In the First Age, when the world was still young, mankind stood at the brink of extinction.
We were wanderers then—scattered tribes clawing for survival in a land ruled by terror. The night belonged to demons. Crops withered beneath cursed skies, and entire villages vanished without trace. Those who survived spoke of horned kings and shadowed beasts who demanded tribute of blood and flesh.
There was no peace. Only endurance.
At last, the gods answered our prayers.
Fire was gifted to us—not merely flame, but the sacred art of forging. Steel followed. With it came walls, banners, and the first true kingdoms. Where once we hid, we now stood.
The demons did not welcome our rise.
They descended upon our settlements in wrath, seeking to reclaim dominion over what they had long enslaved. Cities burned. Rivers ran red. Humanity learned that mercy was a luxury we could not afford.
Thus the war was not a conquest, but a defense.
Heroes rose from among us—kings, saints, and champions blessed with holy light. They drove the demons back into their corrupted lands, sealing rifts, breaking dark thrones, and cleansing the world of abominations that threatened all mortal life.
The cost was terrible, but necessary.
When the war ended, mankind stood united for the first time in history. The demons were broken, their power shattered, their numbers reduced to whispers and superstition.
Peace was earned with blood.
And if history remembers us as conquerors, so be it.
For had we not fought, there would be no one left to remember anything at all.