The Underworld, a realm of eternal twilight, where souls drift like autumn leaves upon the river of time. Here, among the countless lost and forgotten, one soul stood apart—Tiresias, the Seer, the Prophet, one of the incarnation of Hephaestus himself.
He stood at the edge of the River Styx, watching the blackened waters coil and shift like restless serpents. The currents carried whispers, echoes of lives past and yet to come. But tonight, something was different. Something wrong.
A great tremor rippled through the fabric of the Underworld, and Tiresias staggered. His vision blurred as an unseen force seized his mind, wrenching him into a sight beyond mortal comprehension.
Seven fragments—not of this world—came crashing through the boundaries of existence. Their arrival was a scar upon fate itself, their descent heralding an age of upheaval. They shattered as they fell, embedding themselves into the very bones of reality.
The world cheered as it devoured the fragments, making itself grew.
And then, the prophecy poured from his lips, spoken by a voice not entirely his own:
"The tides of fate have broken, and a storm unlike any before shall rise.
The Ancient Sea God shall awaken from his slumber, and his wrath shall shake the very foundation of Olympus.
From the ashes of time from another world, dragons shall be born, their wings casting shadows upon the heavens.
The God Realm shall descend, and the divine shall no longer walk among mortals, unseen and unknowable.
The Underworld shall grow, stretching its hands into the world of the living, for the cycle of souls has been forever changed.
A Realm of Elements shall be born, where fire, wind, earth, and water shall shape a world unseen by gods and men alike.
The Stars shall come alive, weaving their forgotten magic into the threads of fate, igniting a wave of power unseen since the dawn of creation.
And at last... the Way to Godhood shall open for mortals, for the barriers between divinity and humanity shall crumble."
As the last words left his lips, the very air trembled. The souls of the dead, once drifting aimlessly, now twisted and writhed. The river of Styx roared, rising in a great surge, as though the very essence of the Underworld had heard and feared his words.
Tiresias gasped, his vision clearing, but the weight of what he had seen pressed upon his soul. This was not a warning of distant doom—it was beginning now.
The world would never be the same again.