, Awakened, orphans, and forged a movement of resistance.
Thirty years ago, Jin was captured. Accused of treason, terrorism, and blasphemy, he was sentenced to death. Yet many of his so-called "crimes" were fabrications, orchestrated by the upper echelons of the new regime.
Following the Great Fall, a global coalition emerged. The World Government—a hybrid entity made up of former leaders, megacorporations, and religious orders—rose as the sole authority. Its mission? Manage the remaining resources, protect the last bastions, eliminate all threats—Awakened, mutants, heretics. Behind the scenes, it became inseparably linked to the New Church, birthing a new world order guided by dogma, fear, and artificial light.
The world today is divided between the Bastions of Light—technocratic theocratic fortresses under Global Government control—and the No Man's Lands, where the law of the strongest reigns.
This prologue is not here to judge. Nor to absolve. It is here to show.
To show what the world has become. To show what humans do when everything is taken from them. When they're pushed to the edge. When fear, dust, and an empty sky are all they inherit.
There is no innocence here. No heroes. Only people who keep moving forward—despite the corpses, despite the memories. Kang Soo Jin is not a savior. He is an answer. A consequence. The rotten fruit of a tree watered too long with lies.
In his blood flows a power he doesn't fully understand. A dark, brutal force that sometimes manifests in hallucinations, sometimes in bodily deformation. Sometimes he loses control. Sometimes he can't recognize himself in the mirror. But he keeps going. Because he must. Because someone has to.
Around him, the steles—artifacts once thought to be sources of power—have become relics. Some worship them, others study them. But few know their true purpose. They are not sources of power, but beacons. Markers indicating where the next meteors will strike. The powerful know this. That's why they seek them.
Time is running out. The meteors do not fall randomly. They follow a pattern, a logic. And soon, they will open rifts that will bring about the final collapse of humanity.