The Fading Chant

The world of Divine once thrummed with a melody so vivid it made every dawn feel like a promise. Across crowded cities and quiet villages, children grew up hearing stories of the Chant—a song said to weave magic into rivers, forests, even the hearts of people themselves. It was the world's first language, the quiet harmony that gave power to mages and purpose to the kingdoms they served.

No matter how divided the lands grew or how fiercely rulers fought for territory, the Chant remained constant. Its melody kept monsters slumbering in deep woods, storms gentle over fragile crops, and people bound by an unspoken peace. But like a song played too long, the notes of Divine began to slip.

No one knows when the silence started. Some blame the fierce competition among the great magic academies, their endless pursuit of new spells draining more Manna from the world each year. Others whisper of greedy kings whose wars forced mages to cast forbidden magics, chipping away at the Chant's harmony. Few cared at first. The skies darkened a bit earlier; the winds carried a strange, hollow chill. But as years passed, the silences grew longer. Magic felt… wrong. Unpredictable.

Mages who once conjured fire with a flick found their flames sputtering or flaring out of control. Healing spells backfired, leaving burns instead of closing wounds. Animals began acting oddly: flocks of crows circling the same tower for days without resting; deer howling in the dead of night. Fields failed with no sign of drought. Even the sunrises looked sickly, tinged in shades of purple and bruised green.

Academies that taught magic scrambled to hide the truth from their students. The heads of powerful families met in secret, their gatherings full of hushed arguments and desperate bargains. But as the silence swallowed more of the Chant, it birthed something else—a new sound pulsing at the world's edges.

Where harmony faded, an unsettling beat rose: a rhythm not of nature but of hunger. This twisted music called out to the ruthless and the lost, offering them power in exchange for feeding the darkness. One man heard that call louder than anyone. He embraced the rotting notes of negative Manna, letting its poison sink into his bones. His magic grew monstrous, his power unchecked by the limits of the dying Chant. He became the Devil King, and in him, the world's silence found a voice.

He did not need armies. Word of his power spread faster than steel. Entire villages pledged loyalty out of fear, hoping a single chant from him would not wipe them from the map. Magic beasts once content to roam deep forests began crawling into cities, eyes burning with red light. They obeyed him as if born to his will. Lightning storms, black as midnight, rolled across kingdoms, swallowing farmland and leaving only scorched earth. And every time he appeared, the air itself went mute—like the world was too afraid to breathe.

As the Devil King's shadow spread, kingdoms shifted from open war to cold standoffs. Armies moved under cover of night, wary of attracting his gaze. Border towns fortified overnight, raising walls that only slowed the inevitable. Markets fell quiet, taverns emptied by dusk. And throughout Divine, a quiet certainty sank into every heart: the world was ending, note by note.