It began half a century ago. Perhaps longer. Time no longer behaved with consistency, and the world no longer kept an even rhythm. Moments stretched or collapsed without warning, making it impossible for historians to agree on when anything truly happened. Some scholars argued that time itself fractured the instant Ether began to fade. Others believed the fractures came later when the final reservoirs were depleted. The only certainty was that the world had been unraveling for far longer than most people realized.
Before its decline, Ether governed all living things. It was not simply an energy but the very breath of the planet. Every living creature contained Ether in its cells, and every forest, river, and mountain carried a trace of it. The ancient philosophers often compared Ether to Holy energy, describing it as a pure, renewing force that strengthened life and allowed the world to flourish. To wield Ether required respect for it. Only those who learned to resonate with its natural flow could shape it.
The earliest wielders understood that Ether could not be taken by force. Instead, it responded to harmony. A healer, for example, would rely on Ether that attuned itself to the intention of restoring balance. An elemental mage would draw Ether through breath and mental clarity rather than focus and intention. Cities once thrived under these principles, and the world enjoyed an age of peace that lasted far longer than recorded history.
However as humanity evolved, it changed the equation. Ambition grew faster than wisdom, and people spread across continents in numbers never seen before. New settlements erased old forests. Rivers were redirected to sustain growing populations. Mining operations cracked open mountains in search of rare minerals. Ether continued to flow, but the planet's natural rhythm fell out of balance. The more Ether that was used without understanding or restraint, the thinner it became. The river became a stream, then a trickle, then isolated droplets scattered across the exhausted land.
The moment the final drop of Ether was consumed marked a turning point that none could reverse. Creatures that depended on Ether for survival could no longer sustain themselves. Most of these species faded from existence within a single generation. Others mutated into twisted forms, their bodies forced to adapt to a world devoid of the essence that once sustained them. These distorted beings came to be known as Monsters.
Humanity survived, although by the narrowest margin. Without Ether, society collapsed. Entire nations crumbled as disease, hunger, and chaos spread. People who had once shaped Ether with skill could no longer rely on it. Desperation pushed humanity toward innovation, and they poured all remaining resources into finding a substitute.
That substitute was Aether.
The capital city, once a place of art and Etheric study, transformed into a colossal laboratory. Towers of glass and steel rose beside the ruins of old temples. Researchers worked without rest, searching for a replacement for the vanished life force. Their breakthrough came in the realization that Monsters, despite their mutated forms, still carried a faint remnant of Ether within them. This Ether allowed them to live for centuries and perform feats of unnatural strength and resilience.
Humans discovered that the lifespan of these creatures could be converted into Aether. Aether was similar to Ether in appearance, but its nature was entirely different. It did not come from the world's life cycle but from the time stolen directly from Monsters. The process of harvesting Aether required tools that could confine these creatures, and thus the first Satchels were created. These devices trapped Monsters within artificial pocket spaces and siphoned their lifespan slowly. In exchange, humans gained power, strength, and the ability to perform supernatural feats.
Villages rebuilt. Cities survived. Hunters returned to the wilderness with Satchels and weapons crafted from Aether infused metals. Children were raised believing the practice was necessary. Adults knew the truth but rarely admitted it. Monsters, on the other hand, understood everything. They saw the practice for what it was. Enslavement.
As the number of known Monster species grew, humanity sought a system to classify them. The Reaver Scale was developed to measure danger, strength, and difficulty of capture. Each rank carried a single name that represented a significant threshold of power.
Kappa were the least threatening and often captured with little resistance. Mora creatures displayed minor magical traits. Veld monsters relied on speed or striking patterns. Orin creatures possessed specialized adaptations. Fayde displayed unpredictable behavior. Ravik creatures were cunning and capable of ambush tactics. Noctin monsters lived in darkness and were feared for their eerie silence. Hallow creatures exhibited warped powers that defied the natural laws of Ether that once existed. Umbral creatures were rare and considered calamities if allowed to roam freely.
Then came the final category. Shinju.
A Shinju was classified not by strength but by the impossibility of classification. Any instrument designed to read life force, Ether remnants, physical metrics, or even simple body heat would fail when pointed at a Shinju. They returned no measurable presence. At first, researchers believed this was because they existed on a different scale entirely. The truth emerged only after decades of study.
Shinju were unreadable because their intelligence disrupted the very tools used to measure them. Their minds operated on levels that exceeded human understanding. Their actions were deliberate, calculated, and strategic. Every motion served a purpose. They learned quickly. They adapted even faster. A fully matured Shinju could observe an entire civilization and determine how to dismantle it piece by piece.
Fortunately for humanity, the Shinju they captured were young. Their minds had not yet fully developed. Even so, containment required environments carefully designed to suppress growth. Each Shinju was placed into a personalized prison disguised as a harmless location. These containment fields did not simply trap their bodies but also interfered with memory formation and cognitive awareness.
Wendell's prison had been crafted to look like an ordinary bar.
It sat alone in a forgotten region, surrounded by dust, wind and silence. To any passerby, it appeared abandoned, old, and utterly unimportant. But every wall, every stool, every beam of wood carried subtle runes and suppression threads woven through it. These threads dulled Wendell's thoughts, interrupted his memories, and prevented his natural intelligence from blossoming.
Then the containment field broke.
There were no alarms. No signals sent to the capital. No officials rushing to secure the site. The failure was silent. Wendell simply woke on the bar floor with the remnants of suppression still clinging to his senses.
He rubbed his one remaining eye. The other eye had been lost long ago, though the reason escaped him. His hand moved without thought, following a habit formed during years he could not remember. His body resembled a human form, but something about it was subtly incorrect. Too still. Too balanced. Too deliberate.
He pushed himself upright slowly. The room blurred before snapping into focus. The wooden planks beneath him creaked. Dust drifted through the dull yellow light above him. The air tasted like stale ale and secrecy. He recognized everything and nothing at the same time.
The bar was familiar because it had been his entire world. Yet as the suppression faded, the bar no longer felt like a home. It felt like a cage.
Someone stood in front of him.
A woman.
Her presence struck him like a ringing bell. He stared, unable to move. Recognition stirred in him with a force that nearly bent his knees. Her face held something he had forgotten yet longed for. Her hair, her posture, the shape of her eyes. Each detail sparked embers in the fog of his fractured memory.
He felt something rising within him. A familiar warmth, the kind he had not felt since before the suppression took hold. The sensation shook something loose inside his mind.
A name surfaced.
Lillian.
The moment her name formed in his thoughts, a memory snapped into place. For the first time since the containment failed, Wendell felt something he had not felt in decades.
He remembered her.
And as the memory grew clearer, the world around him shifted. The prison was failing. His mind was waking up. The fog was lifting.
Slowly but surely recalling his past.