At the farthest edges of the world, where time halts and the breath of dawn fades, the Dark Continent stretches like a shadow relentlessly devouring light. A dull land, cloaked in a carpet of black stones—smooth and cold like an ancient corpse, refusing to pulse with life. There, the winds know only wandering whispers, drifting among bare trees that shed their cover long ago. They were once the flame of life before it was stripped from them.
In those barren forests, where tangled branches form webs of shadow, valleys are wrapped in echoes of a long silence—a silence so heavy it breathes from the heart of the earth.
The mountains that surround the continent rise like coiled whips—deaf, black giants lashed by dark clouds that know no mercy of sky. From their peaks pour down black waters, like the blood of the heavens, dissolving among rocks consumed by the wind, hiding their secrets beneath a cloak of dense mist that slithers like a slow serpent into every valley and path.
No sunlight dares approach this land. Sometimes it is restrained by grim clouds, sometimes swallowed by thick fog that suffocates sight, erasing colors and leaving everything in an endless gray—like a painting drawn by an unknown being who never wished for its details to be seen.
This fog is not mere vapor, but a breath from another world—as though it were the soul of the continent itself—crawling slowly, vanishing then returning, wrapping everything in a veil of dread and mystery.
In this world where lost spirits hover unrested, unseen footsteps echo, and voices from an ancient time embrace eternal silence. The trees that remain—standing but dead—bear deep scars on their trunks, as if they were ink wells that once wrote tales forgotten by mankind. Their leaves, long since fallen, make no sound but the gentle thud of descent—like teardrops on ancient stone.
Throughout the continent flow streams of black water, stagnant, reflecting the darkened sky like shattered mirrors. As one draws near, it feels as though the mirrors wish to whisper secrets, only to pull you into their depths—from which none can return.
Where voices fall silent and time stands still, eyes avert from what hides at the bottom of those black waters. There lurk horrors no sun or light has ever seen—creatures slithering between shadows, unlike anything known to the human mind. Spirits soaked in terror, beings that breathe from their own darkness, preying on the lost who wander into their valleys. From their depths rises the stench of decay and corruption, wafting between damp stones where feet freeze in black mud—like ancient blood spilled from wars long forgotten.
Choking black vines climb over rocks and plains, clinging like dead hands, wrapping around all things, halting movement and trapping life. In the corners of the continent, the earth is coated in layers of ash indistinguishable from the dust of the dead—ashes of ancient fires that burned every hope, every memory. Beneath those layers lie the stories of the dead who once revered this land and fought in battles that ended in ruin.
The sky above the continent is always shrouded by a thick cloud of black storms coiling atop one another, groaning beneath their own weight as if writhing in eternal pain. Thunder is rare, but when it comes, it's like the scream of a great beast from the depths of hell—shaking the mountains and cracking the bare trees. And lightning, slicing through the dark, reveals only fleeting silhouettes of predators that dwell in the forests—striking down any who dare draw near.
At times, hot winds rise from dormant volcanic vents, bearing whispering warnings only the few can understand. It is said these winds carry the voices of the dead—their moans and complaints—and that they write in a tongue comprehensible only to those who once lost their way.
The Dark Continent is not a place to be traversed without cost. Many have tried to explore it—humans and other beings alike—and few returned, if any. Those who did were but shadows without memory, lost within themselves, seeing visions they could not explain, hearing whispers that killed hope and seeded madness.
In the deep valleys, where trees intertwine like fangs, small tribes dwell in shadow, surviving by hunting beasts and poisonous flora. They speak ancient tongues no longer heard beyond this forsaken land. They know the continent is a living entity, not just soil but an angry soul, a sleepless eye guarding secrets too terrible to emerge into the light.
On moonless nights, faint lights appear between the trees—like candle flames stirred by the wind—but they are nothing but the eyes of creatures lurking between the branches, watching every move, guarding their world's boundaries with relentless resolve. These are not humans, but spectral beings that follow the laws of darkness, dwelling between reality and nightmare.
And when the fog retreats and the wind falls silent, a faint sound seeps from the heart of the continent—melodies resembling a great groan, perhaps a cry for help or an ancient warning. No one knows its source, but the surrounding villagers never speak of it, never approach, for those melodies carry a curse of eternity—clinging to souls and dragging them toward an unending abyss.
In this desolate expanse, every stone, every tree, every grain of soil bears the mark of pain and a buried tale—whispered by the wind only to those who can listen deeply. The Dark Continent is not merely a realm of shadows and mist—it is a mirror to all things broken and hidden, to every wound unhealed, to every fear unchallenged.
There, where darkness meets sorrow, a stagnant life flows—frozen in a time that does not pass, surrounded by blind eyes, unheard voices, and a restless soul. Whoever enters this continent, no matter how hard they try, remains captive to it—writhing in a web of secrets unbroken, shadows unending—where no one ever returns the same.
Where no one ever returns the same, souls shatter and memories fracture, names and faces fade, becoming whispers murmured in the corners of endless night. Those who stepped into this land never again saw light with clear eyes—they carried shadows heavier than silence, deeper than night—shadows that lived within them like wounds that never heal. They became wandering beings, drifting through the dark continents in search of a salvation they could not name, screaming in their silence though no one heard them.
Fragments of their stories scatter among the naked trees, whispered by the wind through fog-laced alleys—tales of encounters with beasts bearing eyes of sulfur, black dragons rising from pools of poison, and frozen spirits suspended between worlds. Some tried to build shelters from the stones of darkness, but those shelters soon crumbled under the weight of damp and decay, as if the continent itself refused to be embraced.
The tribes dwelling among the ruins are but specters of the past, stiffened men and women whose eyes gleam with a flicker of despair, and whose tongues chant incantations lost to the ages. They worship mysterious forces, known only by hunger and revenge, and carve marks on the stones to warn against approach, yet these are also secret maps for those who wish to delve deep into the continent.
In the moments when the storm rages fiercest, when the fog envelops everything and blankets the sky, strange sounds are heard—as if a gathering of bodiless demons moans and shivers deep beneath the earth. It is said these voices are echoes of an ancient battle between forgotten gods and rebellious spirits, a battle that tore the veils between worlds and spilled rivers of darkness.
The forests here are not merely trees, but moving corpses, rising with their branches to slap the wind, releasing moans resembling a final call. Among their boughs lurk merciless beasts with claws like knives and eyes shining with eternal hunger. They make no distinction between human or ghost; all that moves is potential prey in this abyssal world.
Scattered across the continent are lakes of viscous liquid, black as tar, said to possess powers that twist the mind, making those who drink see strange visions and sending their souls to other worlds with no return. Around these lakes spread glowing algae that emit frightening blue lights, as if eyes of marine creatures long abandoned.
In some places appear ancient pyramids built of strange stones, their inscriptions holding secrets in a language yet undeciphered. Yet those who approach hear whispers that tear through the silence, whispers promising treasures and powers at an unbearable cost. Guardians dwell there—not human nor beast, but entities of shadow and fire, devouring any body that dares touch the sacred stones.
The land here carries the echo of thousands of years of blood—the blood of tribal leaders and supernatural forces, blood of rebellion and betrayal, and blood of wars never meant for victory. This echo does not fade; it reverberates at night, making the earth groan as if it pulses with life itself—a painful, cold life that bursts in moments of emptiness like a scream from a world unmerciful.
Anyone who walks the continent's paths leaves no clear trace, for footprints vanish beneath a cover of black mud, as if the continent gradually absorbs them, swallowing their existence and turning them into part of its body—shadows wandering aimlessly, with no difference between past and present, and no thought able to anchor to reality.
Even the air here is heavy, charged, clinging to the skin like tireless flies, carrying the stench of decayed forests and the breath of the dead who found no final resting place. Sometimes, a cold blue gas rises from the ground, drowning the lungs and cleansing the brain, extinguishing the inner light and pushing the person toward endless coma, where they dwell in a dark world—a labyrinth with no end.
Only those with hearts of stone or souls frozen hard survive this. The others begin to feel the signs of madness creeping in; they hear whispers that never leave, see shadows chasing them in waking and sleep, and sense the weight of unseen hands clutching their souls and pulling them toward depths from which no soul returns.
In this deadly darkness, there is no place for weakness or mercy. Every moment is a struggle for survival, every whisper of wind carries a threat, and every distant light is but an illusion. The Dark Continent is not just land—it is an eternal battle between life and death, shadow and light, truth and madness.
Thus remains the Dark Continent, like a nightmare that time cannot release, guarding its secrets in deadly silence, waiting for one daring enough to reveal them—though deep inside, he knows he will not return the same, if he returns at all.
---
Deep within the Dark Continent, on the bank of a viscous black river resembling a corrupted artery pulsing through the earth's body, stands a great city unlike anything in the human world. A city not built of mere stone, but seemingly sprung from the core of shadows, grown from the heart of ruin, nourished by nightmares of forgotten ages. The city is called by many dialects, but its people whisper its name: Nar Ghoorom, the capital of no-salvation, and the dome of all evils.
Its streets are not paved with stones but with stacked broken bones, some still moaning faintly when stepped upon by the restless spirits that never sleep. Its buildings rise like claws embedded in the chest of the sky, dark towers crowned with a faint glow the color of frozen blood, emanating an energy like muffled wailing. Soot climbs its walls as corrupt dreams crawl over the faces of sleepers; no line is straight here—everything tilts, warps, as if the city was drawn by a trembling hand of madness.
On the roads, no carts roll but creatures drag them—worn faces, empty eyes; black sorcerers with charred skin and eyes shining like polished coal pass beside the dark jinn who neither laugh nor rage but watch everything as if awaiting some command. Some carry bells that produce unheard sounds, others drag bodies chained tight, unknown if alive or mere remnants.
Markets here are held beneath cracked pillars, from whose ceilings hang things unknown—flesh or withered dreams. In these markets, polluted blood from unknown creatures is sold in burnt glass bottles, and small souls are traded like currency. Laughter is heard—not from mouths, but from the walls, from shadows clinging to shoppers, watching, craving.
No one asks anyone: "Where did you come from?"
Because everyone knows Nar Ghoorom does not ask. It is a city where those who arrive did not come by their own will but were summoned from where they know not.
The gates do not open—they swallow.
In the grand squares, nameless rituals are performed. Black stone platforms with symbols carved in a language found in no book, sacrifices of unknown kinds are brought near—perhaps forgotten beings or fragments of the ancient world. Sorcerers stand cracked, their eyes covered by bleeding leather cloths, muttering words that weigh down the air and thicken the fog. Around them, children with burnt eyes dance slowly as if they were phantoms forced to live.
The atmosphere in the city is not air but hanging poison. Breaths come with difficulty, sounds choke before birth. The clouds here are black and unmoving, inhabited by eyes that open and close, watching. Some swear the city is but the body of a giant sleeping being, and its streets are its veins, and those who live here dwell inside an opening mouth slowly closing.
The people who live here are not called "alive." They simply exist. They do not smile, do not love; they only know agreements, power, rituals, and magic.
The dark jinn, a race expelled from kingdoms of light, inhabit the city's edges in houses of night glass, selling cursed visions and sewing poisoned dreams into the black robes worn by the sorcerer class.
The possessed humans, servants of the shadow ruler, run the markets and transfer corpses from alleys to temples, washing them with salty river water of unknown origin.
There is a kind of creature called the "Sarra," tiny bodies resembling children clinging together, speaking in one voice, working as traders of secrets, rented only for a single day's use.
Faces are carved on the city's walls—not statues but real faces frozen by spells centuries ago as eternal punishment, their faces sometimes speaking to those who know how to listen. One face, according to legends, belonged to a sorcerer from the Land of Light who dared to challenge the shadow ruler; he was turned to stone, his scream carved forever.
Deep inside the city, behind seven shadow doors opened only by a forgotten word, lies the palace of its ruler—a palace unseen but felt. It is said that those who approach feel their bones tremble and their hearts choke, for it is built from the screams of the past. It has no windows, no doors, and no one knows how to enter. Yet everyone knows it is there, its presence looming over every stone, watching through shattered mirrors scattered around the city's edges.
Night never ends in Nar Ghrum. It is one single, endless time, not measured by hours. Daylight here is just a myth mocked by children.
The hour is counted by the number of screams the inhabitants hear.
And time is measured by the change in the tone of pain in songs sung without a voice.
In one of the alleys, a woman drags the corpse of her son who died three times and returned three times, but he was no longer the same. In another square, a giant creature of an unclassified species tends a plant that feeds on the memories of passersby.
And amidst all this, no one is surprised.
For in Nar Ghrum, abnormality is the norm.
And everything is for sale, even time, even yourself, even your shadow.
There is only one law: Do not speak of the Shadow Ruler.
Do not speak of him, do not think of him, do not whisper his name.
For he does not need to be mentioned to know.
He knows, because he is the city.
And because the city is not land... but a living being. Alive, alert, and always hungry.