Long Ago... The War That Shook the Heavens
The sky split open like shattered glass.
Lightning screamed through the clouds. Thunder roared like an angry god. And in that broken sky, a war unfolded—a war that would become legend.
Indra, King of the Devas, soared above the battlefield, his golden armor gleaming with the light of a thousand suns. In his hand, the Vajra pulsed with divine power. With every swing, bolts of lightning tore through the heavens, ripping Asuras from the sky like falling stars.
Beneath him, the battlefield was chaos.
Agni, god of fire, tore through enemy ranks like a living inferno. His footsteps scorched the earth, and his flames turned air itself into ash. Every breath he took was a storm of heat. Every word, a command to burn.
On the other side, oceans rose.
Varuna, lord of the seas, summoned tidal waves with a single gesture. Walls of water crashed onto the battlefield, sweeping away entire legions. The sky wept salt, and the ground drowned beneath it.
The gods were relentless. Divine. Unstoppable.
But so were the Asuras.
Narakaasura stood at their helm, a mountain of muscle and malice. His eyes glowed like molten iron, his armor black as the void between stars. Each swing of his jagged blade sent shockwaves through the heavens. He didn't fight for conquest. He fought for vengeance—for every exile, every betrayal, every god who turned their back on his kind.
They were the children the cosmos abandoned. And now, they had returned to make it bleed.
The war didn't last days or years. It lasted eons. Suns were born and died beneath its shadow. Worlds trembled under the clash of divine wrath and demonic fury.
But in the end... the Devas won.
The Asuras were sealed—locked in prisons buried deep beneath the earth, their souls chained in silence. The gods returned to their thrones, the heavens healed, and the stories faded into myth.
They thought the war was over.
They thought the Asuras would never rise again.
They were wrong.
Eras passed.
The great war between the gods and demons faded, slowly turning to dust. What was once a tale of gods casting down lightning and demons rising from the flames became nothing more than a whisper in the wind—a story passed down through generations, forgotten, then warped by time. The heavens, once trembling from the fury of divine wrath, now lay still and silent. The idea of gods with power to shake the earth, or demons who thrived on destruction, seemed so distant. So impossible.
But beneath the surface, where light could never reach, something stirred.
In the depths of endless deserts, under mountains hollowed by ancient hands, and in the forgotten catacombs beneath the bustling cities—places where no one dared to go—there was movement. The Asuras.
Their bodies had crumbled to dust. Their forms, shattered in that ancient war, were long gone. But their rage? Their fury? It never truly left. It lingered, buried deep in the cracks of the world, like embers long after the fire had died. A hatred so old, so primal, it had become part of the very earth.
As humanity struggled—through endless wars, betrayals, and the heartless erosion of history—those old, forgotten echoes of pain began to rise once again. The suffering of mankind, the violence, the brokenness, fed these echoes, allowing them to grow and change, twisting them into something far darker.
The seals that had kept them buried weakened. And when they finally cracked, the Asuras returned.
They were no longer gods. No longer the towering figures they once were. They had no thrones, no armies. No divine strength or light.
No, they were something far worse.
They were ghosts made flesh.
Monsters born from human pain, suffering, and the anguish of forgotten gods. From broken spirits and unhealed wounds.
These new Asuras didn't need to fight in grand battles. They didn't need to rule kingdoms or scream their names to the heavens. They didn't need to conquer—they simply crept through the shadows, silent and unseen, feeding off the fear of those they found.
And they didn't feed on the blood of gods.
They fed on the blood of humans.
Villages disappeared overnight—gone as if they had never existed. The people? Erased, as though they'd never breathed. Towns were swallowed by the earth itself, leaving behind only the eerie silence of abandoned streets. Children were born, their eyes black as night, possessed by forces that twisted their innocence. Cities, once teeming with life, became graveyards, their walls covered in blood, their streets choked with weeds.
And when the people cried out—when they begged for the heavens to return and save them from this nightmare...
The gods did not answer.
The heavens stayed silent.
The Devas did not come.
They called it "balance." They said humanity had to face its darkness alone now. That divine intervention was no longer their responsibility.
But for those left behind? For the souls caught in the wreckage of their broken world? It didn't feel like balance.
It felt like abandonment.
And in that silence, something new began to stir. Something darker. Something… human.