Correctors: Shattered Mind - Prologue

Memories. In the darkest of times and the most tragic of situations, they can be a man’s only solace. In a sea of storm clouds, memories are shining beacons of light. They are the light that warms you and shields you from the cold. They are the light that guides you, makes you hope for a time when things were better, and for the strongest of us, it forced us to act and try to make that hope a reality. For ourselves and the whole of mankind.

Every single man, woman, and child today has a reason to take solace in memories. Every capable thinker can dream of a time when their homes weren’t upheaved in the Shatter, when the sky was blue and the sun could be seen, and when their fears, their tears, and their rage were preserved for politics, not apocalypse.

And us. We have the same, and more. We can dream of a time when no one knew who we were, when we didn’t have to cast the whole world on our shoulders, when we could enjoy a lover’s touch… when we could be loved and loathed… for who we were, not what we were.

We were the Correctors.

Twenty-five years ago, everything broke. Shattered. It started with the earth. At a quiet hour, around the time when civilians were around the table for dinner, a massive, sudden earthquake tore across the land. Later scouting surveys and cooperation between local kingdoms would reveal that the entire continent had shaken up at once. Much later parchments delivered from across the Expanse would reveal that the entire world had shaken up at once.

Of course, that was hardly important at the time. The quake tore gaping wounds in the earth, and from those wounds, evil things rose. Black swarms of twisted, screaming monsters that no one had ever seen before, some as small as a four-year-old child, some with teeth as large as a four-year-old child. Some had wings, some had tails, some were wreathed in roaring flames.

They killed everything that wasn’t them. They slaughtered parents in front of their children, then ate the children alive. They burned villages and forests and sent up massive plumes of smoke and fumes visible from across the land, and in a week’s time, they brought down the entire kingdom of Stallcross with the help of a massive ocean wave that swallowed the castle city. The smaller hamlets had no chance.

Then the sky disappeared. Storm clouds bled from thin air, drowning the sky in darkness and hiding the sun from us. Day was like evening, and night was unbearable. And it stayed that way. This was beyond the edge of the cliff for many people. Literally. Figuratively as well, in terms of hope. The monstrous droves were tireless, some were unkillable, others were simply unstoppable. After five years, when it became known that Rualtha, the neighboring continent, had gone completely silent because it was entirely demon lands, our people on the continent of Vaethyr were ready to give in and embrace the end of the world.

Five men and two women, the last of an entire army from the central kingdom of Carthis, turned the tide of war with the monsters from below, with one act of pure desperation. With thousands of soldiers dead around them and hundreds of demons dead before them, and with hundreds more charging forth, they drank the black blood from the heart of a devil, and they changed.

They grew wings and claws, and found the will to manipulate the terrible magic that the demons themselves used on their brethren. With the rage of mortals with nothing else to live for, they routed the demon horde, combining human wit with monstrous strength. Of the seven, one survived, but they stemmed the black tide and saved their kingdom.

The sole survivor, a woman named Kona, returned to Carthis with equal parts cheers of praise and jeers of disgust all around her. She cared for neither, and made this declaration:

“The battle may be won, and our city may be saved, but this war is not over! The demons will return, and they still rain havoc over the rest of the world. You are safe today, but what of tonight? Tomorrow? This is not a time for celebration or derision! This is a time for what I can only call simple, desperate action, for only pure bravery and desperation can drive one to do what I am about to ask of you! Join me! Leave behind your homes and allegiances! Join me and drink the blood of our enemies so that you may be strong enough to defeat them! Join me, and right these wrongs! Fix these mistakes that fester in our lands! Let us correct this broken world!”

Many cowered. Few followed. These few became the first Correctors. And they did what armies could not. This growing order of men and women with nothing left to lose drank from the blood of demons and took on their twisted features and powers, forever scarring themselves in order to give the rest of the world something to hope for.

Over the next twenty years, they saw more success in combatting the demons and beasts than anyone could have imagined. The Correctors grew constantly in size and in ability. Skilled alchemists lent their brains to create ‘essences’, concoctions of liquid made from the bodies of other monsters, that would forever mutate a human, just like pure devil blood would. In addition to the wings and hellfires of the devils, the Correctors added the ferocity of werewolves, the behemoth strength of ogres, the deadly, silent stealth of nightcrawlers, and much, much more to the Correctors’ arsenal.

The wisest of the Correctors discovered that along with terrible monsters, chaotic magic had vented from the shattered earth, to soak into the very air around them. The very same that the demons used to cause mayhem. Tapping into this magic for their own valorous purposes birthed human mages. When this discovery became widespread, devout priests of Vaethyr’s religious order, the Ring of Light, used it to bring physical blessings to good men and women. Finally, all of humanity could fight back.

Of course, not all were happy. Even with victory at hand, naysayers will make trouble. A very small offshoot of the Ring of Light, hooded scum draped in red and yellow, calling themselves the ‘Phoenix Order’, denounced the Correctors, denounced the mages, denounced the demons, and denounced the Creator. Swearing their allegiance to ‘the true Almighty Phoenix’, they shouted their apocalyptic visions in the streets, claiming that the Correctors would be the end of all they’ve known, and that the path of the Phoenix was the only path to true victory. With victory already in reach against the demons, their cries were ignored and their god was shunned.

But all of this, you can read in any book… If I could recount my own experiences before, during, and after the Shatter, I would. All I know is that yesterday, I felt rain on my face. Yesterday, I heard the screeches of demons dying beneath by my blade. Yesterday, I smelled black blood and brimstone all around me. Yesterday, I tasted my own blood as I retched it up, reacting to the poison on the human-made dagger that sunk into my back.

Today, I woke up inside of a coffin, dry, covered in cobwebs with a spider in my hair.

Memories. In the darkest of times and the most tragic of situations, they can be a man’s only solace.

My name is Ederon Hawthorne.

I am a Corrector.

And I can’t remember a damn thing else.