Prologue: The Seed and the Shattering
When the world teetered on the jagged edge of extinction, a miracle descended. From the dying heavens, an unknown God planted a seed in the heart of the world. A Great Tree erupted from the scorched earth, its glowing roots seeking to mend what was broken and revive the spirit of life.
But salvation came with a price. Nine kingdoms bathed the roots of the Tree in blood, fighting for the divine right to rule the land. In the wake of their violence, the world did not heal—it shattered. The earth fractured into five distinct pieces, an endless abyss surrounded by the Eternal Depth of the Void.
At the center stood the Country of Light, the victor of the Great War, nestled directly beneath the canopy of the Tree. Unlike the fractured lands around it, the Country of Light remained a solid, sprawling bastion of life—rich in mineral springs, crystalline waters, and eternal harvest. To ensure their reign would never be challenged, the victors established four guardian territories on the floating fragments of the old world, binding them to the center with massive, clanking iron chains that bridged the clouds:
* East: Noxid
* West: Kraven
* North: Varga
* South: Shya
The common folk of the Light lived in blissful ignorance, believing their world was the only one that remained. They looked at the Void and saw only a holy cleansing fire—a place where the "impurities" of the world simply ceased to exist. They did not know that for centuries, their leaders had used the abyss as a silent graveyard, or that the "end" was actually a beginning for something much darker.
Chapter 1: The Weight of Light
The sun in the Country of Light didn't just shine; it embraced. It filtered through the translucent leaves of the Great Tree, painting the marble streets in the color of a faded memory. To the people here, the edge of the world wasn't a cliff—it was the hem of God's robe.
Fourteen-year-old Shura Arin was a "storm-child." He was all sharp elbows and loud laughs, a boy who lived in the friction between the polished streets and his own restless spirit. He spent his days dodging fruit sellers and "roaring" at the stoic guards, his heart beating a rhythm that felt too fast for this slow, golden paradise.
"Shura! Stop pestering the world and come back to me!"
The voice was his anchor. Ruka Arin stood by the well, her face framed by the soft glow of the mineral-rich mist. When she looked at Shura, it wasn't with the judgment of the city, but with a quiet, fierce pride.
"I was just checking if they were awake, Mother," Shura grinned, skidding to her side. He grabbed the heavy water jugs, but as his hands brushed hers, a familiar hum vibrated in his chest.
It was a pulse. A secret song that only he seemed to hear. He didn't know the word Viora; he only knew that when he touched the earth, he felt the world breathing. And lately, the breath felt... heavy.
"Mother," he whispered, his playful mask slipping. "Do you ever feel like the ground is holding its breath? Like there's a heartbeat coming from the abyss?"
Ruka's smile faltered, replaced by a shadow of genuine fear. She reached out, her fingers trembling as she tucked a stray hair behind his ear. "Hush, my love. The Void is silence. It is where the Goddess Aurlin protects us from the dark. To look down is to lose your soul. Please... just stay in the light."
The Shattering
The Day of Offering was supposed to be a celebration of gratitude. One hundred citizens "ascended" to the Goddess to pay the price for the country's eternal spring. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine and the hypnotic drone of the High Priest's chanting.
But as the chosen hundred stepped toward the shimmering veil, Shura didn't feel peace. He felt a scream.
The Viora in his blood didn't hum; it shrieked. It wasn't a holy disappearance—it was a cold, violent theft.
"Stop it!" Shura's voice broke the sacred silence, raw and jagged. "It's a lie! They aren't going to her! They're just... falling! I can feel them dying!"
The music died. The city of gold turned to stone. The neighbors who had laughed at his jokes yesterday looked at him now with eyes full of a terrifying, religious hatred. In their eyes, Shura wasn't a boy anymore; he was a crack in their perfect glass world.
The Edge of Everything
The march to the cliff was silent, save for the rattle of chains. Shura looked back once, searching for his mother. He saw her held back by the crowd, her face a mask of devastated agony, her lips moving in a prayer that the Goddess wasn't answering.
At the edge of the Great Fall, where the white mists swirled like a hungry ghost, a Holy Guard gripped Shura's shoulder. The metal was cold, but the voice that came from behind the visor was a frantic, low rasp.
"Don't look at the sky, Shura," the guard whispered, his hand tightening not in malice, but in a desperate warning. "The Light has blinded them, but you... you can see the truth. You are not falling into nothingness."
Shura looked up, his eyes burning with tears he refused to let fall. "Why is it so cold?"
"Listen to the hum in your chest," the guard urged, giving him a small, secret nudge toward the abyss. "Don't fight the air. Flow with it. Let the Viora wake you up. If you survive... find the heart of the world."
With a sudden, violent shove, the guard cast him off.
The golden spires vanished. The green fields became a blur. But the loudest sound wasn't the wind—it was his mother's distant, heartbroken scream, a thin thread of love being snapped by the weight of the world.
Shura Arin was no longer a child of the light. He was a stone cast into the dark, falling toward a secret world of bone and shadow, where the only thing left to guide him was the heartbeat of the earth he had felt all along.