Blooder the Wind Rises Era

Dedicated to those beings who remind me of updates in my dreams. When someone knocks on a door, it has been waiting for you for a long time. This time, starting from scratch: "The hands of the iron cock." This is how the 15 billion creatures on the Bradl Continent evaluate the world they live in. There should have been several continents floating on the ocean, staging the ups and downs of different civilizations, but there seemed to be a hand holding them tightly, as if they were some great wealth. This is the best place and the worst place. The good thing is that no one is hungry, the bad thing is that people die every day. Everyone can eat chewy wheat bread and drink milky sweet syrup. There are no refugees, no stinking ditches. A flying car is transporting a child's birthday present in the sky. Sounds good, right? My friends, this place is scarier than hell. Blood descendants work as servants in the palace, not in the temple gate. The blood is in the assembly line, not in the mystery of the ancient scrolls. Spiritual objects are exchanged for money in accounts, not relics in the mountains. The secret is in the experimental dissection, not in kneeling before the altar. Killings occur in disasters, not in news reports. Fight the business war in the audience, don't cry in the laughter. The strong are shown by their achievements, not by their state of affairs. These are troubled times. The twelve ancient ancestors left behind twelve blood descendants, each occupying one side, overwhelming the mountains and rivers. On the night of the first year of the year 1012, seven prophets spoke in unison: A big storm is coming. There are more than a dozen people sitting at the card table, but there is only one winner. Hero is the cheapest adjective. Heroic Lord, Strict Lord, Giant, Enshrinement, Dragonborn, False King, Shadow... That motto is: The storm swept through the troubled times, and all living beings found peace.