In an age before time, when the world was cloaked in fog and the land stood unshaped, there were no gods, no flame—only the ancient dragons and the great, gray archtrees. But then the First Flame sparked into being, and with it came disparity: light and dark, heat and cold, life and death. From the shadows, four figures emerged and took the Souls of Lords, overthrowing the dragons and kindling the Age of Fire. But fire is fleeting, and as it faded, so too did the strength of those who once ruled. Into this dying world steps an Undead, cursed to endlessly resurrect, drawn to a kingdom where the gods lie forgotten, and the halls of sunlight are held up by illusion. There, in shattered ruins and haunted depths, they face demons, dragons, and the hollowed remains of legends, all leading to a final choice — to sacrifice everything and keep the flame alive, or let it fade and usher in a new dark. Yet the curse endures, and in a land distant in both time and memory, the fire’s echo persists. Here, the soul itself is fragile — names vanish, identities erode, and kingdoms fall beneath the weight of forgotten wars. Thrones lie empty, and rulers sit as little more than shadows of themselves, lost to ambition and time. The flame flickers once more, and again the cycle stirs. When the world teeters at the edge of ruin, and even the Lords who once upheld the flame refuse their calling, something lesser stirs in the ash — not a hero, but something unkindled, something defiant. In a realm where timelines blur and every step treads on the graves of ages past, kingdoms collapse into one another, and familiar horrors return in distorted forms. Here, you do not fight for hope, nor for glory, but because to stop is to fade. You rise not because you were chosen, but because you refuse to fall. This is a tale not of victory, but of perseverance — of fire stolen, fire lost, and fire reborn. In a world where even death has forgotten its finality, your journey is a spark in the dark, a defiance against oblivion, and a whisper that perhaps, just perhaps, the cycle might one day break. But until then, you press on — sword in hand, ember in heart.