It began with whispers in the wind—faint, unintelligible murmurs only the King could hear.

At first, he dismissed them as dreams. But the voices grew louder, more insistent. They clawed at the edges of his mind,

calling to him from beyond the veil—from a place not meant for mortals. He withdrew from the court, sealed the castle

gates, and commanded walls to rise around his keep like a tomb. One by one, his advisors disappeared. The sun itself

seemed to dim, setting earlier with each passing day.

Then came the Madness.

The King—once a beloved scholar of healing and nature—turned to forbidden magics whispered in old, crumbling texts.

He summoned things better left forgotten. Sculk trees, black-veined and pulsing with malevolence, clawed their way

across the land. The sky turned an unholy ash-grey, and night no longer promised rest. Villagers began to speak of

silent, glowing-eyed figures that wandered the roads after dusk—bodies creaking like old wood, eyes watching,

always watching, but never blinking, never speaking.

In the heart of his madness, the King crowned himself the Immortal Sovereign of the Realm.

With a gesture, he dissolved the old laws as if they were parchment in flame. He forged twisted dungeons with

corridors that defied logic, imbued with dark sorcery lost to time. He sealed these places with cursed portals that

pulsed with the breath of other worlds. Some say he tore holes in the fabric of reality itself, reshaping the kingdom

into an endless loop—where dimensions overlap and bleed together, birthing horrors not meant to exist.

But the King’s ambition did not end with conquest.

In the deepest sanctum of his castle, he opened the oldest portal—a reinforced deepslate gate older than language,

veined with sculk and thrumming with a heartbeat not of this world. The whispers had led him here.

They had never ceased, only deepened—coaxing, promising, commanding. It was their source he sought,

their hunger he obeyed.

From beyond it came the World Eater, a towering abomination of shadow and spines, its mouth a maw wide

enough to swallow spires whole. From the Sculk Dimension it had called to him, whispering across the veil of time,

unmaking his mind with every word, until all that remained was the will to open the gate.

It was hunger made flesh. It came at his summons, bound by rites too old to be understood, too dark to be undone.

Or so he believed.

The Mad King unleashed the World Eater upon his enemies, and none stood against it. Cities fell in silence as

sculk portals erupted in their hearts, flooding the streets with unnatural growth and ash-coated air. Screams

faded into whispers. The realm became a graveyard of broken laws and swallowed light.

But the World Eater does not serve. It consumes.

One night, as the last bell tolled in a city already lost, the creature turned its gaze toward the King’s own keep.

It did not roar. It did not strike. It simply arrived—slipping between dimensions like a shadow through cracks

in glass—and devoured the guards one by one. The King screamed his final decree, his voice warped and

echoing as he vanished within the creature’s endless maw.

Now, the World Eater resides within the hollowed ruin of the castle, its presence warping the land around it.

The once-grand fortress has become a living blight—walls pulsing with sculk. The sky above it never brightens.

Reality itself frays.

No living soul dares approach it. Not even the dead remain.

The portals still linger. The sculk still spreads. And though the King is gone, his madness clings to the land

like mold to rotting wood. Travelers speak of voices that mimic the King’s tone—luring the curious,

the greedy, the lost—toward the darkened keep.

And in the forsaken hall where a crown once cast light,
the World Eater lies beneath the stone—dormant, yet ever dreaming...
of kingdoms yet to fall.

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