—Fifteen Thousand Years Ago—
The world was plunged into a suffocating darkness, the skies rent by crimson lightning as the highest-ranking devil ever recorded by mortal tongues— Dra'ag the Eternal Hunger —clawed his way into existence. Cities crumbled to ash, rivers ran black with blood, and the air itself screamed with the agony of millions. No army, no king, no prayer could withstand his wrath… until he emerged. A warrior-king clad in armor forged from dying stars, his true name lost to time, though history would forever chant his title: The Overlord (I). With a blade carved from the last breath of hope, he sacrificed his life to sever Dra'ag's tether to the mortal realm. His final act saved humanity, and though his body turned to stardust, his legacy burned eternal—a flame against the void.
After his death, a great wall erupted from the earth, a colossal barrier of jagged, blackened stone that stretched as far as the eye could see. It rose like the spine of some ancient, slumbering titan, its surface etched with glowing runes that pulsed faintly, as though the wall itself had a heartbeat. Beyond it lay a wasteland—a desolate expanse of ash and ruin, where the air shimmered with the heat of eternal fires and the ground cracked under the weight of unseen horrors.
Monsters and demons, twisted abominations of flesh and shadow, clawed relentlessly at the wall, their guttural roars echoing across the divide. They came in waves—hulking beasts with eyes like molten coals, serpentine creatures that slithered through cracks in the earth, and winged horrors that blotted out the sun. Their goal was singular —to breach the wall and feast on the remains of humanity.
But humanity endured.
Through the efforts of three magical squads, the wall held firm.
The Vigil were the watchers, their eyes sharp and unblinking as they scanned the wall's surface for the faintest signs of weakness. They searched for cracks that spiderwebbed through the stone, or the ominous glow of a forming demon gate. When they found one, they acted swiftly, sending messages— a flare of blue light—to the Sentinels, warning of the impending threat. Their precision was unmatched, their focus unyielding, for they knew that even the smallest oversight could spell doom for the world behind the wall.
The Sentinels were the blade, the first to charge into the fray when a gate opened. Armed with incredible magical abilities, they cut through hordes of lesser demons and monstrous steeds with brutal efficiency. Their battles were chaotic, a whirlwind of steel and mmagic
And then there were tthe—Wardens, the crimson-clad sentinels of last resort. They faced the most terrifying foes—high-ranking demons, towering behemoths with skin like molten iron, and devils, sly and cunning entities that wielded magic as easily as breath. The Wardens were few in number, their ranks thinned by the sheer lethality of their duty, but each one was a force of nature, their very presence enough to turn the tide of battle.
For centuries, this fragile balance held.
Every year, a test is held—a trial by fire to determine who among the hopeful would earn the right to join one of the squads. It was a brutal, unforgiving gauntlet, designed to weed out the weak and the unworthy. Those who passed were granted the duty of protecting what remained of humanity.
The test was more than a competition; it was a reminder. A reminder that the wall was not invincible, that the demons were always watching, always waiting. And that humanity's survival hinged on the courage of a chosen few.
—Present day—
The sun hung low over the Obsidian Colosseum, its jagged spires casting skeletal shadows over the trembling crowd. At the center of the arena stood Max —Maximilian Valtor— the squad leader of the Sentinels, his voice echoing like a landslide as he addressed the sea of hopefuls. "You stand here to prove your worth," he thundered, "to join the ranks of the Vigil, the Sentinels, or the Wardens, to be the Guardian and protectors of the wall and the world. The trial begins at the toll of the bell. Pray your resolve outlasts your fear."
The Captain of the Vigil, a mountain of a man with scarred knuckles, a cigarette dangling from his lips, and eyes like smoldering coal, paced the edge of the crowd.
His gaze dissected the contestants—nobles in silk, mercenaries bristling with weapons, and trembling peasants clutching talismans. Among them stood Erin, a wiry fifteen-year-old with wind-chapped cheeks and hands calloused from dawn-to-dusk labor. His threadbare tunic hung loose on his frame, but his eyes blazed with a fervor that outshone even the nobles' gilded armor. No magic. No mentor. Just desperation. Yet here he was, heart pounding like a war drum.
"Please, Mom," he whispered, fingers brushing the cracked wooden pendant at his throat—her final gift before the coughing sickness stole her. "Watch over me. And Dad. And Sis… hold on a little longer."
The crowd shifted, and Erin's throat tightened. Behind his hope lurked the weight of two relentless burdens—his father's labored breaths in their drafty shack, lungs rotting from the same plague that took his wife, and the stack of unpaid bills for his elder sister Aria's tuition at the Academy of Celestial Scripts.
Each day, Erin scrambled between the docks, the smithy, and the apothecary's backroom, coin by meager coin. Sleep was a stranger. Hunger, a constant companion. But this test—this chance —could change everything.
A noble boy sneered at Erin's frayed boots. Erin ignored him, fists clenched. Magic or not, I'll make it. For Aria—his elder sister. For Dad.
In the Vayne's bloodline, tradition carved its laws deeper than bone —A son carries the family's weight from his first breath; a daughter is the family's soul, guarded at all costs. Boys learned to bleed before they learned to read—hauling coffins, bargaining with grave-robbers, or stitching wounds with hands still small enough to tremble.
Girls, like Erin's sister Aria, were swaddled in whatever scraps of tenderness their shattered world could spare. "Your sister's tears are your failure," his father had rasped years ago, after a fever left him more ghost than man.
The colosseum's bell was seconds from ringing when frostbite-sharp fingers dug into Erin's shoulder. He whirled, heart seizing.
Aria stood behind him, her face a shattered mirror of the girl she'd once been. At seventeen, her cheeks were hollowed from skipped meals, her academy uniform—once crisp indigo linen—now patched with burlap.
A jagged line of dirt crusted her hem; she'd clearly run through the sewage-choked alleys to reach him. Her eyes, the same burnt umber as their mother's, swam with tears that fell like hot lead onto the cobblestones.
"It's… Dad," she gasped, voice splintering. "He's—"
Erin didn't let her finish. He seized her wrist, her pulse fluttering like a dying bird against his palm, and sprinted. They dodged through the crowd, past jeering nobles and mercenaries who spat at their mud-caked shoes.
*Erin's Home*
The shack reeked of death—a thick, sweet rot that clung to the lungs. Sun light speared through cracks in the roof, illuminating the man on the bed. Garrick Veyne, once a broad-shouldered titan who could dig a grave in under an hour, now looked like a bundle of sticks draped in parchment skin.
Erin collapsed at his side, clutching his father's hand. It felt impossibly light, as if the man's bones had already turned to ash.
"You've… done enough, boy," Garrick wheezed, each word a battle. A bloody bubble burst on his lips. "More than I… ever…" His trembling fingers fumbled at his throat, undoing the clasp of a pendant—a jagged crimson stone strung on frayed leather, its surface etched with the Veyne family sigil—a shovel crossed with a crown.
"Your turn… now." He pressed the relic into Erin's palm. The metal burned cold, like a grave's first handful of dirt.
"The Gravedigger's Mantle… passes… from me… to you."
Erin choked back a sob. "I'm no good at rites. I can't even… remember the prayers—"
"You learned… better lessons." Garrick's milky eyes flicked to Aria, silent and shaking in the shadows. "Keep her… safe. She's… your world now."
His hand went slack.
Aria's wail tore through the room. Erin didn't realize he was screaming too until his throat raged raw.
—Graveyard—
They buried him at dawn in the Weeping Fields, where the Veynes had interred their dead for centuries. Erin's shovel bit into the clay-hard earth, his blistered hands bleeding through frayed bandages. He garbled half-remembered funeral verses—"From ash… to ash? No—from soil, we…"—while Aria knelt beside him, scattering wilted moonflowers stolen from the apothecary's trash.
When the hole yawned wide enough, they lowered Garrick's shrouded body.
The dirt had barely settled when the World Central Bell tolled, its metallic scream ripping across the graveyard.
Erin froze.
"The Test"
He'd missed the first and second test. The trials waited for no one—certainly not a penniless Gravedigger. Yet…
'If I pass…. No more starving. No more gravedigger. Aria could finish school"
"Go," Aria whispered. She pried the shovel from his grip. "I'll finish here."