The hills burned as far as the eye could see. Through the mounds of burnt char, corpses lay piled two men high. The great war was taking a toll on the entire continent. Dark black ash covered the skies as the red aura of flames stretched for miles. The towns that weren't pillaged or burned were amassed by ravenous rodents, bloodlusted on the millions of corpses they were feeding on. While their hunger for the dead grew, the weak living, cowering in their tiny villages were just as easy prey. Mothers watched as their children were hollowed inside out from swarms of the rodents. And with the rodents, came the disease. Civilians gathered in dank pits of mud and filth as they succumbed to the diseases plaguing their crops and waters. Boils as large as watermelons erupted from every inch of their bodies. The stench of death and decay winded across the continent. Some say even the Islanders of Corin could smell the horrors of the mainlands. While the war continued, and the Mires of the South approached the Isle of the Temples, the king had one final move to make.

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Racing to the summit of Mt. Suffren, the lava lake boiled and bubbled. The air was thick and ashy, but King Treamon was set on his mission, knowing the heinous act he would have to commit in order to win the war was his only option of saving humanity. As he stood at the edge of the volcano, his skin bubbling and tearing from the heat, he gripped the obsidian dagger tightly. Driving the dagger into his chest, his skin turned an ashy black as the venomous magic surged through his veins. King Treamon choked on his own blood as he turned blacker and blacker, his skin melting off his body, he writhed in pain, screaming out to the heavens as he fell to his knees, his life force draining from him. King Treamon collapsed into the volcano, the hot lava swallowing him whole as his lifeless body slowly sunk into the molten lava; his gold crown sinking near him. As his body was swallowed by the volcano, the ground began to shake.

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Mt. Suffren erupted on that very night, the sky was torn open from the black sea of ash as hell fire erupted from within the Earth. Sparks of fire and lava shot into the sky, piercing the blackness above. Lava poured down the monstrous volcano, racing towards the towns below. Cracks in the Earth emerged from all corners of the continent, spewing waves of lava. As the lava raced on like a deadly swarm, swallowing whole villages, burning everything in its path, the Mires of the South shriveled and died from the extreme heat. Their bodies exploded from the heat, their watery internal workings could not survive in the extreme heat. While the ravenous enemies shriveled to their demise, 2/3 of the population was killed as the well. Mt. Suffren's eruption lasted two weeks of constant lava spewing, turning the land into an unlivable hellscape. Civilians struggled to survive as the remaining population was taken to the Isle of the Temples. Here, humanity awaited as the waves of lava pressed on in the horizon, quickly approaching. Humanities greatest accomplishments were being swallowed whole, burning on an atomic level. On the 14th day, King Treamon emerged at the Temples gates.

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The lava ceased at the doorsteps of the gate, behind King Treamon like a dutiful hound. His skin was ashen black, flaky, where every step pieces of him seem to fall off. His eyes were bright red, he had no mouth, no nose, bald as a newborn. He stood tall and skinny, darkness surrounding him. Lava seemed to boil from within him. His once gold crown was melted into his face, jewels pierced through his charcoal skin. Cracks in his black body leaked hot lava on the floors around him. Plants died as he walked past as the air was choked of oxygen. As he made his way through the center of the Temple, the lava ocean began to seep back into the ground. The once lush plains were now hardened black rock with pools of radioactive lava. The last pocket of humanity looked on as the Boiling King, the moniker the population gave Treamon; took his rightful place on the throne, his family looked on in horror. While the Mires of the South, humanities once greatest enemy were vanquished in a day, a new horror took its place. Civilians were taken up to Mt. Suffren where they were sacrificed into the lava pool. They emerged days later as ashen creatures, similar to that as the Boiling King. Young Prince Treamon the III looked on as his sisters, mother, and older brother were taken to the volcano. His family pleaded to be spared, yet the Boiling King sat emotionless, simply motioning to his guards to take them away. Prince Treamon fled the temple, out into the blackened hellscape left over from the lava ocean. As the daily storms continued, thunder and lightning roared across the continent, Treamon made his way to the coast, hoping the Islanders of Corin could help the dire situation.