Empire

The world was not divided by land, nor sea, nor sky. It was divided by power. From the moment of birth, every soul entered the world marked—not by name, nor by blood, but by what they could do. Some opened their eyes bound to the limits of flesh and instinct. Others arrived already carrying something greater—something that bent the rules of existence itself. Strength that shattered stone. Sight that pierced the future. Hands that could summon, shape, command, or destroy. There was no balance to it. No fairness. No reason. There never had been. Across the vast continents, empires rose not from unity, but from dominance. Cities were built in the shadows of those who could not be touched. The land itself did not remain constant—shifting, breaking, reforming under unseen influence. Battles were not decided by numbers alone, but by the presence of individuals who could turn the tide of war in an instant, or end it before it ever truly began. The skies were no safer than the ground below. Reality itself could be torn open, bridging distant places without warning. Things not meant for this world could be brought into it—and once there, they did not always leave. The dead did not always remain still, and the living could lose not just their lives, but their will, their thoughts, their very selves. And still, despite it all, the world endured. Forests rose and spread under unseen command. Wars were shaped by those who knew what was coming long before it arrived. Entire cities could fall into silence without a single visible cause. And somewhere, among all of it—among the unstoppable and the untouchable—were those with nothing at all, forced to survive in a world that had given them no advantage. No protection. No mercy. This was not a world shaped by justice. It was a world shaped by those who had the power to shape it.