Before Magika knew fear, there drifted beyond the stars a presence older than memory:
Var.
Var was not born of creation, nor bound by it. He was a devourer of worlds — a being who believed existence itself was something to be claimed, broken, and remade in his image.
Where other gods might rule or nurture, Var consumed.
He trusted nothing. Not allies. Not followers. Not even his own creations. To him, all beings were tools or future sacrifices. His arrogance was absolute; he saw mortal life as insects crawling upon soil that would one day belong to him.
When Var discovered Magika, he did not negotiate. He did not threaten.
He declared ownership.
His arrival split the heavens, and from his essence poured corruption — red, seething, and alive. His minions were born from fragments of his will: mindless beasts driven by destruction, and rare cunning horrors that delighted in spreading despair.
Var believed no world could resist him.
He mocked faith. He laughed at unity. He saw Asthedor as a naive guardian clinging to fragile creatures.
But in his pride, Var underestimated sacrifice.
In the final clash, when he was struck down by the combined will of a god and his people, Var did not scream in fear.
He screamed in fury.
Even shattered, his essence seeped into the land. Corruption remains not as mere residue—but as a testament to his stubborn defiance. Some claim that within every crimson mutation, within every blood-twisted monster