Blessed to be the Villain

The Great Separation—one of the most influential events in the history of Mytherra.

Although it may not be the largest or most devastating event recorded, it can be argued that it was the most significant. Its effects ripple across the lives of intelligent lifeforms throughout Mytherra even now—563 years later, as I sit and write this.

As a human, I must confess my understanding of the other six continents' inhabitants is limited. I live on the human continent, and intercontinental travel is nearly impossible due to the lack of safe sea routes. Trade with the elves is barely manageable, and even then, it's rare.

I've had the courtesy of speaking with a few elves, but they revealed little about their current social structure. I do have some theories based on those interactions, but I won't include them here—it would be inappropriate without concrete evidence.

So, this book will primarily focus on human society and how it evolved in the aftermath of the Great Separation. I aim to explore key events and the individuals who shaped the human continent post-Separation—the rise and fall of empires, the collapse of noble bloodlines, and how those echoes still shape our society today.

I am Senior Historian and Cultural Theorist Irres Olcvia, History Professor at Sydarael Academy.

Let us begin.

---

Chapter One: The Aftermath – Collapse and Chaos

The Great Separation was not merely a geological or magical event—it marked a turning point in civilization itself. It signaled the end of the Second War of All Races, a cataclysmic conflict that had already left the world gasping. By the time the continents were split, tensions between rulers and the common folk had reached a fever pitch. Resources were scarce. Crops had failed. Millions mourned the dead.

Then came the final blow.

The Separation ushered in a string of natural disasters—earthquakes, floods, magical storms—that tore through already weakened nations. Starvation spread like wildfire. Cities crumbled. Ancient capitals fell into ruin. Though the exact number of deaths remains uncertain, estimates written decades later suggest anywhere from two million to six million lives were lost in the aftermath alone.

But death wasn't the only monster left behind.

The war had consumed most of the realm's seasoned warriors, archmages, and noble leaders. With no one left to guide or protect them, the people rose in fury. Starved, hopeless, and betrayed—they turned on their leaders. Thus began the Collapse of Nobility, a violent, chaotic restructuring of the human power hierarchy that changed everything.

Some nations fared better than others—those who joined the war late or kept their armies intact—but even they buckled under the weight of refugees. Waves of the displaced brought disease, lawlessness, and unrest.

And then came the monsters.

Without knights to guard the roads or battlemages to keep the wilds in check, monstrous beasts began spreading, filling the void left by civilization's collapse. Some places, like the Forest of Death in the southern regions, remain corrupted to this day. Legends claim it was once the site of a shining capital—now a cursed land infested with horrors and haunted by shadows. Beneath its soil, they say, lie treasures, tomes, and relics of a fallen kingdom—bait that continues to lure adventurers, mercenaries, and madmen to their doom.

In the ashes of reason, faith took root.

The Great Separation was foretold in all the church scriptures of all the deity's. It was a major sine of the coming of the apocalypse. And the fact that deity's were the ones that did the great separation made things even worse. And theus cults flourished. They offered salvation, purpose, or a twisted kind of hope.

Some reviled that the gods themselves had shattered the world to stop the war. Others preached that this was a divine test—that humanity must now prove its worth. Prophets and priests offered contradictory truths, each more fanatical than the last.

As a historian, I have no interest in debating divinity. But I leave you with a quote I often revisit:

> "Put your faith in the gods' might, but never in their mercy."

Ethan closed the book, his fingers lingering on the edges of the old, worn pages. His eyes seemed distant, vacant for a moment, as though his soul had drifted somewhere far beyond the four walls of his dimly lit room.

He stared at the ceiling. The silence felt heavier now. The low hum of wind brushing against the window only deepened the strange emptiness that settled over him.

"That was... intense," he muttered under his breath, blinking slowly.

The words he'd just read echoed in his mind. Put your faith in the gods' might, but never in their mercy.

Something about those words unsettled him. He wasn't sure if it was fear, curiosity, or something deeper. He could imagine the chaos described—the screams, the flames, the desperation of a crumbling world. The historian hadn't even gone into much detail, but Ethan's imagination filled in the gaps with vivid, gruesome imagery.

He shivered.

A yawn forced its way out as his muscles sagged. He wanted to continue reading, but his body felt too heavy, too tired. His mind had absorbed more than enough for one night.

He placed the book gently on the wooden cabinet beside his bed, fingers tapping the cover twice as if saying goodbye to the thoughts it had stirred. Then, just as he pulled the covers over himself and prepared to lie down, something tugged at his memory.

"Wait... the vial," he whispered.

His eyes lit up for a brief moment. In a flash, his figure vanished with a soft pulse of mana, reappearing in the bathroom. The mirror briefly reflected his pale face and tired eyes.

He scanned the bathroom counter until his gaze locked onto the small, crimson-stained vial Arthur had given him earlier. It sat beside a stack of fresh towels, glinting faintly in the low light.

Without hesitation, he reached for it, fingers brushing the glass coolly. Another pulse—and he was back in his room, standing by his bed.

He popped the cork with a soft pop. The scent hit him first—metallic, bitter, with a hint of something sweet lurking beneath. He raised it to his lips and downed the contents in one smooth motion.

His tongue curled at the taste. "Ugh... bitter," he whispered, grimacing.

But a moment later, a strange sweetness bloomed in his mouth—like sugar melting on his tongue. It was oddly comforting.

He placed the empty vial on the cabinet beside the book, exhaled slowly, and lowered himself back into bed. His limbs ached as exhaustion swept over him. As he settled under the sheets, his eyes drifted shut, though the thoughts still buzzed inside.

Images from the book flickered behind his eyelids—war, collapse, fire, broken crowns, and eerie forests. The weight of history pressed down on him like a fog.

Stop thinking, he told himself, pressing the heel of his palm against his forehead.

Just sleep.

Bit by bit, his breathing slowed. The haze in his mind began to fade. Darkness wrapped around him, gentle and heavy.

And then he slipped away—into dreams or perhaps nightmares, he couldn't tell.

Only the echo of those final words lingered:

"Put your faith in the gods' might... but never in their mercy".