From the Codex of Realms, Volume I: The Shattering of the Veil
When the Worlds Stirred
Long before the academies, before the ministries of magic and the councils of metahuman law, the world slumbered under the illusion of singularity. Yet beneath that calm surface lay fractures—threads of power woven through centuries. Sages of antiquity wrote that the heavens were never content with one realm alone. The mortal plane, the Mystic Domain, and the Dark Dimension drifted like great continents on the cosmic sea, each aware of the others through faint tremors and forgotten myths.
It was said that the first breach occurred not through war or wickedness but through curiosity. A young mystic, name lost to corrosion and time, tampered with a spell meant to glimpse the past. Instead, he tore a pinhole into the Dark Dimension, a realm of shifting voids and ancient hunger. From this fissure seeped whispers—shadows that slithered between dreams, marking the beginning of the age historians later called The Stirring.
In the mortal world, children of strange gifts began to appear in greater number. Some could bend lightning as if it were thread; others touched the invisible rivers of magic with ease. A scholar of the time noted, "The realms draw closer. Their children feel each other's breath." None yet understood that this convergence was no accident but an omen.
For deep within the Dark Dimension, something long-entombed began to rouse.
Across the churning plains of the Dark Dimension, where landscapes shift like oil upon water, lay the citadel of Noctyrix—an edifice older than recorded history. It was there that the entity later called the Dark Lord awoke. His name, erased from every surviving tablet, was once spoken with reverence by a civilization that sought immortality through forbidden arts. They achieved eternity, though not as they wished: they became his first minions, mindless shades bound to his will.
As the realms inched closer, the Dark Lord felt life throbbing beyond the veil. Metahuman sparks, mystic auras, and the vibrant pulse of unclaimed souls. To him, it was a banquet. His legions rose in answer—twisted forms shaped by the swirling void: spectral hounds that moved in packs, winged shadows that drifted without wind, and armored war-drones forged from living darkstone. They hungered for the day the veil would thin enough for invasion.
Yet, in the annals of history, darkness never moved unchecked. The Mystic Domain sensed the awakening. Its Oracles, with eyes reflecting starless nights, saw visions of fire and collapse. They sought alliances, dispatching envoys to the mortal plane to warn emerging gifted communities. One of these envoys recorded the chilling prophecy: "When the Dark Lord's gaze falls upon the mortal world, the young shall bear the burden of salvation."
And so preparations began—quiet, desperate, hopeful.
In those days of rising dread, a conclave of elders—mystics, scientists, guardians of ancient bloodlines—gathered atop Mount Helion. After days of debate, one decision emerged: the realms would need champions not bound by old rivalries. A sanctuary must be built, a place where metahumans and mystics could train together, united for the first time in history.
Thus, Mystic Heights Academy was founded.
It rose from stone blessed by Elven druids, reinforced with alloys crafted by metahuman technologists. Its halls echoed with chant and thunder; its classrooms blended arcane wisdom with cutting-edge science. Here, students of every lineage learned to wield their gifts not as weapons of pride but as shields against an encroaching darkness.
Yet few knew the true purpose behind the academy's creation. Buried in the founder's sealed manuscripts is a single line:
"We do not prepare them for possibility, but for certainty."
For the Dark Lord had already marked the young as the greatest threat to his return—and the most desirable instruments should they fall into corruption.
And so the stage was set.
Light gathering in fragile hands.
Shadow stretching from a distant realm.
A trembling veil between them, thinning with each passing dawn.
The story of this age begins not with triumph, but with a warning.