Prelude 1The Beginning of the End

In the days when the cosmos still held its breath in wonder, there existed a realm of such magnificence that even the stars themselves would pause in their eternal dance to gaze upon its splendour. This was Shen, the great continent where the Five Elements danced in perfect harmony, each one a thread in the grand tapestry of civilization.

To the east, where the first light of dawn lit the earth, stretched the Verdant East—a realm where Wood, the first elemental breath from the soul, held sway. Here, the giant forests rose like ancient guardians, their peaks crowned with clouds that seemed to touch the very heavens. The scent from the camphor linger in the air, and the Ginkgo groves’ jade shimmer caught by the reflections in the sacred springs. Waters flowed in silver ribbons across the world, carrying with them the essence of benevolence. Four kingdoms stood proud in this emerald realm, their warriors moving with the grace of wind carrying petals of wonderous hues, their honour as unyielding as the ancient forests that had witnessed countless generations.

Southward, where the sun burned brightest, Fire reigned supreme—the warmth that kindled the spirit’s flame. Volcanic peaks rose like great altars to the sky, their slopes adorned with tropical splendour that seemed to burn with an inner light. The Vermilion Empire and its nearby colourful kingdoms and tribes celebrated with rituals that filled the air with calming incense and music that echoed across the continents like heartbeats. Here, propriety gave the world its warmth, moderating the energy that flowed through all things, and through ritual came honour that bound the people together.

To the west, where the sun set in glory, Gold held minds—the unyielding will that served as the world’s guiding light. The Golden Country of the West was the most mythical of all lands, where snowy mountains glowed like crystals that caught and reflected the light in a thousand colours. Mythical creatures not found elsewhere moved through these sacred peaks, and the kingdoms and tribes found unity under the spiritual leaders of the Golden Order, who guided all who sought enlightenment. Righteousness was the path here, the guiding principle that led souls towards the Way.

Northward, where the waters stretched to the horizon, Water held sway—wisdom as deep as the ocean itself. The Oceanic North was a realm of countless islands, each one connected by graceful wooden fleets with curved prows and sails that caught the wind like the wings of dragonflies. The people revered the deep ocean that held mysteries and life beyond counting. The three states of the North were led by virtuous prime ministers who followed the wisdom of the Tianzi—the foremost virtuous monarch, chosen by the predecessor and the ministers, abiding to Celestial code inscribed in the stars. Here, wisdom flowed like the tides, guiding all decisions with the depth of the eternal sea.

And at the centre of it all, Earth held the world together—integrity as strong as the very foundation of the land that carried all. The Heartland Empire, ruled by the noble Emperor, was a realm of lush lands and flourishing cities, where canals crisscrossed the landscape like veins carrying life to every corner. Here, the four classes of citizens lived in harmony: the scholars who studied the ancient texts and guided the empire’s wisdom, the artisans who crafted beautiful works of jade and silk, the merchants who connected distant lands through trade, and the agrarians who tilled the sacred earth. Among these, the Emperor held the agrarians in the highest esteem, for he understood the custodians of the land—for generations the soil had nourished their souls, and the agrarians plowed the land to feed the people. Their hands, calloused from working the earth, were considered the most blessed, for they understood the five seasons and how to thrive in accordance.

At the very heart of this magnificent continent stood the Celestial Tower—an impossibly tall spire that seemed to pierce the very fabric of the sky itself. It rose from the centre of the Heartland, like a giant pillar holding up the heavens, its base rooted so deep in the earth that it touched the very core of creation, while its peak stretched so high that it seemed to brush against the stars themselves. The Tower was more than mere architecture; it was the great divide between the mortal realm below and the Celestial Firmament above, a boundary as sacred as it was magnificent. At night, when mortals looked up from their homes and fields, they could see the Celestials faintly as stars in the beautiful sky, legend has it that each spark was a glow from a Celestial palace, each constellation a glimpse into the divine realm above.

The world was harmonious then, and people knew this truth in their hearts. They felt it in the promise of the rising sun, the gentle glow of the moon, the shimmer of the stars. The Tower stood always still, always constant, a glowing beacon in the vastness of the cosmos, its presence a reminder that the balance between heaven and earth was forever and unbreakable.

But even the most forever of things can begin to fade, and so it was that the first signs of the world’s unraveling came not with a great crash or a terrible storm, but with something so subtle that most barely noticed it at all.

One of the Celestial Tower’s hues dimmed ever so slightly.

The Tower still stood tall and proud, still touched the heavens and rooted the earth, but its light had lost just a fraction of its former brilliance. Those who took notice dismissed it as a trick of the eye, a passing cloud, or simply the way the light fell at different times of day. Then there were the inquisitive scholars, whose wary voices fell on deaf ears or dismissed as inauspicious doomsayers, for the world was still beautiful, seemingly prosperous.

Unreachable to the mortal eyes, beneath the surface of this apparent prosperity, the elements that held the world together were beginning to dwindle. Below the Tower’s foundation, deep beneath the earth where souls fell to be forgotten, the Shadows were whispering. Their voices were soft at first, like the rustling of leaves in a distant forest, but they carried with them a message of decay that slowly seeped above the surface realm.

The noble warriors who had once fought with martial arts honour found gratification in victories. They trained not to cultivate their minds, but to feed their own pride and bloodlust, and aggression bred feuds. Kingdoms that had once stood as brothers began to turn against one another, scarring the Verdant East with violence and vandetta.

Where fire had once brought warmth and concord to all, the Vermilion Empire found itself under siege by opportunists from neighbouring kingdoms. Their fires charred and music turned fiery, the drums roared with hunger for battle, their rituals becoming empty ceremonies that paraded power. The great volcanoes that had once burned with the energy of the spirit began to lose their control, the South churning dark smog as nearby wildfire ran rampant.

Where Gold had once illuminated the path to enlightenment, people began to forget the guiding light that had led them for so long. The spiritual leaders of the Golden Order found themselves struggling to inspire. Their calligraphy rushed with distracted minds, and words falling on ears that had grown callous to monotone calls of righteousness. The peaks began to lose their snow, the mythical creatures vanished into folklores, and their once-luminous peaks growing dull and lifeless.

In the North, where ocean had once brought wisdom as deep as the ocean, the search for the next Tianzi became a podium of intellectual superiority and analytical fluff. The prime ministers could not agree on who should lead them. The size of their gauze hats decided the volume of their voice, debates growing more heated with their ego and less fruitful each passing day. The waters that had once flowed with the wisdom of the ages grew restless and turbulent, their depths hiding secrets that none bothered to explore within.

And in the Heartland, where Earth had once held the world together with unbreakable integrity, the courts became a gardens overgrown with weeds—a breeding ground of deceit and glutton. Power plays and political machinations replaced the noble governance that had once guided the empire, the people deprived of their livelihood, and the very earth beneath their feet began to crack and crumble. It was as if the land itself was rejecting the corruption that had taken root and draining the soil dry.

The shadows whispered louder now, their voices growing from soft rustlings to insistent murmurs that echoed through the empty places of the world. The Tower’s glow continued to dim, its light growing weaker with each passing year, though still most chose to ignore the signs that were written in the very fabric of their reality.

Five hundred years after the earliest hints of decline, the world’s slow unravelling reached its limit. The murmurs of shadow became thunderous, and the age-old nightmare—known by countless names, but remembered most as Móyuān—returned to swallow the world into its abyssal torment.

When the ancient terror answered the doomsayers, Móyuān dragged its hideous heap out of the depths of the Oceanic North. The gargantuan beast, taller than mountains, its arrival can no longer be denied. Survival demanded the kingdoms of the world with no choice but to unite. Though their alliance was born not of friendship but of desperate necessity, they came together as strangers bound by fear, their ancient rivalries set aside, for the alternative was annihilation.

Móyuān was a creature of such terrible magnificence that it seemed to exist beyond the boundaries of mortal understanding. Its form was a shifting amalgamation of nightmares—here the scaled hide of a dragon, there the grasping claws of a great beast, elsewhere the writhing serpents of some deep-sea horror. Its body seemed to exist in multiple places at once, parts of it appearing and disappearing as if it were constantly phasing between different realms of existence. Its eyes, when they could be seen through the swirling darkness that surrounded it, held depths of suffering so profound that to look into them was to glimpse an abyss of agony and torment that seemed to stretch into the endless darkness.

The creature moved with a terrible grace, its massive form dragging across the ocean floor like a living shadow, leaving behind a trail of corrupted water that turned the once-clear depths black with despair. Its very presence seemed to warp the fabric of reality around it, making the air thick with an oppressive weight that pressed down on the souls of all who witnessed its approach. It was not evil in the way that mortals understood—it was something far more terrible, something born from the cosmos’ pain and misery that had been incubating in the hearts and minds for a hundred years of inbalance.

The Oceanic states were the first to face the horror, their mighty armada launching every cannon and arrow they possessed against the amorphous beast. But their weapons passed through Móyuān’s shadowy form like arrows through mist, leaving no mark upon its terrible corpus. The beast continued its relentless advance, dragging its horrific body across the ocean floor, leaving behind a trail of destruction that turned the once-clear waters ink black with unnatural stillness.

In the West, the spiritual leaders of the Golden Order found themselves struggling to comprehend ancient wisdom nor remember the incantations that had once repelled darkness. They had grown unfamiliar with their own cultivation of the Way, their light dimmed by years of complacency in the comfort of their grand monestaries. When they tried to inspire warriors to continue fighting, their notes fell flat, their once-brilliant guidance now as dull as the mountains that had lost their glow. The sacred mountain crystals, once revered for their magical power and gathered in hopes of repelling Móyuān, had lost their glow. When wielded against the nightmare, their light sputtered and died, leaving them utterly powerless—no trace of their legendary magic could touch the enemy’s shadow.

The Fire Empire’s mightiest generals led their armies with weapons that had once been the envy of the world—thunderous cannons and burning catapults that could level mountains, fires that could burn through steel. But their most powerful weapons had no effect on the shadowy terror that continued its advance. The fires that had once brought warmth and light to the world now seemed like vanguished candles against the overwhelming darkness that Móyuān represented.

The Verdant East’s warriors, masters of martial arts refined over countless generations, hurled themselves at Móyuān with fearless resolve. They leapt and scaled its mountainous, shifting form, searching desperately for a vulnerable point—somewhere to drive a blade, a pressure point to strike, a seam in the monstrous hide. But the beast offered no such weakness: its body was an ethereal mess of scales, shadows, and writhing forms, each surface dissolving or shifting as soon as they touched it. Their most precise strikes and boldest techniques found no purchase, their weapons passing through mist or rebounding from impenetrable darkness. Honour and courage, once their greatest strengths, became their undoing as they climbed and attacked again and again, only to find that Móyuān could not be wounded, nor even truly grasped.

And when the last line of defense fell—when the Heartland Imperial forces, the greatest army the world had ever known, stood alongside mighty machines of war—mobile towers that rolled across the battlefield, catapulting boulders and launching fiery arrows in desperate volleys—Móyuān simply trampled through them all, crushing soldiers and war engines alike as if they were ants beneath a giant’s foot. The true horror began to unfold.

As mortals watched in helpless terror, their proudest armies were crushed like insects beneath Móyuān’s advance. The palaces and cities that had taken generations to build, the hard work and dreams of countless souls, began to dissipate before their very eyes, consumed by the shadowy terror that grew larger, and larger.

The sacred springs that once nourished the land began to darken, their crystal waters turning thick and inky, swirling with shadows that seemed to writhe beneath the surface. Where children once played along the banks, laughter echoing in the sunlight, now a chilling silence reigned. The tainted waters crept outward, black tendrils snaking through the reeds and grass, pulling at the ankles of the unwary. One by one, villagers and children alike were being trapped as they fled across the streams, their feet slipping on the mud as if compelled by an unseen force. Some vanished beneath the surface without a sound, swallowed by the darkness that dragged them down, their cries muffled by the corrupted depths. The springs, once a source of life, had become a gateway to despair, claiming all who strayed too close into their abyssal embrace.

Fires ran rampant through the jungles, scorching everything in their path. Villagers found themselves trapped, the flames closing in from all sides. They had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, and as the smoke filled their lungs and the heat seared their skin, they could only hold each other close and wait for the end that seemed inevitable.

As the crystal mountains lost their glow, fissures split their ancient faces and boulders tumbled down in thunderous avalanches. The monasteries—repositories of millenia of magic, art, and wisdom—stood helpless beneath the onslaught. Within their halls, stories and histories had been painstakingly etched into stone tablets, painted onto silk scrolls, and sculpted into statues: the secrets of cultivation, the chronicles of legendary sages, the very heart of enlightenment. Now, as the mountains cracked, these treasures of knowledge and beauty were being buried beneath falling rocks, their light snuffed out. Young monks, who had devoted their lives to learning and preserving these arts, were swallowed by the darkness along with the wisdom of ages, as if the world itself was erasing its memory, forgetting the magic and history ever existed.

On the oceans, fleets of ships—crowded with people both young and old—were tossed helplessly on the wild, heaving waves. The vessels, battered and leaking, took on water faster than desperate hands could bail it out. Families and strangers alike huddled together in the cramped holds, clutching one another as the sea surged around them, their faces pale with fear and resignation. As water seeped in through the cracks and pooled around their feet, they embraced their loved ones, sharing what might be their final moments together, watching the storm to devour their refuge.

Before the Celestial Tower, the Heartland Emperor watched in terror as his army collapsed before his eyes. He had been the most powerful ruler in the world, the guardian of the balance that had sustained all things. But now he stood helpless, watching as the very foundation of his empire crumbled beneath the advance of an enemy that seemed to exist beyond mortal comprehension. He looked up at the Celestial Tower, the great spire that has always been, and saw Móyuān’s shadowy form reaching toward the very spine of the world.

Móyuān’s claws latched onto the Celestial Tower, and with a sound that seemed to echo through the very fabric of reality itself, it made a crack in the eternal spire. The Tower, which had stood constant and unbreakable for countless generations, began to show signs of weakness, its light flickering like a candle in a storm.

The sky torn asunder, the stars dimmed their lights. As the world of Shen prepared itself to enter an endless night, when the very fabric of reality trembled beneath Móyuān’s shadowy advance, five stars shone in the darkened sky. The world called for its Five Daughters, and the Celestial Princesses answered.