It was probably a few eons past the beginning of time, that the Four Great Kingdoms came into existence. Aertha - Kingdom of Earth, Esperanore - Land of Hope, Fahdur - Land of Riders and Kalldohd, the Lost Kingdom. Sages of Aertha, Wielders from Esperanore, Riders of Fahdur and Kalldohd’s Warshieldians were both the protectors and defenders of their realms. This, the Records of the Ruin do tell us.

Times have passed without the whispers of the old ways. And now so little left of the old ways, that some fear all is lost in the Void. The Void. Piece or whole. It’s a mountain as surely as a molehill. Calm engulfed in rage. A beast watching, waiting to be unleashed. Light and dark, burned into one. Feared even by the Gods, it is the One.

This fear sparks Great Wars ever so often, the last of which, lasted a full one hundred and seventy years. Darkness and death ruled the lands, governed by misery and pain. A war fought on four sides, by the Four Kingdoms, when none knew not where the next arrow would land. The carnage of such was never seen. The skies turned red. The dead filled the seven hells. Few who stood in the end wished otherwise. But this was just the beginning.

***

Now the Wielders knew that the one who conquered the Void, conquered all. The Wielders of Far had seen the prophecies. He would be worshipped as a God among men. He would be God. But they wanted one of their own on the throne. They saw it as an opportunity to have one of their own at the helm. Power. Control. How small these words were and how large they could change the very basic nature of the mind. Their lust for power, kept the prophecy from seeing the Light for nearly a hundred years until Lance, the first free Rider and a Wielder, published the truth and distributed it across the Four Kingdoms. What followed was a serious of wars similar to the Great Wars, smaller in magnitude but no less devastating, and the whole lands plunged into a state of random chaos. For three hundred years battles and conquests, killings and sufferings ruled the heart of the lands, that the whole world was sure to be doomed.

The worst to suffer were the Kalldohdians. Ruled by ten Governors of the Old Ways, they were victorious in the beginning. But the Governors were blind for power and plotted against one another as much as they fought against the other Kingdoms. Soon their armies were lost half to civil war and the other half paid as a meaningless sacrifice in hopeless battles.

Then hope arrived in the most unexpected of ways.

***

Little can be said about the river flowing at the foot of the Urahara Mountains, and even little about the inhabitants along its bank. One Varthur Vander, lived a quiet life, deep inside the forests on the other side of the bank. He hunted the animals that terrorized the folk from the village and farmed what allowed itself to be grown on the Urah Soil. In another life he had been a Rider, in Fahdur. Giving up his old life, had been the hardest choice he had to make and all the attractions of his old life still surfaced from time to time. Truth be told, he had not completely quit it yet. For who can live without breathing?

It was a normal day under a normal sun. He was on his way home, after having sold all the meat he had hunted in the past week. As he was about to turn and catch the sun’s final rays for the day, a violent explosion rocked the ground and he was suddenly thrown into the air. Falling twenty feet from where he last stood, the wind knocked him right out.

It could have been a few hours or day or even a week. How long was he unconscious? Gathering himself up, he looked around him. The whole mountain was reduced to a flat piece of land. The houses, trees and everything solid had been reduced to a pile of dust. And the dust now lay scattered by the wind in four directions. Pure chance had nothing to do with him being left unscathed. He knew it was time.

***

Gidan, Keeper to the Gods, Chronicler, Master Writer, stormed into the palace. The royal palace was one of a kind, built in the clouds and floating on thin air, it was. Lightning electrified the palace and thunder struck a sweet rhythm that few musicians could match. The design itself was simple, yet it commanded a majestic presence. Making his way to the Grand Centre Hall, Gidan noticed that the number of guards were half the original. When he reached the Hall, he found the One Throne empty; a hundred questions filled him and a thousand possibilities he saw. Yet he could not fathom beyond what was a simple known fact.

Maachin Tshu, Lord of the lords, Protector and Defender of the Realm was gone! It only meant one thing.

***

Far down, about 100 miles east of the royal palace, Agraharr Van Crone was the first to hear thunder roar before lightning lit up the throne. It was always the other way round. Wasn’t it? Riding further east he came towards a small clearing just outside the city of Surin. His people had camped there for the past few days, without any trouble. Each was a good man. But not a Rider of the Fall. He was. A rider who never lost, A rider who knew when the fight was coming.

Three hundred men followed him. Three hundred, ready to march and kill on his word. Few were trained soldiers. And yet all would die for him without a second thought. His word. He shuddered at the thought. He would not risk another’s life where he would not his. He hoped they would see sense. But Glory and Death was all they saw. Glory and Death.

Moving towards the fire at the center so that all could hear him clearly, Agraharr waited till everyone’s eyes settled on him. “There is a war out there. Not a war between right and wrong, but a war for the One Throne. The War of the Gods. You may win or lose today. You may live or die. But remember, no matter what happens today, the Records will speak of you as Soldiers of Liberation.” when Agraharr Van Crone finished speaking, the thunder above morphed into a distant heartbeat

“For glory! For death!” each of them cheered.

They were after all to become the Riders of the Fall.

***