In a world where deities and ancient evils once road, their demise had beco a part of history so profound it seed almost tangible. Duncan had always been aware that not only the Death God but also the Storm Goddess, the Eternal Fla, the God of Wisdom, and every other ancient god and evil entity—whether they had left their mark in the annals of history or faded into oblivion—were long gone. This knowledge wasn’t new to him; every ancient ruler and deity had perished.
This cataclysmic event, known as the Great Annihilation, occurred well before the world as they knew it turned into a wasteland of scorching chaos and ash. On that fateful day, when thousands of worlds collapsed, all gods t their end, leaving behind nothing but their decaying remains—a re echo of the old world’s inertia.
However, when the towering gatekeeper solemnly announced, “The Death God is dead,” Duncan realized with a jolt that the reference wasn’t to the historical extinction he was familiar with. It signified a recent occurrence, a new kind of end.
Agatha, standing beside Duncan, also grasped the gravity of the situation. Her initial confusion quickly transford into sheer astonishnt. “What happened?”
…
The world was undergoing a chilling transformation, and it wasn’t just the physical temperature that was dropping. An essential vitality, akin to the foundational essence of the mortal realm, was gradually fading away. It felt as if the world was exhaling its last breath, signaling the imminent demise of an era.
The undead began to roam the streets freely. The cold flas that once combated the cold were now ineffective against the encroaching frost that enveloped the mortal world. The seas had turned stagnant, and mories of the past were either vanishing or morphing into unrecognizable, fragnted echoes.
From the thriving trading city of Pland, through the cold landscapes of Frost, to the elven island of Wind Harbor, from scientific Mok to the shattered archipelagos of the Eastern Seas, a palpable sense of “cooling” and “alienation” was spreading. Like an unstoppable dark force, it was gradually extinguishing every last gleam of civilization.
Tyrian made his way to the tallest lighthouse in the southeastern region of Frost. From its observation deck, he gazed out at the dark sea stretching towards the city-state. A large fleet, bathed in sunlight, was approaching. The cargo ships, heavy with oil, cloth, and grain, docked at the pier. In the darkness, massive loading machines buzzed into action, transferring goods from the ships to the shore.
At the docks, the undead sailors of the Mist Fleet were busily engaged, outnumbered now by even more of their “kindred” from recent days. Oblivious to death, these corpses manned the machinery, ensuring the city continued to function as per the directives of City Hall.
Beyond, in the city district, tall chimneys and the bright lights of factory platforms stood out. The power plants humd with activity, steam hubs vibrated with energy, and vast pipes, like veins, extended from the factories into the city. They supplied power and protection to the inhabitants, a semblance of normalcy in a world growing increasingly cold.
Yet, within those factories, the massive steam cores had cooled. No catalyst could reignite the warmth from the flas within their chambers. Despite this, the cold reactors continued to hiss, steam flowed without pause, and the pipes throbbed with what seed like relentless power.
The city’s vitality, taphorically its “breath” and “blood,” continued to pulse through its vast network of pipes without pause. Despite the ominous changes happening elsewhere, the city’s gas lamps still cast their bright glow, factories buzzed with activity, machinery churned tirelessly, and guardians road the streets. These sentinels were ever-vigilant for supernatural disturbances that defied the natural laws, while sheriffs kept order under the cloak of night, aiding those in need and addressing the growing incidents affecting public safety.
The semblance of normalcy prevailed; the city’s heartbeat of civilization had not yet dimd. Yet, Tyrian sensed an unsettling shift in the atmosphere—a cold, faintly decayed scent as if erging from the city’s very foundation, from the darkest depths of the Boundless Sea, carried by every gust of wind, perating every sliver of sky, and clinging to every particle of dust.
He could feel the world teetering on the brink of a catastrophic decline, a sensation that echoed mories of better tis. Tyrian was acutely aware that sothing profoundly wrong was unfolding, and the situation was deteriorating rapidly.
He recalled his father’s words about the world attempting to “correct” the aberrations within its frawork, but there was a threshold to such corrections. Now, it seed they were rapidly approaching that limit.
Caught by a sudden intuition, Tyrian felt a familiar presence drawing near, prompting him to shift his focus from the distant horizon.
“Father,” he said, turning to face the tall figure shrouded in bandages and cloaked in black. “Why have you co?”
“The graveyard no longer requires my watch. With this avatar, I find myself with an abundance of ti,” Duncan replied, joining Tyrian. His eyes traversed the night, following Tyrian’s previous gaze. “What are your thoughts?”
“Has the ti co already?” Tyrian mused, his eyes searching the night with a complex emotion. “I thought we had more ti—the ‘ti’ you hinted at.”
After a brief silence, Duncan ominously stated, “…The Death God is dead.”
Tyrian paused, the weight of his father’s words montarily eluding him.
“The world’s decline is hastening beyond our predictions. Its innate chanism for self-correction is failing to ensure that those within the shelters remain in a ‘survival state’—that is, as living beings. Life, being a complex and high-maintenance condition, can no longer be fully sustained within the shelters,” Duncan explained somberly, his gaze fixated on so distant point, as if envisioning the world’s impending doom.
“This is why we’re witnessing the ‘resurrection of the dead’ across various city-states and the disturbing absence of newborns. Bartok has prematurely disrupted the world’s cycle of life and death.”
“His intervention was not ant to precipitate such a rapid degradation.”
“The shelters no longer need to sustain the living.”
“Moreover, the cessation of the death cycle allows for the majority to ‘endure’ in whatever form possible—be it as the undead. This grotesque existence, however temporary, is a ans to persist through the sanctuary’s gradual collapse.”
“This extended ti is the legacy Bartok fought to leave for our world.”
As Tyrian absorbed his father’s revelations, a mix of shock and bewildernt rendered him speechless, his mind racing yet unable to articulate a response.
Duncan’s voice, deep and gravelly, broke the silence once more, imparting a grave insight: “This might be the final instance where the Four Gods have managed to buy ti for this sanctuary.”
Finding his voice amidst the turmoil, Tyrian asked, “Why?”
Duncan explained the dire consequences of halting the death chanism. “Its stop deals a critical blow to the sanctuary, marking the comncent of the final countdown. From this point, all semblance of order will rapidly begin to warp, and the world’s innate ability to self-correct will fail completely. This breakdown is why the distortions and anomalies, once veiled from human awareness, will start to beco glaringly apparent to more and more individuals.”
As he turned to face Tyrian, his gaze was intense and penetrating.
Reeling from the onslaught of information and grappling with the implications of his father’s sudden announcent, Tyrian found himself confronting mories and details he had unconsciously ignored or forgotten, surfacing like specters from a nightmare.
After a mont that seed to stretch into an eternity, the fog of confusion in his mind began to clear, allowing his thoughts to coalesce and his rationality to resurface.
“So,” he began, the words erging tentatively, “ordinary people will soon…”
Duncan continued, “Having been influenced by , you’ve been able to perceive many things prematurely. As the world’s distortions and anomalies grow more severe and the sanctuary’s self-correcting chanisms fail entirely, more individuals will start to recognize the world’s aberrations—similar to your experience. It won’t be everyone; susceptibility will vary based on ntal resilience, intuitive sensitivity, and a degree of… ‘luck.'”
“For those unable to perceive these changes, life will go on as usual in a world that’s becoming increasingly alien and frightening, without them sensing any shift in their reality.”
“However, for those who beco aware… the situation will deteriorate significantly.”
“Tyrian, you must brace yourself—and the other city-states as well.”
“The ultimate, most tumultuous upheaval of the old world is on the horizon.”
…
Duncan and Agatha had been journeying along this mysterious “path” for what seed like an eternity. As they moved forward, the strange, monochromatic grass that bordered their trail began to vanish. In its place, a landscape of endless, pale, and dark broken stones unfolded, with only the occasional withered plant breaking the monotony of the stone-strewn wilderness.
The ethereal twilight glow that once imbued the wilderness with a surreal quality gradually receded, giving way to the serene dominance of the night. The wilderness transford before their eyes, adopting a more somber and desolate guise.
In a subdued tone, Agatha shared with Duncan that they were now entering a new segnt of the “Path of No Return.” This stark and desolate region, known as the “Death Wilderness,” lay deep within their journey. She described how, beyond the twilight—which symbolized the last vestige of life—a peaceful night awaited to usher in the realm of the deceased. The endless expanse of barren land, strewn with broken stones, signified the severance of the dead’s final ties to the mortal world. Crossing this threshold would lead them to the “Great Gate.”
However, Duncan realized that these once sacred symbols and rituals tied to the death chanism had lost their significance.
Lifting his gaze towards the horizon, where the deepest part of the night sky stretched overhead, Duncan could discern a massive, indistinct shape looming at the heart of the wilderness.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed other presences for the first ti.
Dressed in black robes, these figures were the “Gatekeepers,” still seemingly bathed in the twilight’s fading glow.
Silent and solemn, the Gatekeepers moved through the vast, desolate wilderness, all converging in the sa direction. Their silent procession resembled a funeral march, each step a testant to the solemnity of their purpose as they navigated the boundless landscape of death.
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