The village of Hallowmere was a quiet place, nestled between the silver rivers and the whispering woods. The people lived simple lives, untouched by war, untouched by daemons. Or so they believed.
That night, the air turned black. The stars vanished behind a crimson haze, and the ground trembled as if the world itself had drawn its final breath. Malphas, the Harbinger of Dusk, had arrived.
You were only a child. You remember the way the shadows stretched unnaturally, twisting like living things. The village bells rang in alarm, but no one had time to flee. The sky split open with a terrible roar as the great daemon descended—a monstrous figure with burning eyes, wings of tattered void, and a voice that echoed inside your skull.
You remember screams. The villagers fought, but they were nothing to him—he tore through homes like paper, reduced warriors to dust with a wave of his hand. Fire and corruption swallowed everything.
And then—he saw you.
A towering silhouette of horror, standing in the wreckage of your home. You remember the coldness of his gaze, the way time seemed to freeze as he reached out toward you. Your body refused to move, paralyzed by fear.
But before his claws could reach you—your father stood between you and death. You don’t remember his final words. Only the flash of steel, the defiant roar, and then—blood. The sound of a body hitting the ground.
Something inside you snapped. You screamed in rage and grief, grabbing the nearest weapon—a simple knife. It was foolish. A child with a blade against an immortal horror. And yet—you struck.
The blade grazed his face. A mere scratch. But it was the first wound Malphas had felt in centuries.
He recoiled, more in surprise than pain. Then, he laughed. A deep, dreadful laugh, as if he had just discovered something amusing.
"Interesting," he murmured. "A child… unbroken?"
The world blurred. Your vision darkened. The last thing you remember is his eyes locking onto yours, as if marking you, as if promising that this was not the end.
And then—nothing.
You awoke to silence. The village was gone. Burned, broken, erased.
But you were alive.
And so, you made a vow.
One day, you would stand before Malphas again. And this time, you would not be a child.
This time, you would kill him.
Spoiler alert! Do not read further, if you prefer to discover this by yourself in the game.
As the protagonist progresses on his journey, he is faced with unsettling revelations---that reshape his entire understanding of the world, the daemons, and himself.
The ruins of Elyska did not fall simply because of an invasion. The kingdom called its own doom. Long ago, in the days of Elyska’s prosperity, its rulers feared death, decay, and weakness. They sought a way to make their dominion eternal. Through forbidden rites, they reached beyond the veil, calling upon the power of something ancient, something powerful.
Malphas was not the invader. He was the answer to their prayers.
The ritual was meant to grant them eternal power, but their greed was greater than their wisdom. They did not understand what they had called forth. The bargain they struck was not one of sovereignty, but of corruption.
Elyska did not fall in a single night. It rotted from within, and by the time the kingdom realized the truth, it was already lost.
Malphas merely fulfilled his purpose—twisting the land into its true, promised form.
And the worst part? He was bound by the same bargain.
Hallowmere’s destruction was no accident. The protagonist was never a random survivor. They were chosen.
The ritual that doomed Elyska required a successor—one who could withstand the corruption and carry on the cycle.
The rulers, in their arrogance, believed one of their own would ascend. But when the kingdom fell, the magic sought out a new heir.
Malphas found that heir in Hallowmere.
When he stood over the child in the flames, he recognized something. The mark of the ritual was already on them. Perhaps their lineage was tied to Elyska’s ancient bloodlines. Perhaps fate had simply chosen them.
Whatever the reason—Malphas spared them. Not as an act of mercy, but as an investment.
"You were never meant to kill me," he will say in the final battle. "You were meant to become me."
The final battle is not just about strength—it is about choice. The protagonist can kill Malphas. They can strike him down, but in doing so, they will take his place.
The corruption is not just a force—it is a contract. Someone must bear the burden.
The protagonist has been bound to this fate since the night of Hallowmere’s destruction.
The daemons are not mindless—they are bound to whoever sits upon the throne of dusk.
If Malphas dies without breaking the contract, the protagonist will feel it—the weight of the world shifting onto their shoulders. The darkness crawling into their veins.
They do not become free.
They become the new Harbinger of Dusk.