Before this world, there were monsters, and before there were monsters, there was emptiness, and there were masters who were in eternal war that lasted for millions of years. To resolve this bloody conflict, they divided the world according to their strength. The master of the monsters put some of his strength in the ring of the monsters to be used by the king of the monsters, and the master of fire, he put some of his strength for the king of fire and thunder as well, and the lady of the regime as well, but the master of chaos knew that if he put some of his strength, everyone would betray him and kill him in order not to send the army of shadows to kill them, so he put his full strength in the hope of finding a good vessel. After completing the measures for the rings, everyone killed the chaos, thinking that it was over, but the era of destruction, chaos and ruin on the way.
The raiders had been dealt with, their leader bound in chains forged from the same shadows Alric now commanded. The villagers, though still wary, looked upon him with something they had long forgotten—hope. But as Alric stood amidst the smoldering ruins of the settlement, the ring on his finger pulsed again, not with power, but with warning.
A cold wind swept through the valley, carrying with it the scent of ash and something older—something wrong. The villagers shuddered, their eyes darting nervously toward the horizon. Alric followed their gaze.
There, standing atop a jagged outcrop, was a figure draped in tattered robes, its face hidden beneath a hood. It did not move. It did not breathe. It simply watched.
And then, it spoke.
"Bearer of the Will… do you know what you carry?"
The voice was not one voice, but many—whispers layered upon whispers, some screaming, some weeping. It was the sound of a storm given speech.
Alric's grip tightened on his sword. He had faced raiders, beasts, and the horrors of the World of Shadows—but this was different. This was not mortal.
"The masters thought they had won," the figure continued, stepping forward without sound. "They carved the world into pieces, thinking their rings would bring order. But Chaos was never meant to be contained."
The villagers fled, their cries swallowed by the unnatural silence that had fallen. Alric stood his ground, shadows coiling around him like serpents ready to strike.
"The rings were never just gifts," the figure rasped. "They were anchors. Chains meant to bind the world to the will of the masters. But the Master of Chaos… he did not chain himself. He unmade himself. And now, his will seeks a vessel."
The figure raised a skeletal hand, pointing at Alric's ring.
"You carry the last remnant of the kings' power. But you also carry the key to his return."
Alric's blood ran cold. The Will of the Kings had been his strength, his birthright—but now, he wondered if it had ever truly been his at all.
The figure tilted its head, as if listening to something only it could hear. Then, with a voice like crumbling stone, it whispered:
"The Echoes are coming, Bearer. And they will tear the world apart to find you."
With that, the figure dissolved into smoke, leaving Alric alone with the weight of an impossible truth.
The war he had returned to stop was only the beginning.
The true battle had yet to come.
Alric had thought his fight was against mortal men—raiders, warlords, the remnants of a broken empire. But now, he understood. The wars, the ruin, the slow decay of his homeland—it was all the work of something far older.
The rings were not just symbols of power. They were bait.
The Master of Chaos had not been destroyed. He had been waiting.
And now, with Alric's return, the final game had begun.