The Grand Central Tiered hall of the Primordial Sacred Lands was built to humble gods. Built from nested rings of white dragon-bone marble, the plaza stretched three miles across, framed by nine soaring peaks that served as natural tone check boards.
At the geographic dead center of this huge arena rose the ultimate foundation of mortal training: the Central Primordial Stele. It stood three hundred feet tall. A massive stone obelisk of deep star-core black glass that pierced the lower cloud strata like a black dagger driven into the heart of heaven. The stone didn’t merely reflect light. It radiated a low-hum that shook directly within the marrow of every living creature within fifty leagues.
Carved into its titanic black glass face were millions of glowing, interconnected First Epoch runes, pulsing with the cold, slow heartbeat of an ancient sky machine. To gaze upon them with naked human eyes was to subject the mortal mind to the uncompressed weight of cosmic genesis. Over the span of one hundred thousand years, fewer than twenty mortals had ever managed to decipher even the opening stanza. Eighteen 8-Star Grandmasters had gone blind or suffered permanent spiritual trauma in the try. Their stone-hard tears and dried blood still stained the marble pavers twelve paces from the monument’s base. The chosen boundary line beyond which no mortal had ever dared set foot without risking instant soul collapse.
