TIME UNKNOWN, IN THE VASTNESS OF SPACE
The gods argued. They had always argued—across eons, across the void between stars—but their clashes were theater, not war. True harm served no purpose when you were born from the same cosmic energy as your siblings.
Seven of them drifted through the cosmic space: Light, Darkness, Wind, Earth, Water, Fire, and Balance, who was no element at all.
They had no true names, only what humanity called them. And humanity had taught them something unexpected: immortals could still fade. Not die—never die—but diminish, flickering like distant stars until nothing remained but a whisper in the void.
The gods needed mortals. They needed each other.
It was a humbling lesson for beings who had each believed themselves master of all.
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"Darkness?" Light's voice was barely a whisper against the silence.
He floated beside her, gazing into the infinite black. "Yes?"
"Were we wrong?"
Darkness laughed—a sound like thunder rolling through empty halls. "I'm never wrong." He paused. "But about what?"
Light's glow dimmed as she watched Earth turn in the distance, that small blue-green jewel they'd ignored for so long. "We are the source of all magic. We exist because that world exists. And yet... we never cared about it. We treated it like a novelty. A toy to fight over while we proved which of us was strongest."
A tear escaped her—not water, but pure radiance that streaked away into the cosmos like a comet fleeing the sun.
"We were fools," she whispered.
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Darkness turned away, staring into the depths of space. The void stretched before him like a vast cloak—something he wore, something he commanded, but not something he was. Just as Light could shine from any star yet remained her own being, Darkness was more than the shadows he cast.
The silence stretched. Light knew this mood. When his pride wouldn't let him admit fault, he simply refused to answer. She'd learned not to push—she valued his company too much to drive him away. So she waited, watching Earth's slow rotation, and told herself that silence was answer enough.
"Yes."
The word was so quiet she almost missed it.
"But not in the way you think." Darkness still wouldn't look at her, but she caught the edge of something in his voice. Regret? Shame? From Darkness, who never admitted weakness?
"Mortals are weak," he said, and now his voice was steel. "We owe them nothing. They are brief sparks in an endless night." He paused, and when he spoke again, the steel had softened. "But when they believed in us... when their faith gave us strength... and we still turned away..."
Another pause. Longer.
"That was wrong."
Light had no words. In all their eons together, she had never heard him admit such a thing.
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"What should we do?" Light asked.
"Nothing."
The word pulled her down like the black hole she feared. "Nothing? Darkness, they need us! We abandoned them for—"
"No." His voice cut through her protest. "Listen to me. We cannot simply give them power freely. Not even if they beg for it." He turned to face her fully, and she saw something unfamiliar in the shadows that wreathed him: uncertainty. "We need the others. All of them. This cannot be a choice we make alone."
Light paused, surprised again. Darkness, asking for counsel?
"Perhaps that's why Balance exists," he continued, almost to himself. "She gains nothing from mortal worship—only from us. She has no stake in their affairs, no reason to tip the scales toward her own glory." He gestured to the distant stars. "We will gather the others. We will make a plan together."
Light felt warmth bloom within her—not her usual radiance, but something deeper. Hope. "You're right. We've spent eons fighting over who should lead, who should follow. Each of us certain we were supreme."
"All of us fools," Darkness murmured.
"Except Balance." Light looked toward where their sibling drifted, always at the periphery, always overlooked. "She never fought for dominance because she understood what we refused to see—that we need each other."
Balance held them together. She was the thread that wove between their essences, preventing any from fading entirely. Without her, they might already be gone, dissolved into the cosmos after millennia of neglect.
"Then we call them," Darkness said. "All of them."
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When the gods gathered, the cosmic space trembled with their combined presence.
Fire arrived first, flames crackling with impatience. "Why summon us, Darkness? Come to gloat again about how superior you are?"
"Let's not fight." Water's voice rippled between them, fluid and soothing as she tried to ease the tension. "I'm sure this is important. Darkness promised he would stop trying to lead us. We should give him a chance."
But Fire and Darkness were already locked in a glare, neither acknowledging her words.
Water's voice wavered. She drifted back, waves of anxiety pulsing through her form.
Wind and Earth hovered apart from the others, their attention fixed on the blue-green world below. They had always cared more for mortal affairs than divine posturing. Wind's currents whispered with curiosity. Earth's presence was patient, waiting.
Balance lingered at the edge of the gathering, as always. She watched her siblings with quiet sadness. Whatever decision they reached, her voice would be an afterthought. It always was.
She had accepted this long ago.
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The murmuring continued—accusations, old grudges, familiar arguments circling like debris in orbit. Then Darkness did something unexpected.
He said nothing.
He simply waited, his silence deliberate. A statement in itself.
The others noticed. One by one, the voices quieted. This was new. Darkness, yielding the floor? Letting someone else speak first?
Light seized the moment before it could slip away.
"We need to help the humans."
The words fell like a star into still water. Reactions rippled outward instantly.
Wind's currents surged with excitement, swirling into bright spirals. Earth's smile was slow and warm, like sunrise over mountains. Fire's flames dimmed to a sullen orange, already forming objections. Darkness and Balance remained still, watching, waiting.
Light drew strength from her own radiance and continued. "For too long, we have treated mortals with indifference. We used their faith and gave nothing in return." She let that truth settle among them before delivering the next. "We know now that our power comes from them. We must balance this debt."
Balance's essence flickered with surprise. Light had used her word—*balance*. Deliberately. Was she truly being included in this? Did she... matter?
The thought was almost too fragile to hold.
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"Is there a point to this?" Fire's flames brightened, impatient. "They're insignificant. Temporary. Why should we concern ourselves with such brief sparks?"
"Why should we care at all?" Even Water agreed, her voice soft but genuine. She looked to Light apologetically, but the question remained.
Light met their gazes steadily. "Because without them, we fade. I have felt that weakness—that terrible emptiness. I never want to feel it again." Her radiance pulsed with the memory. "But now, with more humans believing, I feel *stronger*. Fuller. Is it so wrong to share that gift with those who give it to us?"
"YES!" Wind spun in delighted loops, unable to contain herself.
Earth nodded slowly, his attention still on the world below. "They deserve something in return."
Darkness exhaled—not quite a sigh, but close. He'd known this wouldn't be simple.
Fire erupted. "Of course! Go ahead, Darkness. Tell us the *right* way to do this. Tell us how you know best. We all know you're dying to—"
"How quickly you make me the villain." Darkness's voice was dangerously quiet. "You hate me for my element, but you forget—your flames have caused far more pain than my shadows ever could. You *burn*. You *destroy*. Yet I am the monster?"
Fire exploded into white-hot rage, tongues of flame lashing outward.
The others scattered back. Even Light, who had called this gathering, felt control slipping through her fingers like starlight. This was spiraling exactly where she'd feared.
She had no idea how to stop it.
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"Light was trying to help."
The voice was so quiet, so unexpected, that the argument died instantly.
Balance had spoken.
Fire and Darkness whipped toward her as if they'd forgotten she existed. Shock rippled through them both—not just that she was there, but that she had found the courage to speak. To interrupt *them*.
For a moment, shame flickered across their faces. They both knew what they'd been thinking: that they were greater, and Balance was the weakest among them.
But they were wrong. They had always been wrong.
Balance was the thread that held them together. Without her, they would have torn each other apart eons ago. She shared power among them, kept any from overwhelming the others, prevented their pride from destroying them all.
She was essential. They had simply never wanted to admit it.
Darkness looked away first. "I'm sorry." The words came rough, reluctant. His shadows deepened, embarrassment written in their texture.
Fire's flames guttered low, sullen red replacing brilliant white. "Sorry," he muttered.
The silence that followed was fragile, volatile. No one knew what to say. One wrong word could reignite everything.
Water moved first, her voice gentle as rain. "Light, you were saying? About helping the humans?"
The invitation was small, but it was enough. The moment steadied.
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Light felt control return to her grasp. Her radiance brightened with renewed hope. Maybe—just maybe—this could work.
She needed to speak before the moment shattered.
"YES!"
The word burst out of her like a solar flare. She dimmed immediately, embarrassed. Too much enthusiasm for such a tense moment. Wind's joy was infectious—she'd caught it without thinking.
"Yes," she said again, composed now. "We cannot simply give mortals magic. Not directly. Not without cost. There must be limits. There must be..." She glanced at Balance. "There must be balance."
"Darkness and I have discussed this. We could reshape the world gradually, blessing it with power over time."
Silence greeted her words. Not hostile—uncertain. This was permanent. Once they changed the world, there would be no reversing it. The weight of that decision pressed on them all.
No one wanted to be the first to speak.
Balance, having already broken her silence once, found courage easier the second time. "How would it work? If we don't simply hand them power, how do they receive it? And what stops a few mortals from hoarding everything?" Her voice was still quiet, but steadier now. "I don't know how to balance an entire world."
Light's smile was warm as the sun's gentle glow. Balance had given her the perfect opening.
"Dungeons."
The word hung in the cosmic space between them.
Wind tilted in confusion. "Dungeons?"
Fire frowned. "What in the void is a dungeon?"
Earth rumbled with interest, waiting for explanation.
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"Yes, dungeons." Light's voice grew stronger, more certain. "Places of challenge and reward. Mortals must prove themselves to gain power. We set the trials, they earn the blessings. It keeps power in check while allowing all of us to grow stronger through their faith."
Balance's essence dimmed.
Of course. They'd found a way to make her irrelevant. Even her one gift—maintaining equilibrium among them—could be replaced by a system. Did she matter so little?
The others didn't notice. They were already lost in thought, imagining possibilities.
Water noticed.
"What about Balance?" Her voice cut through their contemplation. "This seems to include all of us except her. If mortals can gain our power, shouldn't they be able to gain hers as well?"
Balance looked up, startled. Someone had spoken for her. Someone cared.
All eyes turned toward Balance. She shrank under their attention, making herself smaller.
Light's radiance flared with alarm. "No, no, no! You misunderstand!" She moved closer to Balance, urgent. "Balance, you would be *in charge*. You would oversee the dungeons, ensure none of us tip the scales too far in our favor. You would be the arbiter, the guardian of fairness."
She paused, then added, "And of course mortals could gain your power. Why wouldn't they? It would need to be rarer than ours—your essence is less bound to a single element—but you deserve to be part of this as much as any of us."
Balance couldn't speak. Couldn't process what she'd just heard.
The most important role. Trust. *Inclusion*.
Tears came then—not of sadness, but overwhelming relief and joy. Water flowed to her side immediately, offering comfort. Wind's currents wrapped around her gently. Earth's presence settled nearby, solid and reassuring.
Light held back, seeing Balance had enough support. She didn't want to overwhelm her.
Fire and Darkness watched the display with identical frowns. Weakness, they both thought. Unseemly emotion.
But they said nothing.
They recognized their own guilt in Balance's insecurity. They had dismissed her, belittled her, made her feel small. If they wanted a better future—a better relationship with their siblings—they needed to let her have this moment.
Besides, a small voice whispered in both their minds, if Balance owed them a debt of gratitude, perhaps she'd favor them when distributing power. Give them an edge over the others.
The thought made them both feel slightly smug.
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When Balance's tears finally subsided, Light continued gently. "We all want our elements to thrive, to have mortals channel our power. But we must reward them fairly when they prove themselves worthy."
Balance straightened. The support of her siblings had given her something she'd never truly felt before: confidence. She had a voice here. She mattered.
And she had an idea.
"If we do this," Balance said, her voice still soft but no longer trembling, "we must include monsters. Spiritual creatures that can grow beyond the dungeons."
Silence. Shocked silence.
Darkness spoke first, disbelief coloring his tone. "Why would we create monsters? We're trying to help humans, not slaughter them." He gestured at the world below. "Why not simply make dungeons with trials and mana blessings? Why add creatures that could kill them?"
Balance met his eyes—something she'd never dared before. "Because there must be balance."
She pressed on before her courage failed. "Dungeon creatures would be bound to their purpose. Mindless. Limited. They'd exist only to test mortals, nothing more—just constructs of mana shaped by our will." She paused, gathering her thoughts. "But true monsters, spiritual creatures born like the mortals themselves? They would be *real*. They could grow, evolve, think."
"They would keep humanity from growing unchecked," she continued, warming to her vision. "And humanity would keep monsters from overwhelming the world. Each would push against the other, forcing both to adapt, to become stronger."
A small, satisfied smile touched her essence. "Balance."
She thought it was perfect.
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Water was the first to respond, her voice rippling with interest. "I like it. Could we create elemental monsters? Creatures born from our essence, like reflections of ourselves?"
Wind spun in sudden excitement. "We'd be part of the world! Living among the mortals, in a way!" Her currents swirled faster and faster as the idea took hold.
"Not exactly," Balance said quickly, trying to calm Wind's enthusiasm before it spiraled out of control. "Not us directly, but—"
"I like it." Earth's voice rumbled through the cosmic space, deep and certain. He gazed at the world with something like fondness. "We wouldn't walk among them, but we'd be woven into their reality. Our power made manifest."
Wind couldn't contain herself. She shot upward in spiraling loops of pure joy, then dove back down, her delight infectious. Water caught the mood, her form dancing and spinning, droplets scattering across the void. Some fell toward the distant planet, becoming rain on the world below.
Fire and Darkness remained silent, still processing. Their expressions were unreadable.
Light watched them carefully, then spoke. "If we all agree to this... we must be cautious. Too much change too quickly will shatter the world. This must unfold over centuries. Millennia, perhaps."
"Not *too* long." Darkness finally stirred. "We allowed a world to exist without magic. We can create a better one with it. But mortals shouldn't have to wait eons for what we've promised."
Fire's flames flickered with irritation. Everything was moving so fast, decisions being made, and he'd barely contributed. He needed to assert himself.
"So what's the actual plan?" Fire's voice cut through the excitement. "Light? Balance? Whoever's leading this—I don't object, but I want to know what we're committing to. Details. Timeline. Execution."
It was a demand wrapped in cooperation.
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Light drew herself up, preparing them for the hardest truth. "This will cost us. More than half our power just to begin the transformation." Light's radiance pulsed with the weight of it. "Our essence will flow into the world slowly—some mortals will be born carrying fragments of our gifts. The dungeons will offer another path, a way to earn power through trial."
Wind tilted, processing. "So some are just... born with it? And others have to work for it?"
"Balance," Light said simply, glancing at their sibling. "Not everyone can be born blessed—there would be chaos. But those who aren't can still prove themselves worthy."
"And we'll adjust as we see what works," Darkness added. "This isn't a perfect plan. We're feeding magic into a world that's never held it. We'll learn what mortals can handle, what breaks them, what makes them stronger."
Balance nodded slowly. "We start small. Watch. Adapt. We can't know everything that will happen when divine power touches mortal lives."
Earth rumbled in agreement. "The world will teach us as much as we teach it."
Murmurs rippled through the gathering, but no one objected. They understood now. This would be slow. Gradual. They would witness the changes across ages, watch the world transform piece by piece.
It was decided.
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The gods acted.
Power flowed from their essence into the world below—a flood of divine energy reshaping reality itself. Humans felt it first as tremors, then as something deeper: a fundamental change in the fabric of existence.
For the first time, monsters walked the earth. For the first time, humans knew without doubt that gods were real.
They marked this moment in their histories, dividing time itself: the age before gods—NG, No Gods—and everything that came after—AB, After Blessings.
The world would never be the same.
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100 AB
No dungeons yet. Humans were still reeling from the first monsters—creatures that had appeared seemingly overnight, born from pure mana and divine essence. Terror gripped the early settlements.
But humans adapted. Over decades, those born with magic learned to wield it. Those without learned to survive through cunning and steel. Slowly, mortals grew stronger.
The monsters grew stronger too.
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152 AB
The First Monster War nearly destroyed humanity.
The gods watched in horror as their "balance" nearly exterminated the very people they'd sought to help. Balance had miscalculated—monsters gained power faster than humans, driven by an insatiable hunger for mana that mortals didn't share.
The worst were creatures touched by Darkness and Fire. Aggressive, relentless, consumed by the drive to grow stronger. Monsters blessed by the other elements were more solitary, less violent, but the damage was done.
Humanity survived. Barely.
The gods learned their first hard lesson: good intentions weren't enough.
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321 AB
For the first time since the transformation began, the gods felt whole again. Centuries of weakness from the power they'd spent had finally passed. Prayer fed them—humanity's desperate gratitude, their fearful worship, their stubborn hope.
The world had adapted. Magic was normal now, woven into daily life. A few elders still told tales of a world without it, but those stories had become legend, half-believed myths about a dimmer age.
Humans remembered the war, though. Temples rose in every settlement, prayers offered daily. Never again would they let monsters grow unchecked.
The gods had wanted gratitude. They'd earned it through blood.
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360 AB
The first beastkin were born.
The gods hadn't planned this. They'd created spiritual creatures—monsters with fragments of thought, beasts with elemental affinity. But these were different. These were *people*. Walking, talking, thinking beings with souls as complex as any human.
The gods were stunned. Then fascinated.
Catkin with their sharp eyes and graceful movements. Wolfkin who moved in packs and honored loyalty above all. Bearkin with their immense strength and fierce protection of their young. Foxkin, clever and adaptable, thriving in places others couldn't.
They were almost human in appearance—some more than others—but distinctly *other*. Ears, tails, fur, instincts that set them apart.
Beastkin prayed differently than humans, their faith colored by their natures. The prayers fed the gods in unexpected ways, each tribe resonating with divine aspects the gods hadn't anticipated.
Balance ensured no god grew too powerful from this new source, though truthfully, it wasn't needed anymore. All seven were loved and hated in equal measure now, their favor rising and falling with the seasons, with fortune, with the whims of mortal hearts.
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386 AB
Humanity did not welcome the beastkin.
They saw competition. Rivals. *Others* who looked wrong, spoke wrong, worshipped wrong. These weren't mindless beasts to be conquered—these were people who claimed the same lands, the same dungeons, the same divine blessings.
No one tried for peace.
Annoyance became resentment. Resentment became hatred. Hatred became skirmishes at the borders.
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391 AB
The First Beastkin War tore both peoples apart.
Five years of bloodshed. Humans had numbers and organization. Beastkin had raw strength and adaptation to harsh terrains. Neither could claim victory. Both could claim mountains of dead.
The gods watched, unable to choose sides. How could they? Both were their children.
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396 AB
The Second Monster War broke them all.
While humans and beastkin had been slaughtering each other, the monsters had been growing. Unnoticed. Unchecked. Now they descended on a world weakened by civil war.
Both civilizations crumbled.
The gods debated intervention. They'd promised not to interfere directly, to let mortals forge their own path. To break that promise now...
Water broke it anyway.
She flooded the monster-infested lands, drowning thousands of creatures in a single divine act. The deluge carved new rivers, created new seas, reshaped coastlines.
She saved them.
The other gods, shamed by her courage, joined in. Fire burned away nests. Earth swallowed spawning grounds. Wind scattered the remnants. Darkness and Light worked in tandem, hunting down the strongest monsters that even the flood couldn't kill.
Balance wept, knowing the equilibrium had shattered.
They had been selfish. They had let their children suffer to preserve a principle.
Never again.
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432 AB
The survivors rebuilt together.
Humans had learned a hard truth: the power they wielded didn't make them gods. Watching the *real* gods reshape the world in a single day had humbled them. They were mortal. Fragile. And they needed allies to survive.
The hatred didn't disappear overnight. Old grudges festered in some hearts. But necessity bred cooperation, and cooperation—slowly, painfully—bred something like trust.
Humans and beastkin began to rebuild side by side.
It was a fragile peace, born from shared trauma. But it was a start.
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505 AB
The Third Monster War ended differently than the others.
This time, humans and beastkin fought as one. United armies pushed back the monster hordes with a ferocity born of desperation and remembered loss. They didn't just survive—they *won*.
They nearly drove monsters to extinction.
Dragons, once common enough to terrorize entire regions, became rare sightings. Mythic beasts that had spawned in every wilderness retreated to the deepest, most inhospitable places. What had once been threats became legends, stories told to children who would never see them.
The hunters who pursued these last great beasts—human and beastkin alike—became legends themselves. They pushed past normal limits, achieved feats that shouldn't have been possible.
They were the first true heroes. Their names would echo through history, whispered in taverns and sung by bards for generations to come.
The gods watched with mixed feelings. Pride in their children's strength. Worry at how thoroughly they'd tilted the balance.
Balance herself said nothing, but her essence flickered with unease.
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800 AB
The gods finally created the first dungeons.
It had taken eight centuries. The gods had long since recovered their strength—had grown beyond what they'd once thought possible, fed by generations of mortal faith. But dungeons weren't simple to make. Each one required tremendous divine power, careful construction, precise balance.
And the gods were afraid.
They'd seen what happened when they misjudged the balance. The monster wars haunted them. So they built the dungeons cautiously, with limiters and safeguards, ensuring the creatures within could never grow strong enough to spill out and threaten the world again.
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834 AB
Mortals didn't trust the dungeons.
Decades passed with the strange structures standing empty, feared and avoided. Were they homes of the gods? Prisons for ancient evils? Monster kingdoms waiting to awaken?
No one knew. No one dared find out.
Then the bards began to sing. Stories spread through taverns and market squares—tales claiming the gods had created these places as tests, as rewards for all mortals had endured. Brave the depths, the stories said, and earn blessings beyond imagining.
Slowly, cautiously, adventurers began to try.
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840 AB
The dungeon wars nearly began.
Kingdoms wanted exclusive rights. Beast tribes claimed ancestral territories. Independent cities argued for free access. Everyone wanted control, and no one would compromise.
Tensions mounted. Armies mobilized. The fragile peace between humans and beastkin strained under the weight of greed and fear.
Another war loomed on the horizon.
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842 AB
The Guilds prevented catastrophe.
The world had changed in ways mortals were only beginning to understand. Magic, once fluid and boundless in the early generations, had crystallized. Now mortals were born locked to a single element—or sometimes none at all.
A fire mage could never wield water. An earth-blessed warrior would never command the wind. The versatility that had made the first magic-users so formidable was gone, replaced by rigid limitations.
It humbled them. The power-hungry learned that hoarding dungeons wouldn't grant them new abilities—only strengthen what they already possessed. A dungeon might make you a stronger fire mage, but you'd never become anything more.
Suddenly, dungeons seemed less worth killing over.
The monster threat helped too. Those rare, terrible beasts still lurked in the deep places, and everyone knew a war would leave them vulnerable.
But it was the Guild Accord that sealed the peace.
A neutral party, bound to no kingdom and no tribe. The Guilds would control dungeon access, distributing rights fairly, ensuring no single power could monopolize the blessings within. They would be funded by all and answerable to none.
It was an imperfect solution. But it was enough.
The alternative was annihilation, and everyone knew it.
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862 AB
The Guilds became a power unto themselves.
They'd started with nothing—dependent on loans from kingdoms and beast tribes just to build their first halls, hire their first dungeon regulators. Within twenty years, they'd paid back every debt tenfold.
The relationship reversed. Now kingdoms came to the Guilds for aid. Struggling settlements requested Guild investment. The Guilds had become the backbone of the new world's economy, their wealth flowing from the endless stream of dungeon delvers seeking power and glory.
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950 AB
Nearly a century of peace had made the old wars feel like legend.
Then the sickness came.
It started in settlements near dungeons—people collapsing, unable to rise. Weakness. Trembling. A wasting that no healer could cure. The cause became clear quickly enough: mana density. Those born with little or no magic were suffocating in the concentrated power that leaked from dungeon depths.
Panic spread through both human kingdoms and beastkin tribes.
Prayers rose desperately to the gods. *Save us. Fix this. Don't let this be another mistake.*
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951 AB
The gods' answer was simple: alchemy.
The craft had existed long before magic—humble herbalism, the mixing of poultices and draughts. When magic arrived, most had abandoned it for flashier, easier power. Now the gods whispered the solution into the minds of those who still remembered the old ways.
Potions could cure the mana sickness. Permanently, with a single dose.
But the herbs required grew only in dungeons.
The cure was easy to craft for anyone with basic alchemical knowledge. But the poor still suffered. The wealthy and powerful saw no profit in wasting time on a cure that sold for coppers when other potions fetched gold. And besides, the sick were mostly the magicless—those who didn't matter, who couldn't contribute.
Why bother helping them?
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952 AB
The crisis became invisible.
What had caused panic a year ago was now dismissed as "the poor man's sickness." Most people forgot about it entirely. After all, it only affected those near dungeons who lacked magic—the lowest rungs of society.
The cure existed. The ingredients were accessible in theory. But no one with power cared enough to make it widely available.
The alchemists who *could* brew the cure were few and imperfect in their craft. The process was time-consuming, the techniques obscure, handed down through dwindling apprenticeships. And the herbs? They had other uses—more profitable ones. Combat enhancers. Stamina draughts. Potions that sold for gold to adventurers and soldiers.
Why spend time brewing a cure that earned a few coppers when those same herbs could be turned into something worth a hundred times as much?
The sick could wait. Or die. Either way, they were someone else's problem.
The gods watched this callousness with growing anger. Balance whispered a suggestion, and the others agreed.
The herbs began to grow rarer. Not gone—never gone—but harder to find, forcing a choice upon those who harvested them.
It didn't work. The alchemists simply charged more. The poor suffered worse.
The gods would need to find another way. They always did, eventually. But each solution seemed to create new problems, and they were tired of watching mortals find creative ways to fail each other.
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970 AB
The gods slept.
After eons of fighting, planning, adjusting, failing, and trying again—they were exhausted. They had witnessed a world without them, barren of magic. They had transformed it into something rich and complex and deeply flawed.
But it was *alive*. Thriving, even.
Prayers fed them constantly now—gratitude and curses in equal measure, love and fear woven together. The cost to them was minimal compared to what they received. The balance, imperfect as it was, had finally stabilized.
They were content. Or close enough.
So they rested, descending into a deep slumber that would last for generations. They would watch the world through their dreams, distant and detached. Small nudges here and there—a whisper to a devout priest, a dungeon spawning in a strategic location, a hero born with a fragment more power than usual.
But no more grand interventions. No more reshaping continents or drowning monster hordes.
They had learned that lesson, at least.
The mortals would forge their own path now. The gods would only act if the races faced extinction again—another monster war, a calamity beyond mortal ability to survive.
Otherwise, the world belonged to humanity and beastkin now.
For better or worse.
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The prologue of creation had ended.
The age of mortals had begun.501Please respect copyright.PENANASWyW2rIKhh


