What Aroan called ‘the world’ was a wound that never closed, screaming beneath it's own skin.

The era before the collapse, the one whispered about in folklore, had never promised a happy ending. It was a time devoid of boundaries, utterly lacking in pity. The concept of negotiation to avert violent conflict—to save one's life through words—was an obsolete, forgotten language. Here, in the present, violence was the only dialect understood, the answer breathed with every stale gasp of air.

Civilization did not fall in a single moment—it spoiled slowly, eaten alive by its own sins, until it's final screams blended into the noise of the invasion.