The Dreams of ElysiumAcross the world of Erova, something strange began to stir.
Kings tossed restlessly upon their thrones.
Generals awoke in cold sweat within their war tents.
Sorcerers felt the disturbance ripple through the unseen currents of magic.
That night, the same dream found them all.
Not one… but many.
They stood upon a shore untouched by time.
Before them stretched an island of impossible beauty—rolling emerald hills, forests glowing faintly with ancient magic, and marble ruins half-consumed by vines older than empires themselves. The air shimmered with the echo of a forgotten age.
This was Elysium.
A land whispered about only in the oldest surviving texts.
A land said to be lost when the Age of the Gods collapsed.
Yet the dream showed it clearly… vividly… as if it had been waiting all this time.
Then the ground trembled.
From the ruins rose a blade.
Not merely a sword—
but a weapon that seemed to drink the light around it.
Its metal was black as the void between stars, its edge pulsing with a cursed aura older than the nations of Terra Firma. Runes from the Old World crawled across the steel like living things.
A whisper crept through the dream.
“The blade that slew immortals.”
Visions flashed violently through their minds.
Gods falling.
Immortals screaming.
Celestial blood staining the sky.
This was no ordinary relic.
It was a weapon forged in the forgotten wars when gods themselves walked the world—a blade created for one purpose alone:
To kill the undying.
Then came the figure.
A silhouette stood before them, impossible to fully see.
Blinding light poured from behind it, swallowing its features completely. No face. No form. Only a presence that pressed upon the soul with unbearable weight.
Ancient.
Divine.
Otherworldly.
Even in dreams, every instinct screamed the same truth.
This was no mortal being.
Somewhere beyond the veil… somewhere within the Astral Realm, one of the Old Gods watched.
And it spoke.
Not with a voice, but with a thought forced into the minds of all who dreamed.
“Elysium has returned.”
“Claim it.”
The dream shifted.
Armies clashing upon golden fields.
Banners burning.
Champions falling one after another as the battle raged endlessly.
A King of the Hill.
Only the strongest faction would endure.
Only one would claim the island.
Only one would take the blade.
The whisper returned, colder now.
“Rich lands await the victor.”
“Untold power.”
“And the weapon that can shatter heaven itself.”
For a brief moment, something darker slipped through the divine voice—something almost… eager.
For unseen by mortal eyes, this was not merely a contest.
It was a game.
A plot older than the kingdoms of Erova.
Within the Astral Realm, the ancient war between the Prime Ones and the Deep Ones had never truly ended.
And the Blessed Children of the Gods—the Demi-Gods—had become a problem neither side could easily destroy.
But mortals…
Mortals could be guided.
Tempted.
Manipulated.
If one among them claimed the blade…
Even the blood of the divine could be spilled once more.
As the dream faded, the final whisper spread across the sleeping world.
To kings.
To warlords.
To champions.
To anyone bold—or foolish—enough to chase destiny.
“Come to Elysium in two weeks time.”
“Fight.”
“Conquer.”
“Claim the island.”
“Claim the blade.”
“Claim glory beyond imagining.”
And across Erova, thousands awoke at the same moment beneath the same silent night sky.
All with the same thought burning in their minds.
Elysium had returned.
And soon…
Everyone would be coming for it.
