There was silence.
A godless, trembling silence.
After the Annihilation Rite, the world felt... breathless. Not in awe, but in dread. The skies above the Riftlands had stilled, the sun never quite returning to its full light, casting everything in a bruised twilight.
Darius sat upon the Null Throne, neither divine nor mortal. His presence was no longer felt as a wave of power, but as a pressure on existence itself—a weight of inevitability. The realm bent toward him, not in worship, but in gravitational despair.
And still… they dared.
[Eastern Wastes – Rebel Frontline]
Ash and dust filled the air as banners once torn and forgotten rose again. Not of kingdoms. Not of gods.
But of humans.
Mortal players. Rogue AIs. Surviving resistance factions. They came together under one fractured purpose—not to rule. Not to replace. But to erase.
