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Few hours Before the Great Ashing.

New York City hummed with its usual frenetic energy. A million stories unfolded on its crowded streets, each person caught in the daily ballet of ambition, survival, and routine. The towering skyscrapers, monuments to human ingenuity, seemed to pierce the sky, oblivious to the tremors of unease that occasionally rippled through the city's undercurrents.

On this particular day, the air crackled with anticipation – a major financial summit was underway, attracting dignitaries and CEOs from across the globe.

Then, the world tilted on its axis.

A low rumble, like the growl of a slumbering beast, echoed from the depths of the earth. It was a sound that vibrated in the bones, a primal warning that something was terribly wrong. Before anyone could react, the rumble intensified into a deafening roar.

BOOOOOOOM

The ground lurched violently. A shockwave, invisible yet palpable, slammed into the city. Screams erupted, a chorus of terror that drowned out the cacophony of urban life. A colossal skyscraper, its glass facade shimmering moments before, began to buckle and twist, as if some giant hand were crushing it. Debris rained down – shards of glass, chunks of concrete, twisted metal – a deadly shower that sent people scrambling for cover.

Panic seized the city. People ran blindly, driven by instinct, not knowing where to go, only that they had to escape the collapsing building, the shaking ground, the growing sense of dread. Another explosion, even more powerful than the first, ripped through the air, sending a fresh wave of terror through the fleeing crowds.

This wasn't just a local disaster. Reports began flooding in from around the world – similar explosions, similar scenes of chaos and destruction. Humanity was under attack, but the enemy remained unseen, unknown. Confusion quickly morphed into fear, then into a chilling premonition of something far worse to come.

In Europe, an emergency world summit was hastily convened. The Red Dragons, a self-proclaimed group of Asian representatives, had issued a chilling statement, claiming responsibility for understanding the situation but offering no explanation for the cataclysmic events.

Their cryptic message spoke of a threat to the planet, a danger so immense that it could extinguish all life.

The summit hall buzzed with nervous energy. World leaders, normally so composed, were visibly shaken. They whispered amongst themselves, their faces etched with worry. The Red Dragons' spokesperson, a man with piercing eyes and an unnervingly calm demeanor, took the podium.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, his voice cutting through the murmurs, "we are gathered here today under the gravest of circumstances. Something is happening to our world, something that threatens our very existence. The explosions you have witnessed are merely the opening salvo in a war against humanity, a war waged by forces we do not yet fully comprehend. If we do not act swiftly, if we do not find the cause of these devastating events, we face the very real possibility of losing everything – our planet, our civilizations, our lives."

As he spoke, a security officer, his uniform disheveled and his face ashen, burst into the hall. He rushed towards the President of the United States, his voice trembling. "Mr. President! It's… it's far worse than we feared! The explosions… they weren't the real attack. They were a distraction. Look!"

The officer gestured towards a large screen that had been set up for the summit. The image on the screen, captured by satellite, showed a vast, swirling cloud of ash spreading across the globe. "It's covering the sky," the officer stammered, "blocking out the sun. And… and the reports we're getting… the ash… it's acidic! It's melting everything it touches!"

A collective gasp filled the hall. The whispers intensified, now laced with outright panic. The US President, his face grim, raised his hand, trying to restore order. But even as he spoke, a sense of impending doom settled over the assembly. The world was changing, plunging into an era of darkness and decay.

...The satellite images painted a grim picture. The swirling ash cloud, initially localized, had spread with terrifying speed. It was no longer just a cloud; it was a shroud, a suffocating blanket that enveloped the entire planet. The vibrant blues and greens of Earth were being consumed by a sickly purple haze, a cosmic bruise that blotted out the stars and extinguished the sun's life-giving rays.

Hope, already flickering, died a swift death in the hearts of those watching the unfolding catastrophe. The world leaders, gathered in that tense summit hall, exchanged glances of utter despair. The Red Dragons' warning echoed in their minds, a chilling prophecy fulfilled. Humanity was facing an enemy it couldn't fight, a darkness that seemed to emanate from the very fabric of existence.

The President of the United States, his voice hoarse, finally spoke, his words broadcast to a world teetering on the brink: "A state of emergency is hereby declared. All nations, implement immediate lockdown protocols. Seek shelter, conserve resources, and prepare for… for the unknown."

His words were met with a chilling silence. What "unknown" was there to prepare for? The sun was gone, the world was cloaked in an acidic twilight, and the air itself seemed to carry a taste of death. Fear, raw and primal, gripped the hearts of billions.

Across the globe, cities descended into chaos. Panic-buying emptied store shelves. Roads became gridlocked with desperate people trying to flee, though there was nowhere left to run.

Families huddled together in darkened homes, listening to the eerie silence outside, broken only by the occasional scream or the sickening crackle of acidic ash devouring whatever it touched.

The deep lockdown began. Governments, where they still functioned, struggled to maintain order. Communication networks flickered and died, isolating communities and families.

The world, once so interconnected, was now a collection of isolated pockets of humanity, each facing its own private apocalypse.

In the darkness, rumors spread like wildfire. Some whispered of ancient prophecies, of a cosmic reckoning for humanity's sins. Others spoke of a magical plague, a curse unleashed by some forgotten god. No one knew the truth, but one thing was clear: the world had changed forever. The age of light was over. The age of darkness had begun. And in that darkness, something else was stirring...

The great Ashing begun.

Two weeks. Fourteen days of suffocating twilight, of whispered prayers and gnawing hunger, of fear so thick it clung to the skin like the acidic ash. Humanity huddled in the darkness, waiting. Waiting for a rescue that would never come, for the sun that refused to rise. And then, the waiting was over.

The invasion began not with a bang, but with a guttural, blood-curdling shriek that echoed across the ravaged world. It was a sound that clawed at the sanity, a sound that spoke of ancient evils and unspeakable horrors. From the depths of the earth, from the shadows that had become our constant companion, they emerged.

Demons. Creatures of nightmare made flesh, their forms twisted and grotesque, their eyes burning with malevolent intent. They rampaged across the desolate landscape, their claws tearing through concrete and flesh alike, their roars a symphony of destruction.

They were the harbingers of hell, unleashed upon a world already reeling from the apocalypse.

They came in all shapes and sizes. Some were hulking behemoths, their muscles rippling beneath thick, scaled hides. Others were lithe and swift, their movements unnervingly fluid. Still others were winged horrors, blotting out what little light remained as they soared through the ash-choked sky.

And some… some defied description, their forms shifting and changing, their very existence a violation of natural law.

The creatures of our nightmares had become real. The monsters that had haunted our stories, whispered in darkened corners, were now tearing through our world, feasting on our terror, consuming our lives. Humanity, weakened by hunger, fear, and the toxic ash, stood little chance against this demonic onslaught.

Cities became slaughterhouses. The streets, once bustling with life, were now choked with the screams of the dying and the stench of blood and sulfur. The lockdown, meant to protect humanity, had become its prison, trapping the survivors in their darkened homes, easy prey for the demonic invaders.

Small pockets of resistance emerged – desperate bands of survivors who fought with whatever weapons they could scavenge. They were outnumbered, outmatched, but they fought nonetheless, driven by a primal instinct to survive, to protect what little remained of their world. But against the demonic horde, their efforts seemed futile, a flickering candle in the face of an all-consuming darkness.

The invasion was swift, brutal, and utterly devastating. Humanity, already brought to its knees by the Great Ashing, was now facing its final extinction. The demons, emissaries of hell, had come to claim the Earth as their own. And in the suffocating darkness, under the purple shroud that had become our sky, it seemed as though all hope was lost..

Present Day - 50 Years After the Apocalypse

The purple twilight, a perpetual scar across the sky, offered no solace. Fifty years. Five decades of ash-choked air, of gnawing hunger, of the ever-present shadow of demonic dominion. Fifty years since the world ended, and the nightmare began.

That's when your ancestors were dragged into the abyss. The demonic invasion hadn't been a swift, decisive victory. It was a slow, agonizing process of subjugation.

After the initial terror, after the cities fell and the screams subsided, the demons turned their attention to the survivors. They rounded them up, herding them like cattle, their cruel laughter echoing through the ruined streets.

For a month, humanity endured the horrors of captivity. Then came the breeding. The demons, it seemed, had a purpose beyond mere destruction. They sought to create something… stronger. Something that combined human resilience with demonic power.

They forced themselves upon the human women, their touch a violation that went beyond the physical, corrupting the very essence of life.

To the demons, humans were a delicacy, a source of sustenance. But they were also… fragile. Too easily broken. There was no sport in a quick kill, no challenge in the face of such weakness. So, they devised a new form of entertainment, a grotesque spectacle that would satisfy their sadistic appetites.

They turned humanity into gladiators.

Every day, under the sickly purple sky, humans were forced to fight for their survival. Men, women, even children, pitted against each other in brutal arenas. The demons watched from their elevated perches, their eyes gleaming with cruel amusement, as humans tore each other apart. It was a twisted parody of the old world's entertainment, a savage display of desperation and brutality.

Some fought with a desperate hope, clinging to the faint possibility of freedom. Others fought out of sheer terror, driven by the primal instinct to survive another day. And some, broken by the horrors they had endured, fought with a hollow emptiness, their eyes devoid of hope, their movements fueled only by a grim determination to end the suffering.

You are a descendant of these gladiators. Born into captivity, raised in the shadow of the arena, your life is a constant struggle for survival. The scars on your body, both physical and emotional, tell the story of your brutal existence. But deep within you, a spark of defiance still flickers. A memory of a world before the darkness, a world where humans were free. And in that spark, a seed of rebellion begins to grow...

Bannng

The clang of metal against metal, the guttural roars of monstrous creatures, and the screams of the dying echoed through the vast, open-air colosseum. The sickly purple light filtering through the ash-choked sky cast long, distorted shadows across the blood-soaked sand. This was the arena, a grotesque theater of cruelty, where humans and abominations alike were forced to fight for the amusement of their demonic overlords.

"Wake up, you insects!" a booming voice echoed across the arena, cutting through the din of violence. Potty, a hulking demon with a face like a smashed anvil, surveyed the rows of cells that lined one side of the colosseum. His cruel eyes scanned the faces of the human gladiators, lingering with particular interest on the female prisoners.

"Move! Or I'll drag your carcasses out myself!"

Potty gestured, and his demonic soldiers, clad in spiked armor, surged forward, their whips cracking against the bars of the cells. Groans and curses filled the air as the gladiators, roused from their fitful sleep, were dragged from their cramped quarters and forced into the arena.

The mating between humans and demons, and with other captured creatures, had resulted in grotesque abominations. Half-human, half-demon hybrids, their forms twisted and unnatural, stalked the arena alongside their pure-demon masters. These abominations, stronger and more vicious than their human counterparts, were the enforcers of the demonic will, the overseers of the gladiatorial games.

The arena itself was a colossal structure, a monument to demonic cruelty. It was designed not only for slaughter but also for entertainment, a stage where the demons could handpick potential threats and, more importantly, choose their next meal. The arena was divided into six distinct sections, a brutal hierarchy that reflected the demonic view of humanity:

* F Rank: The lowest of the low. New arrivals, untrained and often malnourished, were thrown into this section to be culled. Survival here was a matter of brutal luck.

* E Rank: Slightly more experienced than the F Ranks, these gladiators had survived their initial trials but were still considered expendable. They were often used as fodder in larger battles.

* D Rank: Gladiators who had proven their worth, at least to some extent. They were given slightly better equipment and faced slightly less daunting opponents.

* C Rank: A significant step up. These gladiators were skilled fighters, capable of holding their own against most opponents. They began to earn a small measure of respect from the demons.

* B Rank: The elite of the gladiators. They were seasoned warriors, hardened by countless battles. They often led other gladiators in larger-scale fights and were given preferential treatment by the demons.

* A Rank: The pinnacle of the arena hierarchy. These gladiators were legendary figures, their names whispered in awe and fear. They were the champions of the arena, the personal favorites of the demons, and their battles were the highlight of the demonic entertainment.

The currency of the arena was "points." These points, earned through victories and acts of brutality, could be used to improve one's rank, purchase better equipment, or, for the male gladiators, buy a night with the female prisoners in the "female cells." These cells, located on the far side of the arena, held the women who had been chosen for breeding, their fates even more horrifying than those of the gladiators.