"Before the world bled… before dragons fell… before mortals learned fear—there were only gods. And the gods were bored."
It began in the time before time. When the universe was young and silent, and stars were still soft clay beneath divine hands. The gods roamed freely between the stars, shaping worlds, birthing species, and painting the cosmos with their whims. They created for joy, destroyed for curiosity, and watched for amusement.
But eternity is a curse even for the divine.
Eventually, the gods grew restless.
Creation lost its thrill. Worship grew dull. And so they sought a new kind of entertainment—not by building, but by breaking.
"Let's make them dance," said Valaestra, the Goddess of Chains, her laughter sharp as shattered glass."Let's make them fight," whispered Kaelvorr, God of War, who drank the blood of fallen worlds."Let's make them suffer," grinned Zhyros the Mad, the Trickster-God, whose mind flickered like lightning.
And so the idea was born—a divine game.
The gods tore open the boundaries between dimensions, connecting countless worlds through space gates. These Gates, glowing with unstable cosmic energy, allowed monsters, magic, and civilizations to spill into one another like spilled ink across parchment.
Worlds collided. Species clashed. Civilizations fell.
It was chaos.
And the gods loved it.
Humans from Earth were among the first to awaken powers. Elves from Eridhal met cyber-samurai from Neo-Sundara. Alien parasites burrowed into the magic-rich lands of Eirellion. Demons and robots danced in blood-soaked dungeons beneath skyscrapers.
Weak races were slaughtered for sport.Strong races became cruel.Greed festered like rot.Life was lost like breath in winter wind.And to the gods… it was glorious.
From their thrones in the Astral Dominion, the gods watched and wagered. They laughed as cities burned and heroes rose, only to be crushed. They whispered into the minds of tyrants, planted madness in kings, and corrupted the sacred for nothing more than applause from the divine.
But among them, there was one who did not laugh.
He was called Aurezmorath, the Dragon God—firstborn of flame, keeper of ancient balance, and the last protector of the weak.
He watched the game with growing sorrow.
Where the others saw amusement, he saw cruelty.Where the others saw blood, he saw children crying in burning streets.Where the others cheered for champions, he mourned those who died for nothing.
Aurezmorath was not like them.
He had walked among mortals once, long ago.He remembered their courage, their dreams.He remembered that even a candle could defy the dark.
And so, with thunder in his voice and fire in his heart, the Dragon God rose from his volcanic throne and roared into the stars:
"Enough."
"End this madness. Close the Gates. Let them live."
But the gods only laughed louder.
"Poor dragon," sneered Valaestra, wrapping chains of starlight around her arms."You grow soft," mocked Kaelvorr, sharpening a blade forged from a dying sun."You forget your place," hissed Zhyros, juggling worlds like coins.
They ignored his plea.
So Aurezmorath made a choice.
He would end the game—not with words, but with war.
And so began the Divine Rebellion.
But even gods must bow to numbers.
Aurezmorath, the Dragon God—he who once breathed stars into being and carved mountains with a roar—found himself surrounded by his own kin. Gods of steel, gods of madness, gods who wielded galaxies like blades.
He fought until his body was fractured crystal.He roared until suns trembled.He bled molten gold that fell as meteors on worlds below.
But still, it wasn't enough.
A god, even a mighty one, cannot win a war alone.
With one final clash, the pantheon struck him down. His divine wings—torn. His voice—silenced. His once-eternal heart—crushed beneath the collective will of cruel immortals.
Aurezmorath fell.
From the heavens, he plummeted like a dying comet, his body splitting the skies, setting clouds ablaze as he crashed into the void between realms.
His breath was shallow. His flame dimmed.
But his will… remained unbroken.
And as he lay dying on the shattered altar of creation, with the stars weeping around him and the Gates still open, his last thoughts were not of revenge—
—but of hope.
Hope that someone—anyone—might rise to finish what he could not. Someone strong enough not to plead for mercy or reason with tyrants, but to make the gods bleed.
So, with the final ember of his divine essence, Aurezmorath reached deep into the hidden core of the System—the digital spine of the god-game itself. A forbidden place no other god dared to touch. It was there that the world's laws were written. Where power was coded. Where classes were born.
And into that sacred place… he planted a flaw.
A hidden class.One that no algorithm would recognize.One that no soul could choose—unless chosen by fate itself.
SSS-Rank: Dragon Necromancer.
A class born from death.Forged in rebellion.Unknowable. Untrackable. Unholy.
Unlike other necromancers, this one would not raise mere skeletons or cursed spirits. No.
His summons would be the Undead Dragons—ancient titans of forgotten ages, beasts long sealed by even the gods themselves for fear of their power.
Some of these dragons were older than time.Some had once devoured worlds.And some were stronger even than Aurezmorath himself.
He encoded the class with only one goal: to evolve beyond godhood.
Not for balance.Not for protection.But for vengeance.
"Let the gods play," Aurezmorath whispered as his soul began to fade."But let them remember… they are not untouchable."
And with that final thought, the last Dragon God vanished from existence—his name erased from divine records, his legacy buried beneath a thousand lies.
But the seed remained.
Waiting.
Hidden deep within the system. Invisible to players, to nations, to even the gods.
Waiting for a world broken enough…A soul empty enough…A death painful enough…
…to awaken.
And when that day comes… the dragons will rise again.