Amid the light of a starry sea beneath an eternal night sky, upon ground of lifeless rock and pale gray dust, stood the ruins of a magnificent Gothic castle. Its tallest spires once reached so high they seemed to grasp the stars themselves.
It was a castle abandoned for a thousand years. The mythical castle on the moon, where the demon race once dwelled, now lay dormant after their forces were annihilated by the Hero of Legend.
Within that castle, at the peak of its highest spire, rested a grand council chamber. Thirteen thrones stood within, all empty and coated in thick layers of moon dust. Eight were meant for counts and countesses, four for demon princes and princesses, and the final throne, the greatest and most imposing of all, belonged to their one true king.
The chamber was meant to remain empty.
But not tonight.
On three of the eight thrones of the counts and countesses, the moon dust that had gathered for an entire month began to stir, swirling and condensing into silhouettes of beings whose power had long outlived mortality itself.
The first to shed its shadowy veil was Itztla, The Count of Winter and Misery. Upon a throne buried beneath pale white snow sat a towering Jötunn, clad in knightly armor forged entirely of solid ice. A gigantic obsidian greatsword rested upon his shoulder like a slumbering beast. An aura of absolute cold and despair surrounded him, devouring all warmth, even that within the human heart.
The second manifested in radiant brilliance, her presence shining like a midnight sun. Jezebel, known across a million tongues as The False Prophet and Countess of Lies, reclined upon her throne. She bore the form of a beautiful angel clad in golden armor, holy and unholy in equal measure. Her armor radiated such blinding light that merely glancing at her was enough to scorch mortal eyes.
The third and final presence emerged in grotesque silence.
A writhing mass of machinery and flesh assembled itself upon a throne. Gears and cogs fused crudely with blood and sinew, forming an abomination known only as The Failed Prototype. It sat like an unsolved puzzle beyond human comprehension, millions of tendrils twitching and coiling aimlessly, a mockery of both life and design.
The moon had awakened its monsters once more.
---
"Never thought we would meet again, Jezebel… Proto." Itztla, the Jötunn, spoke at last. His voice was as cold as arctic ice, yet heavy with regret and nostalgia.
"It may be a trap." Jezebel replied, her tone soft, measured, and sharp beneath the silk. "Did you not notice how casually that man walked past and pressed the release mechanism of our prison?"
"Probability of coincidence… calculating…" The Failed Prototype paused, gears whining and flesh twitching. "Zero percent."
"So even the clever one agrees." Itztla murmured, doubt carving deep lines into his frozen features.
"Then it truly is a trap…" He straightened, frost cracking along his armor as his presence swelled like colliding glaciers. "But freeing our brethren and resurrecting His Majesty remains our highest priority."
"Yes" Jezebel answered, wings of light flickering faintly. "But we must move carefully. Our mere existence is likely already ringing alarm bells. So, Proto, what do you suggest?"
The mass of meat and machinery rumbled. From one of its many mouths, a wet, metallic voice spilled forth.
"We should first sow dissidence among the enemy."
And so, the demon race returned to the stage of history, not with a thunderous invasion or a cataclysmic war horn, but because of one clueless man who pressed a button without knowing.
---
Meanwhile, in the Capital City.
Near the Noble District stood the Magic Academy, a colossal structure shaped like a six-pointed star fortress. Each point represented one of the six recognized schools of magic, and at the very center rose an ancient stone tower, so tall it seemed to claw at the sky itself.
That tower was home to the Seventh School of Magic.
A discipline that, by all conventional doctrine, should not exist.
"Divinism" A magic practiced by mortals arrogant or desperate enough to imitate a fragment of divinity.
At the summit of the ancient tower rested an old observatory. Its massive telescope pierced the night, drinking in the starry sea in its full splendor. Yet the lens was not fixed upon the heavens at random. Its gaze was locked onto one of the twin moons.
"There is movement at the castle." said a man in white robes, his voice calm but tight, eyes never leaving the telescope. "Just as the prophecy foretold."
"Concerning." replied another robed figure, standing beside a crystal ball at the center of the room. "But panic is premature. The hero candidate is still honing her skills."
The crystal ball glimmered faintly, its surface rippling like water as it projected a living image.
An adventuring party lay at the foot of a mountain of monster corpses, the pile rising as high as the tallest ancient oak. A tank, a cleric, a mage, and an archer were sprawled across the blood-soaked ground, clinging to life by the thinnest thread.
They were at death's door.
One member, however, stood untouched atop the mountain peak.
Her long, silk-like pink hair streamed violently in the mountain wind, yet not a single strand seemed out of place. Rather than disheveled, she looked majestic, like a banner raised in defiance. Her azure eyes held no fear, no hesitation.
Her battle was far from over.
In a blink, a chimera lunged at her, jaws wide. A monstrous fusion of lion's body, bat's wings, and a serpent's tail.
In that same blink, the beast was cleaved in two.
The holy sword in her grasp passed through flesh and bone as effortlessly as a hot knife through butter. Blood sprayed across her armor, only to hiss and evaporate instantly as the enchantments upon it purified every trace of filth.
Without pause, she turned to her next foe.
A medusa.
She closed her eyes and lunged forward.
The ensuing explosion of gore and severed limbs made one of the white-robed men recoil. He snapped his hand through the air, dispelling the vision. The crystal ball went dark.
"I have seen enough for today." he said calmly, though his jaw was clenched.
"Did she pass your evaluation as a candidate?" another asked.
"Her combat ability is unquestionable." he replied. "Her mental state, however, is… dubious at best."
"But she is the best we have." a third voice pressed.
The man in white was silent for a moment, staring at the now-opaque crystal.
"Yes" he said at last, his tone heavy with unspoken unease. "She is."
---
Meanwhile, at the Oakenville Adventurer's guild
"Ninety-eight… ninety-nine… one hundred! Hooray!"
There was Rise, our protagonist, blissfully unaware of world-shaking prophecies, demon councils, and heroic evaluations. He sat at a corner table, carefully counting the coins he had just won from a bet.
The cause of his sudden wealth?
His disciple had just dueled some random bald man and won.