The story

Long ago, two nations shared this land. High mountains and a restless sea lay between them, and neither knew that anyone lived on the other side.

The people of Eso lived looking inward. They counted the turning of the stars, closed wounds with prayer, and walked unheard through the shadows.

The people of Ruh lived facing outward. They beat iron into blades, drove beasts with the points of their spears, and split stone with their bare hands.

Then, one year, the earth roared. The heart of the mountains gave way and a single road opened, and on that road the two peoples saw each other's faces for the first time.

The wonder did not last. What was strange was feared, and fear soon became the point of a blade. So the first war began.

The war was long. Sons took up the fights their fathers had begun, and their sons fell without ever seeing the end.

Neither side won. Worn to the bone, the two nations at last laid down their swords and agreed to stand under one name: the Esoruh Federation.

But only the name was shared. The land was still two lands, and the laws never became one.

Still, peace was peace. In the age of the Federation, tall towers and strong castles rose, and swords and armour were made bearing the Federation's seal.

That age also kept a seat for a single kind of person: one who had walked both roads to their end. People called whoever stood there the Grandmaster.

Two generations ago, the rain began.

For the first few days, no one minded. After a month the rivers broke their banks; after three, the fields were gone. And still the rain did not stop.

The water climbed the city walls, swallowed the tops of the towers, and at last reached the mountain ridges. The Federation, Eso and Ruh all sank beneath it: the seals that bore their names, the scrolls that held their laws, the tombs of their kings.

Why did the rain not stop? With every record washed away, no one knows. Even the old ones who remember that day let their words trail off.

The rain stopped, and the water drained away, very slowly.

Nothing was left on the ground it uncovered: no borders, no kings, no laws. Only the name of the vanished Federation remained, as the name of the land itself. Esoruh.

The survivors gathered in five places:Gaon at the heart of the land, Maru on the northern ridge, Beol on the southern plain where the water drained first, Noeul at the western edge where the sun sets, and Saebyeok at the eastern edge where it rises. The five cities belong to no one. Not yet.

Everything beyond them is empty. Plant a flag and that place becomes a nation; raise a wall and it becomes a town. But land is not given for nothing: founding a nation or building a town costs a great deal.

And what is built can be taken. When a fortress falls, half its treasury passes to the victor, and its people vote on what comes next — dissolve, or live on as the victor's vassal.

The water left some things behind: the old towers of the Federation, its ruined castles, the black fen the water never left. They are home now to things that are not human, and the brave go there to hunt.

The nations were gone, but their teachings lived on in people.

Eso is the road that turns inward. Through sorcery it wields unseen power, through faith it closes wounds, and through stealth it becomes a shadow.

Ruh is the road that strikes outward. It swings sword and spear, breaks with the fist, and pierces the distance with the bow.

Once, those who followed the two ways killed each other. Not anymore. One person can learn Eso, then learn Ruh. The two roads are no longer enemies; they are roads a single person walks in turn.

Whoever masters all thirty-one classes may become a Grandmaster. Since the Federation sank beneath the water, few have ever reached that seat.

Everyone is born with a vessel of a different size. In this land it is called the growth cap. The growth cap is set when a character is first made.

No amount of hunting lets you grow beyond your vessel. One person's strength rises to 300; another's stops at 200.

There are only two ways to widen it: succession with a permit from someone whose vessel is larger, and ascension, which pushes past the limit. Joining with a much smaller vessel can even make yours shrink.

When you master a class and move to another, you return to level 1 of the new class and walk again from the beginning.

No one knows how much of what you built will remain. At least half of it stays, and sometimes nearly all of it. The new class adds or takes away, but never past eight-tenths of your cap. You keep the gear you wear.

There are thirty-two classes, and walking them one after another, a person slowly grows wider.

And one day you hand your place to the next generation. Only a Grandmaster can pass it on, with a permit issued by someone else, and the next generation is born with a new vessel that averages yours with that of whoever issued the permit; if theirs is smaller, it can even shrink.