VOL 1: The Truth Behind This Festering World

Chapter 1

> “I am not a hero. I am not the chosen one. But that is why… I am the one who has the power to break all pre-established patterns.”

— Ercolash

My name is Ercolash.
And this is not a story about a legend born of light, nor the shining journey of a man with a noble bloodline.
No—this is just a fragment of memory from someone who lived in the dark.
Only when the world began to collapse did I finally understand why I was born.

I come from Daryn—a nameless village forgotten by the world, lying far south of Elternal.
A land where snow falls all year round, winter devours summer, and spring never comes.
There are no nobles, no witches, no kings. Only cold wooden roofs, thin soups, and prayers to gods no one’s ever seen.

My mother once said:

> “Humans are weak creatures, so they need aspirations.”

But I had none.
My father died before I could even call him by name.
My mother worked until her hands grew harder than the hearts of the villagers.
I lived on leftovers, learned from worn-out fairy tales, and slept to the sound of wind screaming through broken rooftops.

If not for the Divine Right, I would’ve died like a nameless corpse, devoured by wolves in the woods.

But Elternal… is a strange world.

“Elternal.”
Even the name sounds like a hymn echoing from an ancient, endless time.
According to legend, this place was once pure void.
No light. No time. Not even the concept of existence.

Until the gods—beings known as the Primordials—laid their hands upon that nothingness.
They didn’t create life with love, but with rules.
They didn’t grant peace, but definition.

They gave the void:

Matter. Time. Space. Light. Darkness. Death. Desire. Concept. Law. Information

Each concept pierced the blank canvas like glittering blades—
And from that, Elternal was born.
A beautiful world, but drenched in chaos.
Ancient Dragons that burrowed to the core of the earth.
Elves ruling endless forests.
Spirits flowing through the rivers of time.
And Goblins—vile beings living off corpses and human blood.

And we—humans—were the weakest of all.

No scales. No natural magic. No divine mind.
We were born to perish.
But because of that, perhaps… the gods took pity.

So they created the Divine Right.

When a human turns eighteen, they are summoned to a place untouched by land or time—
A sacred space that exists between frozen space and motionless time.

On the day I turned eighteen, I awoke in the usual crumbling house.
But something was… off.

The fire didn’t burn.
The wind didn’t blow.
The water didn’t fall.
My mother stood there, smiling softly… but unmoving.
Everything was frozen—except for me.

Then it appeared.
A gate.
Not grand. Not glorious. Just an old stone frame with flickering runes dimming like dying stars.
I stepped through.
Not because I hoped for anything—
But because… there was nothing left to lose.

And I fell.

Into a world of white.

No sky. No ground. No direction.
Only one thing existed:

The Divine Mind.

A great sphere floated in the void, glowing faintly like a winter moon.
It was where all human souls touched the will of the gods.
Once touched, it would grant a blessing—something that would define your fate.

Some received flames.
Some, curses.
Others, eyes that could see into the past.

I didn’t want anything grand.
Just… the ability to live.

I reached out. Touched the sphere.

Then—

Crack.

A sound.
Like something shattering—not from outside, but deep within.

The sphere didn’t shine.
It… trembled.

A small fracture spread from the point where I touched it.
Then the entire white world began to crumble like glass in a storm.

No vision. No sound. Just—falling.

No gravity. No end.
Only a slow descent into eternal black.

Then I heard it.

> “You were not chosen.”

The voice didn’t echo in my ears, but inside my consciousness.
Not cold. Not mocking. Not angry.

Just… empty.

> “But that is why… you get to choose everything.”

I opened my eyes.

I was lying on cold stone.
On my chest—a mark.
A twin spiral surrounding an empty void.
No light. No power. Just… absence.

I received no blessing.
No magic.
No name on the sacred scrolls.

I was... removed from the system.

And yet—

I survived.

But it was not salvation.
It was exile.

When I opened my eyes, I did not find light.
I found a world long abandoned by it.

The air was thick with ash, the ground cracked and scorched, as if the gods had dragged their nails across its skin and left it bleeding black.
It was a dead land. And yet, it moved.

The corpses of things that were once men crawled beneath the soil.
Hollow eyes blinked in the shadows.
And something… whispered.

I stood, barely able to breathe, bones aching, mind reeling.
The mark on my chest pulsed, not with power—but with absence.
As if the world itself refused to acknowledge me.

Then, they came.

From the mist—figures shambled forward. Not fast. Not loud.
But inevitable.

Skin torn. Mouths agape in silent screams. Their arms reached not for flesh, but for something deeper: soul, warmth… existence.

I ran.
I screamed.
I bled.

They caught me.

Teeth sunk into my arm.
Fingers like broken twigs clawed at my ribs.
Pain unlike anything I had known filled every nerve—
not the pain of dying… but the pain of being forgotten.

“Why...?” I gasped, tears mixing with dirt.
“Why are the gods so cruel?
Why give power to the monsters—
and silence to the rest of us?”

In that moment, something ancient stirred.

A whisper not from above, but below.
Cold. Wet. Coiling like smoke in my ears.

> “Ah… such a beautiful question.”

The voice did not thunder.
It slithered.

> “You seek justice?
Or perhaps… revenge?”

“No—leave me alone—!” I screamed, even as the dead tore at my legs.
Even as the blood soaked the ground around me.

But the voice smiled.

I could feel it.

> “I see it. The fire in you. The hate.
You want to tear down the throne of the divine.”

I tried to shut my eyes.
Tried to die.

Then… the vision came.

Not a dream. Not a memory.
Something worse.

I saw my village.

Burning.

I saw my mother—
Her throat slit on the altar of some false god.

I saw the villagers—those I once called kin—
laughing.
Saying:

> “The gods have spoken. A family without blessing is a curse upon us all.”

My mind broke.

They were not punished.
They were not judged.

They were rewarded.

And I? I was cast into the dark like rot.

> “Now,” the voice cooed,
“shall we make a deal?”

A contract appeared before me—etched in bones, dripping with ink blacker than night.
I felt it humming, like a living wound.

> “Give me your soul, Ercolash.
Give me your name.
And I shall give you the power to unmake them all.”

I hesitated.

But hatred…
is heavier than doubt.

And when I saw my mother’s eyes one last time—
pleading, betrayed, dying…

…I signed.

With blood. With silence. With everything I was.

The mark on my chest ignited. But it was not light.

It was shadow, folding inwards, as if consuming my form.

Then—pain.
Not like the dead’s bite, not like a wound.
But like being torn in half from the inside out.

My veins turned cold.
My mind fractured into screams.

And then—there was silence.

[You have made a pact with the Accursed One.]

[New Abilities Unlocked:]

— Curse of the Devouring God —

> All creatures of undeath shall kneel before you. The living will tremble in your gaze. Their sanity will rot. Their blood shall boil, and their screams shall be your hymn.

— Hunger for Power —

> Your desire shall shape reality. The greater your thirst, the stronger you become. You may consume the strength, knowledge, and blessings of any foe you surpass in power.

[Blessing Received: The Undying]

> Death is no longer your end. You shall not decay. You shall not age. You shall return from ruin—so long as even a fragment of will remains.

I rose.

Eyes no longer human.

The undead that had once fed on me now knelt, their bodies twitching in reverence.

I raised my hand.

And the earth… obeyed.

It parted not with grace, but with a howl—like flesh torn from bone.

From the cracked black soil, a gate rose—twisted sinew and bone forged into an arch of screaming skulls. Blood trickled between the crevices like sap from a dying tree. The undead moved aside, obedient and wordless, forming a path through the graveyard of a godless world.

I stepped through.

Not as a boy. Not as the forsaken.

But as something else entirely.

The wind beyond the portal carried a scent I had once known: rain-washed wood, smoke from hearthfires, the distant sweetness of bread.

Home.

But home was not as I left it.

The village stood under a sickly twilight, frozen in a breathless hush. Crows had gathered, silent on rooftops, their eyes gleaming with knowing dread. Children clutched their mothers. Doors closed with trembling fingers. Priests whispered hymns not in reverence—but in fear.

Because they remembered me.

And they knew.

I walked into the square.

My footsteps echoed like the tolling of a funeral bell. Behind me, the dead followed. Not a horde, not a march—but a procession. Silent. Watching.

A child’s voice broke the stillness.

“That’s… him,” she whispered.

The air thickened. The villagers emerged like shadows from hiding. Men with calloused hands. Women with blood-stained aprons. Faces I once smiled at. Laughed with.

They fell to their knees.

Not in prayer. In begging.

“Ercolash… forgive us…”

“We didn’t know…”

“We thought you were cursed!”

Their voices were raw with terror—wet with lies.

I looked at them. At their eyes swollen with guilt now that death had come to collect what they owed.

I remembered their faces as they stood around my burning home.

Their laughter.

Their knives.

Their chants.

> “A child unblessed brings ruin upon us all.”

I remembered the sound my mother made as they dragged her away.

I remembered the silence of the gods as it happened.

And I laughed.

Not with joy.

But with the ache of every bone that had ever been broken, every scream that was ever ignored.

“You ask for mercy,” I said, my voice barely human. “But where was it—when I begged for it?”

They sobbed.

One old man—my former teacher—crawled forward on hands twisted by time.

“You have power now! Please… be better than us. Be kind.”

Kind?

Kindness died the night you slit my mother’s throat.

The undead surged forward, answering my thoughts before my words.

They fell upon the village not like beasts—but like vengeance made flesh. No chaos. No madness.

Just… purpose.

The villagers tried to flee. Some prayed. Others cursed my name.

It did not matter.

Their blood painted the cobblestones red. Their souls screamed, but no heavens opened. Only the sky, weeping ash.

I did not weep.

I watched.

Until the village was still.

Until their voices were gone.

Then, I walked to the edge of the square—where their bodies lay broken. And among them, untouched, lay what remained of my home.

My family.

I stepped forward. The undead followed.

But I raised a hand.

“No,” I said.

“Not them.”

Their bodies were still. Faces peaceful. As if death had offered what life never could.

I knelt beside my mother’s grave. Fingers trembling.

“You are free now,” I whispered. “I won’t drag you into this. Not you. Not ever.”

The ground trembled beneath me.

And I knew…

This was only the beginning.

The gods may sit upon their thrones.

But I—

I have risen from the pit.

And I will show them what true wrath is.