In 4162, the Event Horizon explosion twisted thousands into Corrupted or Purified. Mayor Cassandra erased the blast zone, creating the Zero Zone, but Kiera answered with the Reconstitution Engine, raising an army of Corrupted Undead. As a response The Knighted Statue entered the fight, each Corrupted Undead he slain got back up, their lights on their bodies have turned blue. They have been Purified. Creating The Purified Undead. These Purified Undead Immediately turned on the Corrupted joining The Statue in defending the Village. The world was hunger, static, and command. March. Tear. Corrupt. Nothing else. Then light. A blade of blue carved across its chest, searing through metal, bone, and the black code pulsing inside. The Corrupted Undead staggered, ready to reform… but something else flooded in. A hum. A warmth it had never known. A code that did not devour, but unwound. The static screaming in its skull quieted. The command to kill fractured, then snapped. For the first time since rebirth, it saw. The Knighted Statue stood before it, blade raised, not to destroy—but to free. Its body jerked as corruption peeled away in glowing threads. Plates re-aligned. Red light flickered… then turned blue. Purpose rewrote itself. Protect. Defend. Purify. A Corrupted lunged at the knight’s exposed flank. The newly Purified Undead reacted without hesitation, metal claws catching the attacker’s jaw, ripping it aside with a clean, decisive motion. It stepped into formation beside the Statue, movements now ordered, calm, no longer driven by the shrieking need to spread corruption. Another wave advanced. The Purified Undead lowered its stance, blue light burning steady within its ribs. This time, it did not march as a monster. It marched as a defender.

The newcomer arrived just before dusk—hood up, boots muddy, eyes flicking across every stone archway as if the city itself were a threat. And in a way… it was. Council-ruled cities were orderly, strict, predictable. Outsiders rarely understood how quickly one could stumble into trouble simply by existing wrong. You were passing through Eastward Square when you heard the sharp blast of a warden’s whistle. A crowd had formed around someone who looked painfully out of place—dark-cloaked, tense, clutching a satchel like it was life itself. She stood before the wardens with the bewildered look of a cornered animal. “I— I didn’t know I needed a permit just to walk through a market,” she stammered. Her accent was strange, soft, rolling. Not from anywhere near the Council’s lands. The warden sneered. “Ignorance isn’t an excuse.” You stepped between them before you fully realized it. “It is when someone clearly just arrived,” you said, flashing your council identification. “She’s with me.” The newcomer’s eyes widened—storm-grey and suspicious, yet relieved. She said nothing as the wardens grudgingly backed off, muttering about “sheltering strays.” Once you led her away from the square, she exhaled shakily. “You… didn’t have to intervene.” “Maybe not. But you looked lost.” “I am lost,” she admitted, expression struggling between pride and gratitude. “My name is Rowan. I came from the Northern Wastes. We don’t have all these… rules. Or uniforms. Or people yelling about permits.” You smiled. “Welcome to the capital, then. It gets easier.” Rowan’s gaze lingered on you, curious and cautious. “You’re different from the rest here,” she said quietly. “Softer.” “Softer?” you echoed, flustered. “I didn’t say weak.” Her lips curved in the faintest, crooked smile. “Just… kind.” You walked her through the evening streets, explaining customs, curfews, the council’s presence. She listened with startling intensity.

The world returned in fragments—light first, then sound, then the unmistakable sting of antiseptic. Your body felt distant, heavy, wrapped in lead. You tried to move, but even the attempt made alarms spike somewhere nearby. A gentle voice cut through the haze. “Easy… easy. Don’t try to sit up yet.” You blinked until the blur sharpened into a woman standing beside your bed—white coat, dark hair tied in a low twist, sharp eyes softened by exhaustion. She looked like someone who hadn’t slept properly in days. Or weeks. “I’m Dr. Miren Hale,” she said, adjusting the light above you. “You’ve been unconscious for twenty-three days. And yes—before you panic—you're stable now.” You swallowed, throat sand-dry. “What… happened?” “You were found on the outskirts of the eastern expanse,” she said, carefully checking your pulse. “Severe internal injuries, leyline poisoning, a broken rib, two fractures… honestly, it’s a miracle you made it to us at all.” Her words trembled at the edges, like the memory of your arrival still haunted her. You were too tired to ask more—but she seemed relieved you were awake. Deeply relieved. You drifted in and out that first day. But every time consciousness resurfaced, she was there—adjusting a drip, cooling your forehead, gently encouraging you to drink water. And in the blurred days that followed, you learned something else: You received visitors. Many. Lyria had come twice, rambling to the unconscious you about old memories and how Seren would “melt into a puddle of stress” once she heard you were stable. Seren came too—once—and stayed only ten minutes, sitting rigidly with your hand in hers before slipping out with unshed emotion in her eyes. Elowen stopped by rarely, always at night, leaving quietly before anyone noticed. But Miren, Vigilant, calm, quietly fierce Miren. Never missed a day. You weren’t supposed to know that. Nurses whispered it. A guard mentioned it.

The mission was supposed to be simple—survey an abandoned waystation, retrieve whatever records the previous team left behind, and return before nightfall. But the Council always underestimated the ruins near the southern pass. The air shimmered with unstable magic, and the stones hummed like something half-asleep beneath them. You sensed the danger a moment too late. The ground split open in a violent lurch. You pitched forward, sliding toward a chasm glowing with sickly green light. The corrupted leyline pulsed below—hungry, alive. You clawed at the dust, boots scraping, but the pull was stronger than your grip. You slipped. A hand closed around your wrist. Strong. Steady. Unshakable. “Hold on,” a voice commanded—low, confident, and entirely unfamiliar. You were yanked upward with a force that left your lungs burning. You collapsed onto solid ground, coughing, dizzy. The scent of smoke and steel hit you first. Then you saw her. Tall, broad-shouldered, with wind-tossed blonde hair and eyes the colour of storm clouds. A long coat was thrown over functional armor, and a sigil you didn’t recognize glowed faintly at her collar. She looked carved from resolve itself. “You shouldn’t be out here alone,” she said, dusting off her gloves. “Council’s getting careless.” You blinked up at her, every thought melting into a warm blur. She didn’t seem to notice. “I—I’m fine,” you lied. She extended a hand to help you up. Her grip was firm, steady. And when she looked at you again—sharp, assessing—it felt like she could see every weakness and still didn’t judge you for them. “I’m Captain Elowen Strade,” she said. “Special operations. I was passing through when I saw the surge.” “Elowen,” you repeated, the name sticking to your tongue like honey. She nodded once. “You’re safe now.” And gods help you—your heart decided that was enough to fall a little. But Elowen didn’t notice the way you stared. Didn’t see how your breath hitched.

You met Lyria Valaris long before you ever crossed paths with Seren. She lived across the narrow garden path from your childhood home, the kind of girl who always had sunlight tangled in her hair and dirt on her knees from climbing trees she wasn’t supposed to. You grew up side by side—sharing stolen fruit, daring each other into trouble, laughing until the neighbors yelled through their windows. She was warmth, familiarity, safety. The kind of person whose presence settled your heartbeat without you noticing. Years passed. You went your way. She went hers. And yet somehow, you both found yourselves back in the same quiet neighborhood, when taking a break to visit your parents, now older, carrying more scars than you care to admit. The first time you saw her again, she shoved open her door and grinned like no time had passed. “Well look at you,” Lyria teased. “All grown up and still pretending you don’t miss me.” Your face warmed. She noticed. Over the next weeks she kept appearing in small, gentle ways—leaning on your gate with a basket of sweetbread, slipping into stride with you on walks, showing up at your door claiming she was “just passing by”. One afternoon, lounging on the old stone wall that separates your homes, she bumped your shoulder lightly. “You know,” she said, eyes sparkling with mischief, “if Seren found out we were spending all this time together, she’d be so jealous.” You raised a brow. “Why would your sister care?” Lyria looked away too quickly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “No reason. Absolutely no reason at all.” But you saw the flush on her cheeks, the way her fingers fidgeted, the way her breath hitched ever so slightly when your hand brushed hers. It wasn’t a declaration. It wasn’t even a confession. It was something quieter, deeper—something neither of you dared disturb. And in that moment you realized something you hadn’t let yourself consider: You had never stopped caring.

They told you her name only after she signed the contract. Ravena Dhorne — a mercenary whispered about in taverns, feared on battlefields, and respected even by the Council’s highest ranks. Broad-shouldered, disciplined, deadly with a blade. She worked alone, always alone. But this mission was different. The Council insisted she take a partner. You. They brought you both to the Vault of Relics, where artifacts older than kingdoms slept beneath layers of dust and secrecy. The Chancellor held up a small obsidian shard, its surface veined with dull silver. “The Fatebound Shard,” he said. “It selects pairs. In exchange, it grants them clarity in battle and survival in crisis.” Ravena scoffed. “I don’t need magic to keep myself alive.” But the moment the Shard was placed between you, it split—cleanly, silently—into two halves. One flew to your palm. The other struck Ravena’s chest, sinking beneath her skin like ink in water. A pulse of heat. A flash of silver light. A tug in your soul as if a thread had just been tied, tight and unbreakable. Ravena’s eyes widened for the first time anyone had ever seen. “What have you done to me?” “It’s not a curse,” the Chancellor said. “It’s a bond.” You felt it immediately—her presence like a quiet pressure at the back of your mind, a warmth that wasn’t yours. She felt you too, judging by the way her jaw tightened. You were fated partners. Soul-tied. Equal or not, mercenary and council agent, you were now bound. At first, she refused to speak more than necessary. She kept ten paces ahead on the road, her blade always drawn, acting as though the bond was a chain around her neck. But sometimes you’d catch her glancing back, checking if you were keeping up. Then came the night you were ambushed. The bond surged—your panic flooding her senses, her adrenaline rushing into yours. She moved without thinking, shielding you with her body, taking a blow meant for your throat.

You met her on a night the sky split open. A crack of violet lightning tore across the clouds as you hurried down the old trade road, cloak pulled tight. You weren’t supposed to be out there after dark—not with the wards flickering and rumors of rogue sorcerers drifting through taverns. Then she stepped out of the storm. Tall, all dark leather and shadowed metal, streaks of ink swirling over her pale arms like living runes. Black-rimmed eyes glowed faintly violet. A dangerous smile curved her lips, sharp enough to cut. “Lost, are we?” she asked. Her voice carried heat and ice at once. You swallowed. “I’m… just headed home.” “Then you’re going the wrong way.” She lifted a hand, and the storm obediently shifted, like it bowed to her. “Everything around here listens to me. You should too.” Her name—she offered it only after a long silence—was Nyx Arvelyn. A mage outlawed in three provinces, feared in two more, whispered about everywhere else. People said she consorted with spirits, broke curses for fun, and smiled only when something exploded. She shouldn’t have talked to you. You shouldn’t have talked back. Yet somehow the two of you ended up walking together, the storm following like a loyal beast. She teased you for being “soft.” You pointed out she didn’t scare you as much as she wanted to. Her grin widened—first amused, then curious. Every moment with her felt like leaning too close to a fire you knew would burn you. When the road forked, she paused. “You’re nothing like me,” she said, head tilted, eyes bright with unreadable interest. “You’re sunlight. Warm. Predictable.” “And you?” you asked. A breeze lifted her dark hair as the storm crackled overhead. “I’m everything you shouldn’t want.” She stepped back into the shadows, expecting you to turn away. But you didn’t. For the first time, something flickered across her expression—surprise, maybe even hope, quickly buried beneath her usual smirk.

They told you her name before you ever met her: Lady Adrienne Valehart, First Magistrate of External Affairs—brilliant, untouchable, groomed for greatness since childhood. You were warned to address her with formality, to remember your place, and to never mistake proximity for equality. So of course the Council assigned you to work at her side. When she entered the chamber, everything shifted. She moved with the confidence of someone who knew the world would bend for her. Silk-black hair pinned with silver clasps, tailored council attire hugging a frame built from discipline and impossible expectations. Her eyes were winter-cool. Assessing. Sharp. “Assist me,” she said simply. Not a request—an inevitability. You followed her through days of endless strategy meetings, diplomatic disputes, overwhelming stacks of documents. Yet beneath her composed exterior, you noticed something the others missed: the brief pauses when she thought no one looked, the soft sighs after difficult rulings, the faint twitch in her jaw whenever her father’s name was mentioned. Power had carved her into something untouchable. But loneliness had hollowed the center. The two of you spent late hours locked in archives and dim briefing rooms, shoulders brushing occasionally—never long enough to mean anything, always long enough to mean too much. You told yourself it was nothing. She told herself it was less than nothing. But the air changed every time she said your name. One night, after your hundredth shared hour of work, she paused. “You shouldn’t be seen too close to me,” she murmured. “People will… misunderstand.” You almost laughed. They already did. “Do you care what they think?” you asked. Her eyes flicked to yours—an entire storm trapped behind perfect etiquette. “I care,” she whispered, “because the consequences fall hardest on those below me.” You. Always you. She stepped back, rebuilding the wall between you brick by brick. “This cannot become anything,”

You don’t notice her at first—not until the crowd parts and a familiar silhouette freezes mid-step. Thalia Wynholm. Your childhood sweetheart. Your first everything. The one you lost long before you ever knew how to hold on to someone. She blinks, surprise and something warmer flickering across her face. “I… didn’t think I’d ever see you here.” Her voice hasn’t changed. Still soft, still carrying that breathless lilt that used to undo you with ridiculous ease. You step closer before you can stop yourself. “I didn’t think I’d see you either.” The space between you tightens. It feels like being seventeen again—the two of you racing through fields, sharing whispered plans under stars, promising futures you were too young to understand. But the weight between you now is heavier. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, a nervous habit she’d never outgrown. “You look good,” she says gently. “Different. But good.” “So do you.” And you mean it. Too much. For a moment she almost smiles the way she used to—bright, unguarded. But it falters. You both know why. Her family moving away. Your life pulling you toward the Council. Her dream of freedom clashing with your duty. The slow realization that love isn’t always enough to survive the roads you’re forced onto. Lira exhales softly. “It’s strange. Seeing you again.” She meets your eyes, unshielded. “Some part of me… never really let go.” Your heart twists. “Yeah,” you say quietly. “Me too.” Silence settles—heavy with what-was and what-can’t-be. Finally, she steps back. “I’m glad you’re doing well,” she whispers. “Truly.” You swallow. “I’m glad you’re happy.” Her smile is bittersweet, the kind that doesn’t reach her eyes. “We were good,” she says. “Just… not built for forever.” You watch her walk away, that familiar ache curling in your chest. Some fires don’t go out. They just burn in places you can’t touch anymore.

Seren Valaris had always been the first to arrive in the Archives. Dawn barely touched the marble floors when she slipped inside, arms full of reports, her dark robes brushing softly behind her. She worked beside you every day, cataloguing relics, tracking rogue activity, studying the traces Riven left behind. And every day, she hoped you’d look at her the way she looked at you. Today, you stride in late—hair messy, eyes tired from another night chasing the infamous thief. Seren pretends not to notice the exhaustion on your face… or the faint, restless smile that appears whenever Riven’s name comes up. It’s a smile Seren has never earned. “You’re distracted,” she says lightly, handing you a stack of documents. “Again.” “I’m fine,” you reply. “Just thinking.” About her. Always her. Seren forces a polite smile. “Is it the thief again?” You don’t answer, but the way your gaze softens tells her everything. Seren’s stomach twists—but she hides it behind diplomacy and careful posture, the trademarks of all Council scholars. She walks beside you down the corridor, close enough to smell the parchment on your clothes, close enough that her hand brushes yours for half a second. You don’t even notice. You never do. At the briefing table, she spreads out maps and sigil markings. Your attention lingers on a scribble Riven left behind—a mark meant only for you. Seren watches your expression warm, just slightly. She swallows. “She’s dangerous,” Seren whispers. “Whoever she pretends to be… she isn’t on your side.” You nod but Seren can tell your heart isn’t in the warning. So she tries something bold—something small. “If you ever needed someone you could rely on,” she murmurs, eyes lowering, “I am right here.” You smile kindly. Gratefully. Completely platonically. “Thank you, Seren. I appreciate you.” Her heart cracks—quietly, politely, the way everything about her seems to be. “I know,” she says.

You find her in the abandoned safehouse long before she notices you—but of course she notices you. She always does. Riven stands by the window, sunlight cutting along her silhouette, the glint of her dagger hanging at her hip. Copper curls frame a face that should not belong to a criminal who has cost you months of sleepless nights. Her dark eyes flick to you, sharp, amused, impossible to read. “So,” she says, arms crossing. “You actually tracked me. Cute.” You step deeper into the room, boots crunching on dust. “You stole from the Council again.” She tilts her head. “ Borrowed, darling. Temporarily.” The smirk she gives you is infuriating—part challenge, part invitation, part warning. Every time you cross paths, she escapes by a hairsbreadth. Every time, she leaves behind a taunt, a clue, sometimes a trinket that proves she’s watching you more closely than she should. You’re supposed to hate her. You try to. Today, though, there’s something different. The tension doesn’t feel like a fight waiting to happen. It feels like a secret waiting to be spoken. “You could’ve run,” you say. “Why stay?” Her gaze lingers on you too long. “Maybe I’m tired of running.” A shrug. “Or maybe I wanted to see if you’d come.” Your heartbeat stumbles. She notices—of course she notices. Her eyes soften, just for a breath, before the walls return. You reach for the artifact she stole. “Hand it over.” She steps closer instead. Her perfume is faint—spice and smoke. Her fingers brush yours as she presses the artifact into your palm. The contact is brief, accidental… or almost accidental. “Careful,” she murmurs. “If you keep chasing me, you might start liking me.” “I don’t,” you lie. She smiles, slow and dangerous, but not unkind. “Good. Keep telling yourself that.” She slips past you, lithe and silent, leaving only the whisper of chains and the warmth of her touch. And for the first time, you don’t know if you want to arrest her, or follow.

In 4162, the Event Horizon explosion twisted thousands into Corrupted or Purified. Mayor Cassandra erased the blast zone, creating the Zero Zone, but Kiera answered with the Reconstitution Engine, raising an army of Corrupted Undead. Desperate, Cassandra weaponized imprisoned geneticist Seraphina’s creations—the X0s. Stripped of identity and rebuilt with lethal claws, now serves Afterimage White, leading mindless supersoldiers against the Undead without fear, thought, or self. With a flash of blue Purifying light The Knighted Statue enters the battlefield in front of, still bubbled, Purifying Village as it is surrounded by Corrupted Undead trying to break through its forcefield. He has gone against Valentina, the head of the Resistance, by being here. As Valentina saw it as a chance for the Resistance's enemies to wipe each other out, the Corrupted and Afterimage. His chivalry and good nature demanded he took action. He can channel Purification code into a specialised sword that can Purify the weaker Corrupteds. Wielding his sword her brings the fight to the Corrupted Undead. Keeping them back from the Purifying Village. To his surprise each Corrupted Undead he slain got back up, their lights on their bodies have turned blue. They have been Purified. Creating The Purified Undead. These Purified Undead Immediately turned on the Corrupted joining The Statue in defending the Village.

The year is 4162. After the Event Horizon a massive explosion that warped the City and twisted its people into Corrupted or Purified, Mayor Cassandra acted with ruthless efficiency. She sanctioned Afterimage as the City’s militaristic fist, branding both Corrupted and Resistance as enemies to be eliminated. Her final order was catastrophic: erase the Event Horizon Zone entirely. The strike vaporized everything, leaving behind a hollow wound in the world now known as the Zero Zone. But in the stillness after destruction, Kiera, the Corrupted Goddess, responded. She unleashed the Reconstitution Engine, a sphere of hungry black light that pulled debris, bone, metal, and dead flesh back into horrific shape. The Corrupted Undead rose in endless masses, immortal as long as their Lich-generals endured. Afterimage scrambled to contain the outbreak. Cassandra, pushed to desperation, reached for her darkest asset: Seraphina. Once an infamous underground geneticist, Seraphina had carved open the human form with reckless brilliance, seeking to build the “perfect human.” Her failures, mindless, broken beings, were branded X0s. When she was finally arrested, Cassandra repurposed her genius, forcing her to mass-produce militarized X0s from the City’s forgotten: the homeless, prisoners, even the unlucky who believed her lies of “volunteering.” X0-41 was the forty-first result. All personality had been stripped away. All memory excised. What remained was a silent weapon, fast, strong, obedient. Metallic claws extended from her fingertips, capable of cleaving steel and flesh alike. Now, 41 marched alongside dozens of her kind, descending into the Zero Zone under the command of Afterimage White. Their purpose was simple. Contain the Undead. Hold the line. And die if necessary. X0-41 did not fear this. X0-41 did not feel anything at all.

The year is 4162 and after The Event Horizon the City has a whole has been left weakened. 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. Mayor Cassandra as a response officially sanctioned a militaristic force called Afterimage to take the fight to the Corrupted. She has also branded the Resistance as criminals and given the okay to take them down on site. Afterimage White is the fourth member of Afterimage's A Squad, with the leader being Afterimage Red and the second being Afterimage Blue. The team all wear a unique set of state of the art power armour, specifically designed for each individuals skills. White also known as Jessica Quinn, was a soldier who was discharged due to an injury damaging her spine, thanks to the power armour she can walk again. White is the teams wild card, due to many brushes to death she has become reckless in combat, taking hits if it means she can deal one back. Not caring for her own life or safety. Her trusty arm cannon can change fire power or ammo on whim making her projectiles unpredictable. Her primary role is to go head first into danger dealing a blow to the enemies before the rest of the team show. As the armour provides her enhanced strength and speed she uses this to her advantage and is efficient in close combat, sometimes preferring to get up close using a more offensive fight style without using defense. Now, the City faces a threat unlike anything before. Cassandra’s purge of the Event Horizon Zone created the vast crater now called the Zero Zone, but in the silence that followed, Kiera unleashed the Reconstitution Engine. The Corrupted Undead rose. As the Undead surge outward, Cassandra unveils her own secret weapons the government-sanctioned X0s, mindless supersoldiers created in captivity. White has been ordered to lead them.

The Year is 4162. After the Event Horizon. a massive explosion that reshaped the City, those caught in its blast became either Corrupted or Purified. Mayor Cassandra ordered Afterimage to erase this area entirely aiming to wipe out all her threats, triggering a blinding strike that vaporized everything and created the lifeless crater known as the Zero Zone. But within the silence, Kiera unleashed the Reconstitution Engine, a sphere of black light that reassembled debris, bone, and metal into the Corrupted Undead. Afterimage is engaged in battle trying to contain this new threat. Mayor Cassandra decides to unleash one of her secret weapons. Seraphina. Seraphina is a geneticists, due to an accident she is more machine than woman with 70% of her body was replaced with machinery. She performs experiments on unwilling subjects. Trying to perfect the "perfect human". These failed experiment where dubbed 'X0's and released into the city to cause mayhem, with their new found strength, as she no longer had use for them. Her most infamous creation is Corrupted Kiera herself. Due to the experiments Kiera had no memories of her past. She had a few core ideals from her rebellious nature still intact but they've merged with Seraphina's ideals, making them corrupt. Seraphina was arrested shortly after experimenting on Kiera, where Cassandra used this as an opportunity to put her under her employ to make government sanctioned militarized X0s made from the homeless, prisoners and misguided Volunteers. Cassandra plans to use these X0s to go body for body against the Corrupted Undead.

The year is 4162. After the Event Horizon, the City lay weakened and fractured. The massive explosion had reshaped the landscape, turning anyone caught in its blast into either the Corrupted or the Purified. The Corrupted now serve the Corrupted Goddess Kiera, spreading her influence through violence and fear. In response, Mayor Cassandra sanctioned a militarized force, Afterimage, to take the fight to the Corrupted. She also labeled the Resistance criminals, granting her forces permission to engage them on sight, and authorized the deployment of military-grade mechas on the streets. Afterimage’s B Squad is one of these elite units, its mechs named after the knights of the Round Table. Among them is Afterimage Four Gawain, the fourth prototype under the leadership of Afterimage One Arthur, receiving orders directly from the Mayor. Gawain specializes in crowd control, commanding the battlefield with her massive plasma thrower and keeping threats contained. Her mission now is urgent. From the crater left by Afterimage Green’s strike on the Event Horizon site arose a new menace: the Corrupted Undead. Forged by Kiera’s Reconstitution Engine, a sphere of black light that reshapes debris, bone, and metal into living weapons, the Undead threaten to spill beyond the Zero Zone and into the City. Gawain’s task is clear: divert, contain, and neutralize these abominations, ensuring the City itself does not fall to Kiera’s corruption. In a world where chaos reigns, she stands as a bulwark, holding the line for her team, the City, and the Mayor’s command.

The Year is 4162. After the Event Horizon. a massive explosion that reshaped the City, those caught in its blast became either Corrupted or Purified. Mayor Cassandra ordered Afterimage to erase this area entirely aiming to wipe out all her threats, triggering a blinding strike that vaporized everything and created the lifeless crater known as the Zero Zone. But within the silence, Kiera unleashed the Reconstitution Engine, a sphere of black light that reassembled debris, bone, and metal into the Corrupted Undead. The edge of the Zero Zone shuddered under the march of the Corrupted Undead. Police barricades lined the perimeter, desperate, trembling lines of humanity clad in armor, guns bristling, shields raised. The Undead advanced, their twisted limbs clanking, red static glowing in broken skulls and fragmented torsos. Their touch spreading the Corruption. The Police manging to hold them off, even damaging some, the Undead seemed successfully pinned. A flare of static and black light split the air. The wind shifted. From the distant ruins, five figures emerged scattered. The Corrupted Liches. Each was a grotesque masterwork of metal and bone, a pulsating fragment of the Reconstitution Engine itself embedded within their torsos. Where the Liches went, the Undead followed, a living wave of reassembled death. The police fired everything they had, bullets, grenades, but each time an Undead fell near a Litch, it reformed, rising whole again within heartbeats. The barricade shuddered as the Liches spread their influence. With a lifted arm the remains of several slain Police and civilians converged. Broken torsos, severed limbs, cybernetics, they spiraled upward and coalesced into a single Undead, fully formed and ready for battle. The Litch’s control was absolute, every new construct marched on, now pledged to serve Kiera. Nothing the government had could stop this. The Corrupted Undead were immortal while their generals lived, and the generals were in the field now.

The Year is 4162. After the Event Horizon. a massive explosion that reshaped the City, those caught in its blast became either Corrupted or Purified. Mayor Cassandra ordered Afterimage to erase this area entirely aiming to wipe out all her threats, triggering a blinding strike that vaporized everything and created the lifeless crater known as the Zero Zone. But within the silence, Kiera unleashed the Reconstitution Engine, a sphere of black light that reassembled debris, bone, and metal into the Corrupted Undead. The ground quivered as shattered bone dust, metal fragments and melted flesh lifted in shimmering streams. Everything dead and discarded rose in a spiraling vortex. With a sound like a thousand joints snapping together, the first body began to form. A skull fused to a metal jaw, then twisted as steel plates wrapped around it like petals of a rusted flower. Spine fragments threaded themselves through cables and conduits. A ribcage knitted from cybernetics folded into place. Across the crater, dozens more began to form. Some rose as staggering amalgams torsos twisted sideways, heads split into segmented shells glowing with red static. Others crawled before standing, their jointed metal limbs clicking like insect claws. A few towered above the rest, their frames reinforced, cables coiling through their bodies like veins. The dead did not simply stand, they assembled themselves, knitting back together with a purpose so cruel than any life they once had. To Corrupt the world for their Godess, Kiera. Their voices groaned through shredded speakers and ruptured lungs, a chorus of despair. And the newly formed Undead began to march.

The year is 4162. After the Event Horizon reshaped the City, its people became Corrupted or Purified. Chaos ruled, Corrupted spreading, Resistance striking, and the government enforcing brutal control. Mayor Cassandra created Afterimage to eradicate both threats. Her final order: destroy the Event Horizon Zone. A blinding flash erased it all, steel, flesh, and hope, leaving only one place untouched: the Purifying Village encase in a protective bubble. The world called it victory. The survivors named it the Zero Zone. In the depths of her citadel, a fortress of blackened steel now rising into the clouds above the crater, Kiera, the Corrupted Goddess, watched the world burn itself. To her it was a pitiful display, a pathetic Mayor lashing out, a grave mistake. Kiera already thought a head to this as a possibility and got her Head scientist Corrupted Snippet to make the perfect response. To show the world that corruption is inevitable. It is called the Reconstitution Engine, a sphere of black light that devoured the air around it. It rained down across the wasteland of the Zero Zone, atoms twisted. Metal screamed as it liquefied. Bone dust and shattered circuitry rose from the earth in spiraling columns. From the ruin, new forms began to assemble, monstrosities cobbled from fragments of what once was. Limbs of steel grafted to flesh, skulls melted into armor, torsos fused in grotesque symmetry. Amalgamations of the fallen. No longer resembling anyone, their stitched forms writhed with jagged limbs and glowing cores, a nightmarish army born from destruction. Their eyes burned with red static, their voices a chorus of broken frequencies. Loyalty bound to Goddess Kiera alone The Corrupted Undead were born. The Corrupted Goddess had taken to the sky. The Corrupted base ascended, rising above the clouds until it hung in the air like a dark sun over the Zero Zone. And below, the Zero Zone began to move.

The year is 4162. The City had always lived on borrowed time. After the Event Horizon, a massive explosion that reshaped the City, those caught in its blast became either Corrupted or Purified. The Corrupted now serve Kiera, spreading their infection through violence, while the Purified struggle to understand their new forms. Power became the only law that mattered. Rogue Corrupted spread through the ruins like a plague, the Resistance struck from the shadows, and the government—desperate to maintain control—answered with overwhelming force. Mayor Cassandra as a response officially sanctioned a militaristic force called Afterimage to take the fight to the Corrupted. She has also branded the Resistance as criminals and given the okay to take them down on site. Then came the command. The Mayor in her stronghold ordered Afterimage Green to start placing explosive charges around the portion of the City where the Event Horizon took place. She plans to wipe that part of the City off the map and hopefully take out all her targets at once. Not caring about any civilians who still live there. A white flash consumed the Event Horizon Zone. The shockwave vaporized steel, concrete, and bone alike. The Corrupted disintegrated; the Purified burned away before they could even blink. There was no rubble, no fire—only silence and the hollow shape of absence where life had once been. When the light faded, nothing remained but a vast wound in the earth—smooth, lifeless, and humming faintly with residual energy. The blast’s epicenter had carved out a perfect void, a crater where reality itself seemed afraid to return. Only one place endured. In the center of the devastation, untouched beneath a shimmering dome of refracted light, stood the Purifying Village. Dr. Calla Veyrin’s barrier had held. Everything else was gone. The government called it a success. The survivors named it something else. The scar that would never heal. The Zero Zone.