In the abyss of space, where Earth was nothing but a dying memory, a planet clung to the edge of a black hole’s maw.
It was a planet with one side perpetually facing the black hole.
It was officially called Nyxara by the colonizers.
But its residents called it— The Willing Grave.
Or simply— Wilgrav.
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Its surface was a raw, alien expanse. Obsidian tooth-like peaks clawed at the sky, their shadows swallowing the black waters below.
Above, the sky swirled in mesmerizing patterns of cosmic phenomena, with the black hole at the center of it all, consuming a behemoth star many times its size.
Nyxara had two moons orbiting it. Their orbits were unstable, and they were expected to have a head-on collision in the not-so-distant future—an event that would light up the skies with apocalyptic force.
It was a beautiful world.
Yet terrifying.
Unforgiving.
A place where no one would want their bones to be found.
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Yet for the humans, there was no turning back.
Earth was dying.
Nyxara—dangerous, unstable, but their last hope—was the only choice.
Sixty years ago, the first settlement was established on Nyxara’s largest continent by the Wrath clan.
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Chynco squinted at the blinking emergency lights.
"Three more days," he muttered.
Three more days until the blinding starlight came back, forcing everyone underground.
No one survived up there during those three months—unless they wanted to be vaporized immediately.
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The days, during the brief periods of exposure to the stars, were excruciatingly bright. It felt almost impossible to function in the brutal light, even underground.
This was thanks to Nyxara''s atmosphere acting like a lens—concentrating the distant starlight to such an extent that it was enough to vaporize you.
This left only the underground as a safe zone.
During these times, darkness became a necessity for survival.
Darkness wasn’t a choice—
It was survival.
Dark torches.
Blackened streetlights.
Pockets of shadow carved into every corner.
Without them, the light would eat you alive.
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On that continent, the clan Wrath had made its mark.
They were survivors, hardened by the endless battles for control over resources, land, and power.
Their influence stretched across the land, and their settlement in the west was one of the few remaining refuges in this hostile world.
But even as they built their lives on this strange, unstable planet, something far older, far darker stirred beneath the surface.
Something that might undo it all.
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And it was there, in the shadow of the clan’s power, that Chynco lived.
A minor spy for the Wrath clan—because the last time he said no, people died.
It wasn’t much, but it kept food on the table—or at least, what passed for food on Nyxara.
The Wrath clan fed him when no one else did.
That was precisely why Chynco hated them.
Because he owed them.
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His story, though small, would soon intersect with something much larger.
A story that would change everything.
But for now, Chynco was just walking home.
The shadows shifted, just for a second.
He blinked.
Nothing.
Just his nerves.
....Right?
And then, as the first tremor of the coming apocalypse shook the ground, Chynco received a message, delivered to his comms unit through the cracked and flickering communications system of the settlement.
The message was stark, cold, and macabre.
It came from a source no one could trace.
But Chynco knew.
The name was known in whispered fears.
The Watcher of Nyxara.
He looked up.
The black hole glowed with concentric red halos, suddenly appearing—
Pulsing.
Like a giant, open eye.
Watching...
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Yet upon reading the message, he almost fainted from panic.
The message should’ve detonated his mind with sheer terror.
For this was how the message ran:
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"The black hole awaits thee, O Enigmatic Eclipse.
You will not escape what comes next.
The stars burn your path, and death is the only guide
Prepare..............................
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