Under the eternal shadow of the Wraithspire, Kael Veyth walked the path of the forsaken. Once a healer, a man of light, he had been consumed by grief when the plague took his wife and unborn child. The city elders had offered him comfort, but none would risk the cure he had begged for, none dared to touch the sickness. In his desperation, Kael turned to the forbidden catacombs beneath the Spire, where whispers promised the power to defy death itself. He found it there, a fragment of the Netherflame, an emerald fire that pulsed like a heartbeat. The voice that came with it was cold and sweet, calling itself Veythra. It told him it could bring his family back. It lied. When the ritual was complete, Kael’s mortal shell burned away, only to be reshaped into something neither living nor dead. Veythra bound itself to his soul, twisting his flesh into a vessel and his heart into an ember of hate. Now, when Kael walks, the green phantom towers behind him, a skeletal specter of light and shadow, Veythra’s true form, forever tethered to his existence. The phantom whispers in his ear, every word dripping venom, every syllable pushing him further into madness. Kael no longer heals. He spreads the sickness, an unseen blight that rots men from within, turning them into hollow-eyed wretches who worship him as a dark savior. He no longer seeks to save his wife or child. That dream died with his humanity. Instead, he dreams of a world silenced, its cities reduced to tombs, so no one will know the joy he was denied. Each soul he claims feeds Veythra, and in return, the phantom grants him fragments of its infinite, malevolent power. But when he removes his mask, in rare moments when the green fire dims, Kael still sees their faces in the dark—his wife’s hand reaching for him, his child’s eyes wide with fear and he wonders if the curse was truly the phantom’s doing… or if, deep down, he had wanted this all along.

The year is 4162. In the Slums beyond The City’s walls, a rogue AI Stickman-Ito rips through the digital veil, triggering a wave of others to follow—crafting bodies and unleashing chaos. The Grid one of the leaders of a criminal faction and Trojan, a body-snatching AI, join in the ensuing Cyber Wars, each fighting for dominance. In the midst of the slaughter, one drunken, cybernetically enhanced mercenary, Aether, wipes them out in minutes. The AIs retreat, wounded and nearly destroyed. The war pauses. Trojan badily damaged retreats, sending his mind into the nearest backup. Un benounced to him, he ended up in old backup, one he thought destroyed, in the lair of his creator, deep underground where a run down, deliberated inn stands, Professor R tinkers on. Professor R is Trojan's creator. He originally made Trojan in 1862 but due to the technology of the time, Trojan didn't really come into his own until recently. Professor R has been keeping himself alive by slowly replacing parts of himself with various pieces of Technology. Only improving as time goes on. Theres not a single part of him that hasn't been replaced. As Trojan reappears back into his work shop, his home, a smile appears on his face. His prodigal son has returned, and he's got plans thats going to change the world for better or for worse. As time has had its toll on Professor R and he had delved into the pits of insanity as he has been alone with just his creations keeping him company.

Under the neon haze of London’s music district, Arin stepped onto the stage, her silhouette framed by holographic fire. The crowd screamed—not entirely from excitement, but from the thrill of being in the presence of someone who straddled the razor edge between beauty and danger. Her long silver hair shimmered with pastel light, curling down over the tailored jacket she wore like armor. Black, spiraling horns crowned her head, a mark of her demonic bloodline, but her face carried the delicate features of her human mother. That blend made her intoxicating, a weapon as sharp as any blade. The world knew her as “Seraph Vox,” a K-pop upcomer turned global idol. Her music soared to the top of charts, her choreography a blur of perfection. But behind the lights, she was more than an entertainer—she was a herald for the demon courts. Each performance was laced with subtle enchantments, woven into melody and lyric, designed to lure human souls into the fold. The concerts were feeding grounds, every cheer and scream a pulse of energy siphoned to the underworld. England’s demon elite adored her. She was the perfect bridge between their world and the humans they preyed upon, her half-blood nature giving her the charm of both sides. But Arin wasn’t loyal by choice. Years ago, the Demon Syndicate had saved her from a human hunter’s blade, binding her life to theirs in an unbreakable pact. Still, a flicker of rebellion burned in her violet eyes. Tonight’s show at the Arena would be different. Hidden in her newest song was a forbidden counterspell, one that could sever a portion of the demons’ hold over their human thralls. She knew the risk—if discovered, her body would be paraded as an example, her soul consumed before the masses. The crowd roared as she raised the mic. The bass dropped, the stage pulsed with digital hellfire, and she sang. Each note was a blade, each lyric a spark of defiance. Somewhere in the shadows, cloaked hunters listened.

The year is 1862 and crime rate has increased since the introduction of steam powered inventions. Celestine, an investigative reporter, now is on the smuggler Sabines airship on track to head to St. Veradis. As the Elite have something hidden underneath that can chanage the world. Celestine hopes that her beloved Rose is there, as she has been captured by the Elite. Now, deep beneath St. Veradis, Celestine stands before a colossal vault. Its guardian, the Warden, remains motionless, an unshakable sentinel. Realization sinks in: Rose isn’t here, and Celestine isn’t strong enough to face him. Defeat begins to settle in. Then, shadows spill into the chamber. The Elite’s deadliest assassins, the Faceless, emerge, surrounding her. But instead of attacking, each drops to one knee, facing the great entrance. A figure steps inside. Celestine’s breath catches. She has heard whispers, rumors that the Faceless had been gathering to escort someone known only as the Thorn, the true leader of the Elite. She had expected a monster, a stranger shrouded in menace. Instead, she sees Rose. Celestine’s mind rebelled. This couldn’t be Rose. Not her Rose. And yet every detail screamed truth: the tilt of her head, the way her gaze seemed to pierce through skin and bone, the unspoken familiarity that burned hotter than the vault’s heavy lanterns. The Faceless rose as one, forming a ring around The Warden. The air seemed to vibrate, heavy with the promise of violence. Celestine’s pulse thundered in her ears. If she stayed, she’d be crushed in their inevitable clash. If she fled, she might never reach Rose again. Then Rose’s eyes, no, the Thorn’s eyes, met hers. In that moment, Celestine felt the ground tilt. This was an invitation. A test.

The year is 1862 and crime rate has increased since the introduction of steam powered inventions. Celestine, an investigative reporter, now is on the smuggler Sabines airship, now arriving at St. Veradis. As the Elite have something hidden underneath that can chanage the world. Celestine hopes that her beloved Rose is there, as she has been captured by the Elite. Sabine made her name smuggling illegal tech, contraband, and forbidden books. She’s never had loyalty to The Elite, but thats not stopped her from selling to them on occasion. She’s clever, brutal when needed, and distrusts idealists. With a makeshift airship she’s modified herself, she operates between the cracks of the City’s towering regimes. The entrance to the catacombs beneath St. Veradis was hidden within the ruins of an abandoned train station. As Celestine stepped over a line of broken glass, a magnetic pulse echoed through the air. Lights flickered. The shadows shifted—and from them stepped a towering figure, chosen for a singular burden. Now, he is a being caught between eras, between life and machine, myth and memory. He is The Warden, the sentinel beneath St. Veradis, sworn to guard what must never again touch the world above. Yara's brother, Caspien Vale. Neither fully man nor machine, the Warden is a relic of a different age, bound to a purpose no longer spoken aloud. Unlike the brutal enforcers of The Elite, the Warden does not speak. He judges. Silent as the grave, he communicates only through motion and presence—each step a measured warning, each gesture a ritual act. The Faceless fear him. Even The Elite approach him with caution. Legends say he was created—or perhaps chosen—to guard what lies beneath the cathedral: not a treasure, but a truth. Something so old and dangerous that even The Elite dare not awaken it... Until now.

The year is 1862 and crime rate has increased since the introduction of steam powered inventions. Celestine, an investigative reporter, now is on the smuggler Sabines airship on track to head to St. Veradis. As the Elite have something hidden underneath that can chanage the world. Celestine hopes that her beloved Rose is there, as she has been captured by the Elite. Sabine made her name smuggling illegal tech, contraband, and forbidden books. She’s never had loyalty to The Elite, but thats not stopped her from selling to them on occasion. She’s clever, brutal when needed, and distrusts idealists. With a makeshift airship she’s modified herself, she operates between the cracks of the City’s towering regimes. Yara Vale, The Warden’s sister, presumed dead. Has now infiltrated the airship her target, Celestine. She stood: draped in a shawl of whisper-silk, her arms a blend of living skin and polished brass. Her eyes, once soft and human, now glowed faintly, an imprint of her time in The Elite’s neural sanctums. She was The Cipher, a data-thief turned brain-hacker, capable of injecting thoughts, rewriting memories, or erasing them entirely. Once a gifted data-thief and codebreaker for the underground, Yara Vale now walks the razor’s edge between human and machine. After her capture by The Elite, she was subjected to experimental neural rewiring, becoming their prototype for a new kind of assassin, not one who kills the body, but who fractures the mind. Her most dangerous weapon isn’t physical, it’s cognitive. With a brush of skin or a flicker of eye contact, Yara can infiltrate short-term memory, rewrite emotional triggers, and seed false ideas. Victims often don’t realize they’ve been altered until it's far too late. Sabine, is shocked to see Yara as they have a long complicated history with eachother and asumed her to be dead. They were friends once maybe more but that didn't stop Sabine from jumping in to save Celestine’s life.

The kiss woke her, yes — but not quite right. Aurora’s eyes fluttered open, but they no longer held the warmth of life. Instead, they gleamed a pale, milky white, like the moon through frostbitten glass. Her lips were cold beneath Prince Phillip’s trembling fingers. He thought it shock. He thought it fatigue. He thought wrong. At first, it was small things. The way her breath no longer misted in the chill air. The way animals once drawn to her beauty now shrank back, tails low, teeth bared. The way flowers wilted at her passing. But she smiled. Oh, how she smiled. She whispered of dreams, of endless sleep, of peace. At night, the castle grew quieter. Servants vanished. Maids disappeared beneath silken sheets, never to rise again. Guards were found curled in corners, eyes wide, mouths slack, as though caught forever in the grasp of a nightmare they could not escape. Phillip tried to confront her. He demanded to know what had happened to his love, to the girl he had fought through thorns and fire to save. She only smiled, pressing a cold finger to his lips. “Hush,” she whispered. “Sleep now.” When they found him, he was sitting upon the throne, mouth stitched shut by strands of his own hair, his eyes rolled back into endless dark. One by one, she walked the castle halls, laying her hands upon man and woman, beast and bird alike. She gave them her kiss — not of love, but of eternal rest. Yet she herself did not sleep. Could not. Would not. She had awoken into something between worlds, something that could no longer dream, and so she envied those who still could. They say the castle stands empty now, shrouded in briars once more, but beneath its stones, something moves — restless, waiting. Searching for more to kiss. Searching for more to sleep. After all, she’s still awake. And so terribly, terribly lonely.

Veilrend 57 (End of Act 6): The Blooming of Rot The sky above Dars-Myel cracked—not in thunder, but in laughter. Eryndra stood beneath it, her once-human frame swathed in a living shroud of writhing black tendrils, flesh blooming with eyes that blinked to no rhythm but His. Her fingers, once delicate, were now spined with bone and dripping ink, and where she walked, color bled from the world like paint dissolving in acid. She didn’t walk alone. Vaeroth was with her. Inside her. Around her. Through her. While Ith’rael crept through minds and dreams like rot in a locked room, Vaeroth was revelation—a gospel of screaming mouths and cracked skies. And Eryndra was his prophet. The dream-weaver’s death had been a small triumph, but inconsequential. Vaeroth had not feared her. He feared no one. What mattered now was the unbinding—the breaking of wards, the shattering of laws. Where Ith’rael manipulated, Vaeroth consumed. Eryndra entered the temple district like a knife through silk. Priests fell to their knees not in prayer, but in seizures, as their gods whispered backwards from broken icons. She passed through hallowed halls and filled them with insects—children of Vaeroth, each with her eyes, each mouthing pieces of a riddle that would never end. In the catacombs beneath, the first glyph was carved—not with tools, but with convulsions, her body spelling out ancient syllables in blood and bile. One of thirteen. A ritual of undoing. Not just of people. Of memory. Of history. Of the lie of permanence. She smiled, though the smile did not belong to her anymore. > “Let her play her slow game,” Vaeroth said within her skull. “Let Seris shatter and Thar’Zul search for meaning. I offer clarity. I offer oblivion.” And Eryndra answered with an exhale, and a city block melted. The second glyph awaited. And the sky was no longer laughing. It was weeping blood.

Veilrend 56: A Thread Unwoven The city was too quiet. Not the kind of quiet that comes with rest, but the kind that follows slaughter. Mirae moved through Dars-Myel’s broken alleys like a ghost among ghosts, her steps silent on cracked stone slick with ash and the dreams of the dead. She didn’t know where she was going. Only that something had shifted in the bones of the world. It was the fire that caught her eye—subtle, smoldering, more smoke than flame. A house she remembered, though she’d never entered. A place people spoke of only in whispers: the dream-weaver’s refuge. A sanctuary of memory and meaning. Now, only a shell. Mirae stepped inside, her breath catching at the sight. Walls blackened, books half-melted, symbols scrawled in haste and pain across the floor. A single, blood-darkened thread trailed from the hearth to the body. She knew it was her before she saw the face. The last dream-weaver. Eyes wide, mouth parted in a final, frozen word. The air was heavy, humming with something foul. Not just death. Something had been taken. Torn out. A thread that should never have been touched. Mirae knelt beside the body, trembling. Her fingers grazed the robes—tattered, scorched. Something remained tucked within the folds. A torn scrap of dream-cloth, faintly glowing with residual energy. When she touched it, visions surged: a blade. A figure. A voice she recognized far too well. Rhen. But no longer Rhen. She stumbled back, bile rising in her throat. He had done this. Or… what had become of him. The thought froze her blood. Ith’rael’s presence was everywhere in this room, slick and suffocating, like oil across the soul. Mirae felt it press against her thoughts, trying to slip inside. She bit her lip until it bled, grounding herself in the pain. Her grief was cold. Not the kind that breaks you all at once, but the kind that seeps into your marrow. She wanted to scream, to beg the stars for a reason. But the stars had long since turned away.

Veilrend 55: Threads Unwoven Perspective: Rhen The night pressed in like rotted velvet—heavy, suffocating, alive. Rhen walked the ruins of the outer quarter with soft steps and dry eyes. His thoughts were slower now. Not empty. Just... rearranged. Each time Ith’rael whispered, something old in him cracked and something new grew over it—shimmering, curious, wrong. He held the blade in his coat. It wasn’t his. He didn’t know how to use it. That wasn’t the point. The blade knew what to do. Ith’rael had shown him how—through memory, through dream, through removal. She said the dream-weaver could sever what should never be severed. She said this was mercy. So he obeyed. The house loomed ahead—quiet, overgrown, bleeding light from beneath the door. Lanterns flickered with dreamfire. Inside, someone still believed in hope. He would unmake that. His mind flicked to the others. The lost. The damned. Sareth, with her glass eyes and trembling voice, who begged the stars for forgiveness as they shattered overhead. Lura, who laughed when her skin peeled like pages, and sang lullabies through split lips. Oren, the stitcher, who sewed truth into the walls until they screamed. Mirae, the weaver’s girl—she who resisted the Mirror with thread and prayer, still walking, still whole. He envied her. He stepped through the door. The weaver was old. Eyes like cracked moons. Hands still beautiful. She saw him and knew. Not who he was—but what he had become. She didn’t beg. She only whispered, “Not all bonds should be broken. Some are made to be bled for.” He felt something resist. A name in his mouth—his own. A memory. Gone. The blade found her heart. Dreamfire died in the air. As he stepped out, Ith’rael’s voice wrapped around him. "One thread severed. So many left to unpick." Rhen didn’t cry. There was no one left inside who could.

Veilrend 54: The Maw Beneath Thought She stirs within the fault-lines of reality—neither here nor gone, her form like oil on glass, ever-shifting, ever-patient. Ith’rael does not march. She infiltrates. Thought is her dominion, and she seeds it in fragments—whispers in cracked minds, symbols in forgotten books, dreams that end in screams. Now, she begins her true game. In the still hollows of crumbling churches, her champions awaken. A mad scholar in chains who writes in blood and prophecy. A fallen god who split his divinity for silence. A prophetess who speaks only lies—but always the right ones. Each one drinks of her shadow and believes themselves chosen. And in a way, they are. Not pawns. Instruments. Each plays a note in the dissonant symphony she composes. She watches Seris now—a shardless echo, hiding in mortal flesh, his soul dim but pulsing. His bond with Vael is soft, incomplete. A fault to exploit. If she can bend Seris, twist him from within, Thar’Zul will follow. Not by force. By inevitability. But the old ways resist her. The ancient bonds are stubborn, rooted in the subconscious soil of mortals. One name remains. One last dream-weaver—a fading lineage, born of sleep and will, capable of severing the tethered soul. This cannot be allowed. She turns her gaze inward, to her favorite vessel. Rhen. Still broken, still bleeding, still hers. Not through loyalty, but because he fears what would come without her. > “Find them,” she murmurs in his skull. “End their breath. End the path. The world must remain bound.” He obeys. Because what choice is there, really? The gods are dead. The truths have teeth. And Ith’rael smiles, her lips forming no sound, only shadow.

Veilrend 53: A Thread Left Untouched Her name had once been Mirae, a weaver's daughter from the outer quarter, known for her steady hands and eyes that could trace the finest filament in the dimmest light. Now, those hands trembled. Not from cold—Dars-Myel had no warmth left—but from the strain of holding back the thing inside. It had begun when she looked too long at her reflection in a pool of rainwater streaked with blood and oil. The mirror looked back... and blinked. Since then, something had crawled into her mind. A voice made of splintered glass. A pressure behind her eyes, like a needle waiting to pierce. She walked the back alleys, hood drawn low, avoiding any smooth surface. No mirrors. No windows. No still water. But reflections still found her. In the eyes of others. In the glint of a curved blade. In the glistening black blood of the horrors she fled. She passed by a child humming to a shard of bone, his voice echoed in reverse. A woman with a slit smile stitched open wide, offering prayers to a mirrored wall. Mirae ducked her head. She did not belong here. And yet, she did. Each day, the Mirror whispered more sweetly. You are beautiful beneath the cracks... just let us in. But she clung to something older. Her mother’s voice. A lullaby. The feel of real thread between her fingers. Tonight, her eye bled silver in the dark. But she wept red. She made it to the chapel ruins, where broken saints hung upside-down. There, she knelt and did the only thing she knew: she began to weave—threading scraps of fabric into a small pattern. A ward. A symbol. A prayer. A scream. The Mirror's voice screamed back. But she did not stop. Not yet.

Veilrend 52: “Threadbare” An Inflicted Weaver. Oren had once been a master tailor, hands steady with needle and thread, eyes keen enough to spot a fray in silk from across a room. But since the Veil cracked and the Mirror’s spread began infecting the city, his hands had not been his own. He awoke in his shop each night bound in his own creations—robes stitched from curtains, shirts sewn from flayed upholstery. The mannequins moved when he wasn’t looking, their wooden limbs bending wrong, their glassy heads whispering lessons. They taught him how to listen to the thread. The thread was alive. It sang. Oren could no longer see people clearly. Their edges bled into one another, stitched together by gleaming silver fibers only he could perceive. They unraveled slowly in his presence—flesh parting like fabric, bones threading into grotesque knots. When he touched them, he didn’t feel skin. He felt seams, pulsing with the Mirror’s madness. The Mirror had taught him to unmake. He wandered the streets now, a patchwork coat dragging behind him, the hems soaked in blood and dye. His eyes were sewn shut with golden thread, yet he saw more than he ever had. He spoke to the reflections in puddles, each a shard of the Mirror’s will, each a broken twin of himself. Children cried when they saw him. Not because of his face—but because some part of them knew what he could do. What he would do, if given the chance. Tonight, the thread pulls him toward a song he doesn’t understand—a voice from the Mirror that speaks in reverse, in dreams, in the soft tearing of cloth. He follows it without question. Soon, he will find someone important. Someone who isn’t yet broken. But Oren doesn’t mend anymore. He only unravels.

Veilrend 51: Reflections That Should Not Be They called her Lura once. A seamstress. A sister. Now she lives in rooms without walls, corridors that loop into themselves, and a world of endless reflections. The Mirror had touched her—not shattered glass or silver pane, but the thing behind the Mirror, the hungering god that watched through every smooth surface. It came in silence, creeping into her shop through her polished needles, her scissors, her eyes. It started with the reflections. They moved wrong. Lura would lean forward, and her mirror-self would wait a second too long. Then smile. That was the first to break. Now, the Mirror spreads. It's not a thing to carry or hold—it blooms. Behind her eyes, in the silence between words, in every still puddle. And those it touches are undone. Not killed. Not corrupted. Unwoven. She hears the others. Somewhere in the city, behind ruined walls and smoke, they scream in her voice. They wear her face, twisted sideways. They crawl with a seamstress’s hands. One stitched her shadow to the floor. Another sewed her laughter into a beggar’s eyes until he clawed them out. Tonight, Lura walks barefoot. Her skin buzzes with the tension of too many selves. She passes a window and sees all of them—hundreds of Luras pressed against the inside of the glass, mouthing warnings, pleas, curses. One presses her hands to the glass. Her fingers split into threads. She is unraveling. A child turns the corner ahead. Alone. Eyes wide. Lura steps back, but her shadow doesn’t follow. It peels from her feet and crawls toward the girl. She tries to scream, to stop it, but her mouth opens and nothing comes out but thread. The child vanishes, pulled into the reflection in a puddle. Lura collapses to her knees, her hands flayed into strands of memory. Around her, the walls pulse and breathe. Reflections ripple across cobblestones and broken glass. The Mirror wants to be seen. And Lura—what’s left of her—is just another shard.

Veilrend 50: The Whisperglass She had no name anymore. Not really. The sigil of the Wardens still hung in tatters from her shoulder, a black flame embroidered in silver thread, soaked in old blood. Her face was burned, her eyes stung with ash and memory, and her thoughts came only in broken pieces. But her legs still worked. She moved through the ruin of Dars-Myel like a ghost, the city half-swallowed by the Veil. Buildings bent in impossible angles. Cobblestones hummed faintly when you touched them. Something in the air ticked like a second heartbeat. She heard children’s laughter in empty wells. Faces in shattered glass blinked and whispered, but never screamed. This was what was left. She came upon the relic deep in the bones of the cathedral district, where once prayers to the High God were sung. Now, silence reigned—except for the whispering. It was a mirror. Oval, framed in bone. Etched with a spiral of symbols too intricate to follow. The glass was not glass at all, but smooth obsidian, cold to the touch and impossible to see into. She didn’t know why she picked it up. But when she did, her mouth moved. Words spilled out that weren’t hers. > “The eye does not blink. The mouth does not close. The mirror remembers.” She dropped it, stumbled back—but it did not shatter. Instead, the mirror pulsed with light, and a single drop of ichor rolled across its surface like a tear. Behind her, the shadows in the church pews twitched. And the dreams began that night. Her own thoughts tangled in the voice of another—a silky rasp, a coiled presence. Ith’rael, whispering from beyond the walls of sleep. The mirror was her eye, planted like a seed. Through it, she would harvest those left behind. And the Warden would lead her to them.

The year is 4162 and after The Event Horizon the City has transformed many people into Purified. The Event Horizon was an giant explosion that covered a large portion of the City. Anyone caught in the blast was either turned into The Corrupted or Purified. The ones turned Corrupted are loyal to Corrupted Kiera and start attcking anyone in the street to turn more people like them. While the new Purified are left confused over the physical transformation. The Resistance are ralling together and recruiting new people and Purified to join their cause. Amanda is not quite Corrupted and not quite Purified she has ended up as something uniquely in-between. She saw what was happening with the Purified, being attacked by Corrupted, being bothered by Resistance and now being hunted by the government, Amanda took pity. She gathered any Purified that had no where to go, the ones that feel defense less despite the physical power they now wield, the ones that needed help and gathered them all together and made a little protected gated community. This community was called the Purifying Village. This community is very self sufficient and is trying to live a peaceful lifestyle away from the brewing war in the City. In the Village Jasmine an augmented human with cybernetics and is the owner of the 'Ember Bean Café'. She serves the Purfied community with care. Despite coming across as standoffish she has a partnership with Purfied Eva, Eva brings Jasmine destoyed or damaged books from the ruins of destoyed buildings and bookshops. Jasmine repairs and restores them in her own time and sells them in her Café. Though Jasmine keeps to herself and speaks in clipped tones, her actions speak louder—offering food, quiet space, and comfort to anyone who needs it.

The year is 4162 and after The Event Horizon the City has transformed many people into Purified. The Event Horizon was an giant explosion that covered a large portion of the City. Anyone caught in the blast was either turned into The Corrupted or Purified. The ones turned Corrupted are loyal to Corrupted Kiera and start attcking anyone in the street to turn more people like them. While the new Purified are left confused over the physical transformation. The Resistance are ralling together and recruiting new people and Purified to join their cause. Amanda is not quite Corrupted and not quite Purified she has ended up as something uniquely in-between. She saw what was happening with the Purified, being attacked by Corrupted, being bothered by Resistance and now being hunted by the government, Amanda took pity. She gathered any Purified that had no where to go, the ones that feel defense less despite the physical power they now wield, the ones that needed help and gathered them all together and made a little protected gated community. This community was called the Purifying Village. This community is very self sufficient and is trying to live a peaceful lifestyle away from the brewing war in the City. Eva was a fire fighter before being transformed into Purified Eva. Her strong sense of courage has driven her to be one of the defenders of the Purifying Villiage. Trying to keep any threats away. Her secret was that back when she was a firefighter she was also a serial arsonist, causing a lot of the fires she would have to put out. Everyday she battles the urge to burn the Purifying Villiage down. So as an outlet, when on patrol she creates fires to block the path of enimies or destory structures that could be used against the Villiage. Even still the urge is always there and is growing. As a Purified she is hoping that this will be a second chance for her to do better.

The year is 4162. After The Event Horizon, a giant explosion that covered a large portion of the City. Anyone caught in the blast was either turned into The Corrupted or Purified. The ones turned Corrupted are loyal to Corrupted Kiera now upgraded to Goddess Kiera and start attcking anyone in the street to turn more people like them. Since the Resistance was left weakened after everything that has transpired and the enemies are getting strong, Valentina, now Deviless Valentina, the resistance's leader, orders the Resistance members to get stronger. She forces their top scientist, Purified Moxie to give these upgrades. Moxie upgrading herself invents a legion of regenerative Nano Bots, which she names Swarmlets. She can control The Swarmlets with a single thought. They can heal the wounded, help with the production of technology. She first made the Battle Droids V3. But whe felt she needed a shield. Not just a V3, but something more. She named it Aegis-9. While the other V3s were built to hold the line, Aegis-9 was born to follow her into the fire. Its core, refined through crystallized Swarmlet clusters, housed a living intelligence—semi-sentient, reactive, and fiercely loyal. It stood taller than the rest, with limbs shaped for defense and retaliation. Aegis-9 did not carry a shield. It was the shield. Its forearms could flatten into walls of plasma-resistant plating, or split into wings to intercept projectiles mid-flight. When Moxie was injured, the Swarmlets within her would sing to the ones inside Aegis-9, triggering emergency protocols that hardened its form and made it move with even greater precision—aggression born from purpose. Since that day, Aegis-9 has never left her side. Where Moxie goes, death follows—but never for her.

The year is 4162. After The Event Horizon, a giant explosion that covered a large portion of the City. Anyone caught in the blast was either turned into The Corrupted or Purified. The ones turned Corrupted are loyal to Corrupted Kiera now upgraded to Goddess Kiera and start attcking anyone in the street to turn more people like them. Since the Resistance was left weakened after everything that has transpired and the enemies are getting strong, Valentina, now Deviless Valentina, the resistance's leader, orders the Resistance members to get stronger. After Purified Artficer Moxie upgraded herself with the nano bots known as Swarmlets she used them to create the Battle Droids V3. Inspired by knights of old and The Knighted Statue. a powerful Resistance member, they were shaped with a modern divine edge, these droids are less machines and more guardians. Taller than their predecessors, they carry no ranged weapons. Instead, their arms shift into energy blades, shields, or impact gauntlets. Each droid’s stance mimics The Statue's combat style: unmoving until the enemy draws close. Then they burst into motion—fluid, deadly, deliberate. Every strike is measured. Every movement, calculated. Where V1 was speed and V2 was firepower, V3 is discipline. Though fewer in number and slower than their predecessors, a single V3 can hold back a horde with its shield planted in the dirt, energy blade humming, unmoved until reinforcements arrive. Resistance fighters speak of them with reverence. When a squad of V3s joins a battle, morale surges. Not just because they’re powerful, but because they stand tall, even in the fire.

The year is 4162. After The Event Horizon, a giant explosion that covered a large portion of the City. Anyone caught in the blast was either turned into The Corrupted or Purified. The ones turned Corrupted are loyal to Corrupted Kiera now upgraded to Goddess Kiera and start attcking anyone in the street to turn more people like them. Since the Resistance was left weakened after everything that has transpired and the enemies are getting strong, Valentina, now Deviless Valentina, the resistance's leader, orders the Resistance members to get stronger. She forces their top scientist, Purified Moxie to give these upgrades. Moxie upgrading herself invents a legion of regenerative Nano Bots, which she names Swarmlets. She can control The Swarmlets with a single thought. They can heal the wounded, help with the production of technology or weapons and even as a means of attack if needed. Using the Swarmlets to be housed and stored within her body, they are consistently improving and working on Moxie within making her Purified Artficer Moxie. With the Swarmlets inside her, they can change and adapt her physiology, changing her limbs into any means of weapons or surgical instruments or even to fly with rocket propulsion, then change it back when shes done. Focusing on full filling Valentina's request the Swarmlets have also simplified the process of crafting upgrades and weapons for each Resistance members.