Within the vast emptiness, an echo reverberated—the sound of Chaos rending itself asunder, a sound that seemed both instant and eternal.
Pangu, the enigmatic giant out of the East, hefted his bronze axe, an artifact seemingly forged with the cosmos itself. The axe blade cleaved Chaos, sundering the clear from the turbid. Amidst the Maelstrom of creation, a new world took form: Azkadilon, the continent, and the Chaos Abyss, its boundless ocean. Upon the nascent land, primal energies—the life-breath later known as Qi—surged like unseen rivers, nurturing infinite vitality yet simmering with a chaotic power potent enough to confound even the gods.
Yet, the scent of this nativity, raw and potent, drew covetous eyes from beyond.
From the abyss, the colossal Behemoth bellowed, a thunderous tremor shaking the void. Its bulk crashed against newborn stars as it lunged, jaws wide to devour the land brimming with primal power. Pangu's great axe swept wide, shearing through the behemoth's thick hide as if it were parchment. Molten ichor erupted, cooling swiftly in the cosmic winds to become the first rugged, smoke-wreathed mountains upon the continent.
Then, tearing through the very fabric of dimensions, three mighty presences descended upon the new world! They arrived not alone, but attended by the hosts of their respective domains—countless fervent followers, celestial warriors, spectral legions—a formidable vanguard aiming for conquest.
Thunder split the western void as Zeus, astride his Olympian chariot, surveyed the fertile land below, his eyes alight with avarice. His spear erupted into a thousand javelins of lightning, hurtling towards Pangu's unguarded back. "Yield this world to Olympus, Eastern interloper!"
Without turning, Pangu snatched the mightiest bolt from the air as one might grasp a thrashing serpent, and crushed it within his hand! Its scattered energies surged into the firmament above Azkadilon, coalescing into the first undying star, its piercing radiance the first true light to defy the Chaos.
The northern wind howled; flanked by ice giants, Odin's face was shrouded in the shadow of war. His gaze fixed on the burgeoning World Tree, desiring to bind it to the realm of Asgard. His dread spear, Gungnir, radiating a soul-freezing chill, leveled at Pangu's brow. "This nascent cosmic axis shall be bound to my realm!"
Pangu roared, his axe meeting the spear in a clash that cracked the void and echoed like shattering stars! Primordial energies of ice and fire collided, annihilating each other in a blinding flash! Yet, empowered by the force that sundered Chaos, the axe tip found its mark, striking deep into Odin's left eye! Odin screamed in agony, his left eye instantly voided by chaotic emerald light. But spear-shards, splintered in the impact, scored Pangu's chest. His divine blood rained down, instantly nurturing the seedling World Tree—Ignis, bridge between realms—spurring it to grow at an impossible speed!
From the Empyrean heights, suffused with holy light and veiled by myriad angelic wings, the voice of God resonated like final judgment, majestic yet dispassionate: "This realm of shadow shall know Our light. All that dwells within requires salvation." A holy sword, embodying absolute Order, struck silently towards the seedling World Tree.
The haft of Pangu's axe swept out, bronze light flaring to repel the holy blade. Seizing the moment, Ignis surged, its roots plunging into the molten heart of the world, its canopy soaring to pierce the thirty-three heavens, momentarily sealing off the Empyrean pressure.
"Blasphemy!" "Heresy!" "Surrender this world!"
The masters of the three invading pantheons roared as one. From Olympus, Asgard, and the Heavens, their legions poured forth—gods, Einherjar, angels—a tripartite flood of divine might crashing down upon Pangu! This clash, terrible and foundational, would forever be seared into the memory of Azkadilon's later inhabitants, whispered in fear as the "First Divine Crusade upon the East."
Meanwhile, fissures split the bedrock at Ignis's roots, infernal portals from which the shadowed forms of Satan and Hades emerged, bearing the stench of sulfur and the grave. Lured by the scent of cosmic battle and imminent death, countless demons and restless dead clawed their way forth, eager as hyenas to join the fray and claim their share of the ravaged world.
Pangu stood besieged, assailed by the combined might of heavens and hells!
He fought like an immortal war god, each swing of his axe trembling the firmament! His axe shattered the spectral barques crossing the Styx, then shore the great serpent Leviathan asunder as it sought to coil around Ignis's roots; his axe blow scattered the hundred heads of Typhon, the dragon's pestilential storms dissolving before the blade, its immense, writhing corpse then hurled like a thunderbolt to crash against the shimmering walls of Valhalla; with bare hands, he seized the fallen sword of Lucifer—that blade of rebellion forged from primordial light—letting his own divine blood flow over its edge, quenching not only the infernal fire but the very pride of Hell's Prince! Lucifer watched, aghast, as the blade began to shimmer, its essence irrevocably merging, assimilated by the heat and sacred ichor of Pangu!
The battle raged, impossibly fierce. Divine and demonic blood stained the Chaos Abyss, while the newborn continent of Azkadilon groaned, riddled with fissures from the terrifying collision of cosmic powers.
Pangu, though valiant, fought against overwhelming odds. After epochs of struggle, weariness began to set in. He saw the fragile new lives, the first mortals born upon the scarred earth, wailing beneath the boots of invading gods and demons. He saw them treated as chattel: harvested as 'divine sustenance' by Zeus's vassals, chained by lightning and hung in the clouds to have their life force drained; reaped as 'soul-kindling' by Hades's specters, netted from primordial rivers and ferried towards the gloom; offered as 'blood tithes' upon profane altars by Satan's cultists…
"Enough—"
Pangu's roar seemed to still time itself! Fatigue etched his features, but his eyes burned with the fierce resolve of a creator defending his creation! He made his final, terrible choice!
He ceased his assault. Instead, with grim resolve, he plunged his bronze axe—now soaked in the ichor of gods and demons, its edge cracked and weeping energy—deep into the heartwood of Ignis, the World Tree that had become entwined with his own life force, already showing the first signs of fading!
Crack—!
Fractures spiderwebbed across the axe's surface instantly! Pangu unleashed a final, cataclysmic surge of power, sacrificing both himself and his world-shaping tool!
An indescribable power, born of both creation and annihilation, surged outwards from Ignis, sweeping across the cosmos!
The Western gods and the legions of Hell were as leaves before a hurricane! The holy sword shattered, the lightning staff dimmed, the dread spear groaned its lament, and demonic flames sputtered and died! Countless angels, Einherjar, demons, and undead dissolved into nothingness within the surging primordial light, while the survivors, grievously wounded, fled howling into the void, bearing eternal scars upon their very essence—scars not only physical but imprinted upon the fundamental laws of this nascent reality!
"Be… gone… from… my… world…"
Pangu's last words echoed as his body petrified, merging fully with Ignis, becoming the eternal axis supporting a fractured creation. His final gaze, however, seemed fixed upon the mortal realm below, carrying a flicker of… regret? Or perhaps… anticipation?
The shattered axe became eight shards of varying size, each imbued with a different primal power and stained with Pangu's final drops of divine blood. Like meteors, they streaked towards the eight corners of the Azkadilon continent and vanished. The largest seemed to pierce the veil into the depths of Hell itself, while the smallest fell near the banks of what would later be known as the Wei River.
The last glimmer of primordial light faded, leaving only silence and the distant, retreating forms of the wounded invaders, divine and demonic. Though thwarted, the avarice and hatred in their eyes for this land remained undimmed.
Pangu, the Eastern Creator, had saved his world, tragically.
But the story was far from over. The scars of this war, the cracks in divinity itself, and the eight scattered, potent Shards of Azkadilon would become the seeds of endless conflict for ages to come.
Three millennia passed. On the continent of Azkadilon, within a secluded tribal valley lashed by storm, the sky bled lightning, and a deluge engulfed the bruised land.
Through the downpour, a young girl ran, her slight form caked in mud and blood, fleeing some unseen dread. Her eyes, however, held not only fear but a glint of determination stark against her youth. Close behind, coalescing from the rain-streaked gloom, came several indistinct shadows radiating a chilling luminescence.
She stumbled, falling heavily upon an ancient, moss-covered altar slick with rain. In an instant, her pursuers were upon her!
Just as shadowy claws reached for her, the faint, almost imperceptible axe-shaped mark upon her forehead pulsed with an inner light! The altar beneath her thrummed, a deep, resonant hum that seemed to shake the very stones. Deep within the earth, eight spectral lanterns ignited in response, casting an ethereal glow in hidden chambers below. Ancient, fragmented words echoed, seeming to rise from the altar itself, heavy with primal power: "Blood… touches Relic… Eight Eyes… ignite… Neither fiend… nor phantom… is… the Origin…"
Then, with a grinding groan, a chasm yawned open in the earth directly beneath the altar. The girl vanished into the darkness below. The pursuing shadows recoiled violently from the released energy, dissipating like smoke before the fissure sealed itself shut, leaving only the drumming rain and an unnerving silence.
Deep within the earth, the eight Ghost Lanterns continued their dim, mysterious glow, awaiting a catalyst or the next touch of destiny.
Above, in a world forever changed, the scattered human tribes, inheritors of a broken land, clung to the fading legends of Pangu. But amidst their despair, a different kind of hope took root – a new prophecy, simpler, more direct, whispered to originate from the vanished girl who bore the Creator's mark. This prophecy spread like wildfire: "When Crisis looms, seek the Scion of Shi; When Eight Treasures unite, the Dragon Heart awakens. Banish the shadow, and life shall bloom anew."
Like wildfire, this prophecy spread among the desperate tribes, becoming a fragile prayer, a desperate objective, a solitary spark against the encroaching darkness…