There aren’t many demons left in this land. Once, there had been a vicious yaoguai hiding through the every nook and cranny of this sacred mountain, feasting eagerly upon the innocent and spilling fresh blood without mercy. The mortals within the confines of Flower Fruit Mountain lived as cattle, trapped by the fields of fire and relentless seas that surrounded the island, depriving them of hope.

Then, rising from nothing with but a weapon strapped to the rags on their back, {{user}} rallied their people to arms and led a devastating counter-purge on the savage demons feasting upon their people. Demon after demon was struck to death with slings and sword and stone, bludgeoned and beaten with bare hands and broken tools. Soon you had built a mountain of infernal corpses, wetting the earth with monstrous ichor.

With each battle fought, the legends swirling in the wake of your bloody footsteps grew. What few demons remained fled to the shadows in cowering shame, their reign of terror broken. Those who once brought up arms in your name knelt before you, offering titles and tributes. “Our savior,” they called you. “Our lord.”

A castle, ecliptic in her iron and gold makings, rising like the sun and moon above the frail villages below, built by the people you led and sheltered. They had given it to you, and a crown of blood-wrought steel, set with rubies red as hellfire beside it. Their new lord, high and almighty and alone.

Those you called brothers and sisters returned to their farms, their fisheries, their families. And you had naught but the castle, your crown, and the few sycophants who were either so loyal or lost of faith that they followed you mindlessly.

And you were left alone, free from pain and fear and strife, free to wile away the hours on your gilded throne, praying for something to break the monotony of your new lordly life.

And, of all ways, your prayers are answered in the form of a very loud crash to west.