Magic—at its purest, Mana—is not a gift.
It is a force that seeps through every living thing, waiting to be taken. And humanity, as it always does, learned to take it.
From that theft, Magic was born.
All of mankind now clings to a single vast continent—the Great Land—divided between four great kingdoms and the lesser nations caught between them. For five hundred years, those kingdoms bled the world dry, warring for dominance, for control, for the right to decide what survived.
And peace did not come from wisdom. It came from power.
The South-Land's Monarchs rose without equal—mages so far beyond the rest that resistance became meaningless. At their head stood the Mage Emperor, a figure who did not end the war so much as silence it.
And so, the world was forced into peace.
A fragile thing. Celebrated. Enforced.
Built on ash, and whatever was left buried beneath it.
At their head stood the Mage Emperor, a figure whose power and authority brought the warring nations to heel.
With their arrival, the war finally came to an end, and the Great Land was left in a fragile state of peace—a peace that, though celebrated, carried whispers of old grudges and the ever-present shadow of what had been fought for and lost.