Light of Darkness — Chapter 1: One chance
It had been nearly four thousand years since their battle with the Creator.
The world had grown rapidly.
Humanity made countless mistakes—birthed evil, kindled wars…
And yet, they remained worthy.
Worthy not merely of existence—but of life.
With all its beauty and burdens.
Freedom.
That was what made this world extraordinary.
Freedom of will, freedom of choice, freedom of action—
things the Lords were denied,
yet humans possessed from the moment they were born.
And… love.
The Lord of Darkness saw it in these simple beings.
And perhaps it was love that lay at the root of all freedom.
Love is not logic.
Not duty.
It is the thing that makes people alive.
That drives them to foolishness. To heroism. To change.
He watched.
He studied.
He saw love in action—in deeds, in sacrifice.
But…
He could not understand it.
Perhaps that was the source of their strength… their magic…?
The force that made them truly alive?
He did not know. He could not feel it.
And yet… he chose them.
Humans.
He believed in them—though he could not comprehend how it felt.
Was his rebellion against the Creator a mistake?
Since then, no sign had come from the heavens.
The world the Lord of Darkness had helped free from the Creator’s Will… flourished.
Rifts were rare. But they still appeared.
And the Lords had one mission—to ensure they never opened.
Rifts.
They emerged suddenly—where the fabric of reality grew thin.
Wounds in existence.
Jagged scars linking this world to another.
Through them seeped mana—
primordial energy that filled the world with unseen magic, permeating all things.
The longer a Rift remained open,
the more mana would flood in—
and the faster the world would become a target.
But mana wasn’t the only thing that could pass through the gateway between worlds…
Primitives.
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Foolish, faceless, feral monsters—born of the Rift’s depths.
Like a failed experiment,
created for one purpose alone:
To destroy all life.
They were made to annihilate.
To kill, leaving only chaos in their wake.
And they did it well.
Perhaps too well.
Once they entered a world, only one instinct drove them—to destroy.
They spared no one.
Not humans. Not beasts. Not even themselves.
And when nothing living remained—
when the bloodlust still burned,
and there was no one left to unleash their rage upon—
they turned on each other.
This slaughter had no purpose. No meaning.
And the Creator’s goal—to fill the planet with mana—became impossible.
Mana vanished with the life it clung to,
and without it, the world could not be consumed.
Without sufficient mana, the Creator could not perform the Descent—
the moment he would enter a world, devour its gathered magic,
and leave behind only emptiness.
Such was the fate of hundreds of worlds.
Thousands of civilizations.
To accelerate the process, the Creator gave shape to his Will.
Thus, the Lords were born.
The second instrument.
Perfect.
Sentient. Obedient. Eternal.
Each one a vessel of pure magic and the Creator’s will.
They arrived in worlds,
taking forms familiar to their surroundings—
becoming part of the reality they entered.
They did not bring death.
They did not destroy.
They created.
Wandering the planet, they spread mana safely and efficiently.
They did so because they were made for it.
Without question, they carried the Creator’s Will
from one world to the next.
Such was the fate of hundreds of worlds.
Thousands of civilizations.
But not this one.
Dan—the Lord of Darkness—saw.
He saw life.
He saw freedom.
He saw humanity.
And in that moment, everything changed.
He defied the Will—
and gave Earth a chance.
A right to live.
The other Lords saw it, too.
And they followed the Darkness that carried light.
No longer bound by Will,
the seven Lords were united by desire—
a sincere longing for peace.
They rose against their master.
And at the moment of the Descent, they fought back.
The artifact they had once used to fill the world with mana—
it was no weapon.
It was a sphere.
Smooth, translucent, and seemingly fragile—
yet pulsing with threads of ancient power.
A core of crystallized will, crafted by the Creator himself.
In the beginning, it glowed from within, radiating mana outward like ripples across still water.
Through it, they had breathed magic into the world.
But now… they reversed it.
Standing as one, the seven Lords turned their power inward—
and the sphere obeyed.
Light that once expanded… collapsed.
The threads drew back, retreating into the crystal like dying embers.
Mana drained from the soil, from the sky, from the living vessels it had touched.
It flowed back into the artifact—into silence.
The air grew still.
The world held its breath.
And then… it cracked.
Just once.
A fracture through the core.
The mana was gone.
The Descent stopped.
The sphere dimmed—
and shattered, not in violence,
but in peace.
Ash scattered on the wind.
And the last instrument of the Creator… was no more.
And then… it cracked.
Just once.
The mana was gone.
The sphere dimmed—
and shattered, not in violence,
but in peace.
Ash scattered on the wind.
They had one chance.
And they took it.
