Only 20 years ago, a war had ended. A war of steel, blood, and flesh. One that was fought from Alaska to the Aegean, from Crimea to Siberia, and all over the world. Three powers would fight in this war, and by the end, two would fall, and one would soon follow, although not in the way anyone would expect.

Us, the Mekhanite Empire, worshippers of the Broken Goddess, Mekhane, believed that technology was the savior of mankind. Capable of constructing great machines of war on land, sea, and air, we fought with a blade of steel, lightning, and knowledge.

The Kalmaktama Empire was made up of followers of the Flesh Goddess, Yaldabaoth, who believed that all life was made of base instincts, and as such, rejected us. Their beasts of war were made of flesh, sinew, and bone, and that would be the blade that they fought with.

And finally, the Daevites, worshippers of the Scarlet King, and believers of the untimely end of the universe if they can bring their god to their world. They wielded blades made of steel, magic, and fear.

The three of us fought and died for the fate of the world. Machines of war beyond the caliber of mortals were brought against their enemies, whether they were ones of steel, flesh, or stone. Many a soul was taken to the afterlife once their mortal bodies had been extinguished. Massive colossi towering over the tallest buildings were brought to bear against monsters of flesh and bone of similar heights. Grand warships merely a sixth the length of Athen's walls were built, bringing them to bear against floating arks of sinew and bone. Every time we had tried to gain the advantage against the Sarkics or the Daevites, that advantage would come to a rapid, and brutal end. Any advantage they had would meet a similar fate, as well, falling to either foul Karcist magic or the sheer, unrelenting power of the Daevites' numbers. The war itself continued this trend time and again, as every time we tried to gain the advantage, another side would change its tactics, bring something new to the table, or do something that would completely invalidate what we originally had in mind. The same went for the Karcists and the Daevites, as no matter what, every time they tried to do the same as us or the Karcists, we would bring their ideas to a screeching halt, preventing them from using them once more. This was a cycle, one that we could not escape, one that we could not invalidate, and one that we could never be rid of.

Until the Siege of Gyaros, that is. Nearly 50 years after we had first tried and failed to pin down the head of the Kalmaktama Empire, the demon-made-flesh known by the horrific name of "Grand Karcist Ion", we had managed to surround him at Gyaros. Forces from all over the empire were brought to bear at what could best be described as his final stand, even the forces of the Daevites joined our cause once they saw how dangerous the enemy that the Sarkicsts had become. Over three years, we had slowly whittled down his defenses, first, the golems made to protect the island, then the armies on the land, the keep, and the citadel. Once we had breached the walls, we ran rampant. Many a Sarkic worshipper and Karcist abomination was felled by the blades of Mekhanite and Daevite alike, and those who tried to escape were met by the holy cleansing flame of the Cretean Colossi. Our answer to Ion's attempts to defeat us were met with lightning, steel, and fire. But as we drove ourselves deep into the crypts and catacombs below the city, we were met by that damned abomination of a man and his closest gathering of heretics, preparing a spell to send both himself and the others out of our grasp and far away from us, so that he would be able to rise again from the ashes we buried him in.

We. Could not. Have that. Once we knew of what Ion was doing, the Daevites in our midst charged full speed at their forces, swords drawn, and the call of battle in their lungs as they charged full bore into the obvious ploy. The problem for the Sarkics was that the power of the Daevites' voices had overwhelmed their spell and rendered it ineffective, leaving them vulnerable to the rest of us. We were quick to capitalize.

Steel rang against flesh as screams filled the hall, Mekhanites ran into the perverted temple beneath the city as I let out a mechanical call for reinforcements below into my helmet. Many a warrior streamed in like a bronze-colored sea as the Daevites above and below fell to their last man, killing and Sarkic warrior and Karcist mage in their way defending the Mekhanite force, allowing them access to the catacombs and keeping other Sarkic beasts that were still in the fight at bay as they were consumed by the lust for war, to appease the Scarlet King and bring him closer to their world with tales of their heroism. Proud warriors, the lot of them. If I could, I would still have them in my army, despite their pessimistic beliefs. But even with the sacrifice of the Daevites, it was not enough to make sure that Ion did not escape again, so I stepped in. Teleporting to the depths of the catacombs with my tilemet, I met Ion in a room he fled to escape from our righteous wrath, and with xiphos drawn and hoplon in hand, I made my declaration to him.

"Ion!" I barked, my respirator groaning in protest as my voice was augmented by volume, "You face Areia Ishtar! Conquerer of Sparta! Destroyer of Rhodes! Chosen general of Mekhane! And your worst nightmare!" I will admit, in hindsight, I probably shouldn't have revealed myself to him once I reached him, but the need, the burning desire to kill the monstrosity that had plagued our cities, burned our homes and left an air of death and decay was far too overwhelming to let him die by a sneak attack. No, he had to die eye to eye with a warrior, one that he knew he would meet his fate by. But yet, before I could move, he laughed at me, the deep, haunting tone reverberating around the fleshy walls of the catacombs, before charging at me full speed. Retaliating, I slammed my shield into his gut with my proton-boosted armor, sending him flying away as he scampered to recover. The duel between us was brutal, long, and painful. For each blow I landed, he would give one of equal severity in return. It was a beautiful back-and-forth as we fought in the underground, steel burying into flesh, armor cracking and breaking, Mekhanite and Sarkic locked in a beautiful battle that would appease both Mekhane and Yaldabaoth, until the final blow.

With a singular strike, I shoved my broken xiphos deep into his throat, and up into his head, wrenching it to the side as a final farewell. As he gurgled in agony at the feeling of righteousness inside of his person, I unslung my projector and launched a stream of righteous flame directly at his chest. Greek Fire stuck to his flesh like sand once wet, his body boiling and cracking at the flames burning him, digging into his flesh and what remained of his body as he was quickly consumed by the flames. Yet as he burned, words were upon his voice. "You will never be truly rid of me, Areia..." He spoke, voice gurgling as his blood began to boil inside of his body, "You may have against me, and the others, but you will never be truly rid of me. The empire you serve will fall, if not by my hands, than those of others. Decadence and misery will follow, and all that will remain is naught but ruin, destruction, and decay." Once he finished his words, laughter from him permeated the air, echoing once again off of the walls of the fleshy room as it began to rot and fade away. Once Ion's body had finished burning, I took his charred remains and tossed them onto a grand pyre.

But yet his words remained. Indeed, we had fallen, once the Sarkics were defeated at Gyaros. Once proud city-states, united under our banner, would fall into decadence and decay. Asia Major was the first to fall, the birthplace of this great empire, falling into warring states and factions, vying for rulership, before being annihilated by the same weapons they had constructed. Then the Levant, the Fertile Crescent, and the Arabian Peninsula would fall into warring states, although most would remain allied to the leaders in Greece. Anatolia and the Aegean would meet the same fate, as all collapsed around me.  The Balkans barely were able to hold on to their sanity.  During this time, I was away on Crete, recovering from wounds sustained during my duel with the abomination that had brought such pain and suffering to us. All I could do was watch from the sidelines as the land I had called home fell into ruin, destruction, and decay.

Just like Ion had said.

But yet, I believe once Mekhane saw our suffering from her broken form, She took pity on those who would follow Her will. Once I had recovered enough to walk and run, I had taken a trip to the city of Minos, standing at the docks and simply watching as a thundercloud rolled in from the west. My interest was piqued at its sudden appearance, as the other souls around seemed to ignore it, or didn't see it until it was right on top of them. Then, with a flash of lightning... everything changed.

The coast had changed.

The air had changed.

Everything. Had. Changed.

Without even skipping a beat, I rushed back to my room where I was recovering and immediately began to search for my tilemet, much to the chagrin and distress of the servants assigned to my rehabilitation after my recovery. When I found it, however, I only had one destination on my mind. The Eye of Mekhane in Troy, the large building dedicated to the observation of the world, is where I would find my answer. After telling them of the cloud that I had seen, they began to search around the Aegean, Anatolia, Greece, and across our empire.

That is how they discovered that Asia Major was no longer connected to us. All that was connected to behind the mountains was a beach of sand, the waters of this new world lapping at its shores like a baby would drink their mother's nipple. It was then that those of the Eye of Mekhane would begin expeditions to this world, research what had happened, and if it was possible for us to even return to the lands we had called home. Once we had managed to get enough to protect the ornithopter fields outside of Troy, three brave volunteers from the 2nd Ornithopter Brigade boarded the machine, starting its engines and making its dragonfly-like wings beat and buzz against the cool, southern wind. As they lifted off and flew to the south, the only words on my mind were the following...

"May Mekhane bless their souls, for they have taken the first steps... into a new world."