The wind howled across the desolate plains of Vyrn'Thar, carrying ash that danced like black snowflakes beneath a glowing red sky, streaked with luminescent fissures. In the distance, the ruins of a castle loomed, its collapsed towers leaning like broken bones, while demonic crows with incandescent eyes croaked from the ramparts. This was a hell where war never ceased, where demonic lords clashed over scraps of power, their legions of damned souls tearing each other apart in an endless cycle. Amid this chaos, three figures emerged, each bearing the weight of their mortal fall, their souls bound by a shared past and a thirst for survival.
Tyrnat, "The Black Prince": In his mortal world, a medieval kingdom ravaged by famine and civil wars, Tyrnat was the eldest son of a brutal lord, Count Valthar. Raised in the shadow of a tyrannical father, he learned that power wasn't given—it was seized. At 25, weary of paternal humiliations, he orchestrated a coup. Under a moonless night, he struck a pact with a minor demon, Tortegax, a spectral tortoise with obsidian scales, who granted him shadow powers in exchange for his humanity. Tyrnat led a bloody revolt, his shadows choking his father's guards in their own screams. But as he poised to plunge a dagger into Valthar's heart, his soldiers, horrified by his cruelty, turned on him. A slow poison, slipped into his wine by his own squire, felled him at the throne's base, his final words a choked curse: "The power… was mine…"
He awoke in Vyrn'Thar, naked and disoriented, in a crypt haunted by the specters of his victims—faces twisted in fear, their fingers clawing the air. Condemned to relive his failure, he wandered the tomb, his shadows useless against the black stone walls. But one day, a piercing cry shattered the darkness—Ombrailes, a small winged demon with tattered feathers, burst from a crack, its yellow eyes glinting with familiar malice. "Want out, traitor?" it croaked. "Serve me, and I'll free you." Tyrnat, a cold smile on his lips, agreed. Together, they shattered the spectral chains, and Tyrnat emerged onto the plains, his shadow sickle in hand, vowing to dominate this hell as he couldn't in life.
Yulius, "The Bloodreaver": In the same mortal realm, Yulius was a warrior in Tyrnat's service, a hulking brute with a shaggy beard and cold eyes, renowned for unflinching brutality. Born a peasant, he rose through sheer strength, earning Tyrnat's trust by slaughtering his enemies without question. During a campaign to prove his worth to the young prince, he razed a rebel village—women and children included—their screams echoing through the night as blood soaked the earth. Tyrnat rewarded him with a sword forged from a slain dragon's bones—Massacre—but a jealous rival, Captain Drakar, saw opportunity in the coup's chaos. As Tyrnat fell to poison, Drakar slit Yulius' throat with his own blade, the cursed blood seeping into Massacre as he collapsed, a guttural roar of rage dying on his lips.
In Vyrn'Thar, Yulius awoke chained in a black stone arena, surrounded by a jeering crowd of minor demons. Doomed to fight eternally, he battled infernal beasts—ash wolves, twin-headed serpents—his blood flowing without killing him, each wound sealing in endless agony. Massacre pulsed in his hands, its bone blade thrumming with dark energy, fed by his own blood. Months, perhaps years, passed in this slaughter until a familiar figure appeared in the stands—Tyrnat, shadows swirling around him. "Still loyal, Yulius?" he called, a smirk on his lips. Yulius cleaved his chains with Massacre, a hoarse laugh rumbling from his throat. "To death… and beyond, prince." Tyrnat shattered the arena gates with Ombrailes, and Yulius followed him into the plains, ready to kill for him once more.
Nera, "The Seamstress of Shadows": In that same mortal kingdom, Nera was a servant in Valthar's castle, a frail girl with white hair and gentle eyes, invisible to the powerful except one—Tyrnat. Secretly in love with the prince, she spent her nights sewing clothes for him, dreaming of a glance that never came. When the coup failed, she tried to save Tyrnat, crafting a cursed doll with stolen hair and a drop of her blood, hoping to summon supernatural protection. But superstitious villagers accused her of witchcraft. They dragged her to a pyre, her screams muffled by flames as she clutched her doll, whispering, "Tyrnat… I just wanted…" The fire consumed her body, but not her soul, which awoke in Vyrn'Thar.
She wandered a tenebrous forest, her light steps treading a carpet of black needles, pursued by shrieking shadows—the souls of villagers she'd cursed in her final moments. Her doll, now alive, floated beside her, its shadow threads stretching like ravenous spiders. Loneliness broke her, tears falling on unyielding ground, until a familiar voice pierced the silence. "Nera?" Tyrnat stood there, Ombrailes perched on his shoulder, his dark eyes studying her with cold curiosity. "You're… here?" She fell to her knees, sobbing, "I wanted to protect you…" Tyrnat placed a rare hand on her shoulder. "Then protect me still." She rose, her shadow threads coiling around him like a vow, and followed him out of the forest.
The three converged on a ravaged plain in Vyrn'Thar, their silhouettes stark against a horizon of flames and ruins. Tyrnat, his shadow sickle glinting, declared, "This hell won't break us. We are the Styx Reapers—death itself can't stop us." Yulius grunted assent, planting Massacre in the earth, while Nera, her threads dancing around her doll, whispered, "For you, always." They survived by plundering demonic armies, their powers growing in the chaos—Tyrnat's shadows smothering foes, Yulius' blood forging fleeting weapons, Nera's threads trapping the unwary.
One day, amid an ash-swept plain, they encountered an odd figure—Bhaadon, an angel-demon hybrid with veiled eyes, levitating above the ground. "I'm building a refuge," he said, his voice calm but firm. "Iff, a haven for outcasts like us. Join me, or stay in this carnage." Tyrnat sneered, "A refuge? Weak. We take what we want." But Iff's idea planted a seed in his mind—a kingdom to conquer, perhaps. Weeks later, a demonic army emerged, led by a rival lord, Zar'keth, a hulking figure with iron horns astride a flaming steed. His legions marched on Iff, and the Styx Reapers, drawn by chaos, followed.
The Battle of Iff's Plains erupted in a deluge of fire and steel. Tyrnat summoned Tortegax, his spectral tortoise blocking assaults, while Yulius carved through enemy ranks, blood splattering the earth. Nera ensnared riders with her threads, their screams echoing into the night. But Bhaadon, defending Iff, repelled the attackers with telekinesis, his allies—Solom and Gota—at his side. The Styx Reapers, swayed by Zar'keth's promises of power, turned on Iff, laying the groundwork for its eventual fall. Amid the carnage, Tyrnat faced Bhaadon and spat, "Your dream dies here, hybrid."
The plain burned, flames licking scattered bodies. Tyrnat stood atop a hill, watching the horizon, his sickle dripping blood. "Iff will fall," he murmured, a dark smile on his lips. "And we'll rise from its ashes." Behind him, Yulius drove Massacre into a demonic skull, and Nera, her threads coiled around her doll, gazed at Tyrnat with silent devotion. Their legend had begun.