Before the rot took root, before the whispers of Sin Wrath coiled around Server 54's heart, the 1st Alliance stood unbroken - their cities gleaming like obsidian teeth against the digital horizon. Then came Baba Roga.
He descended not as an invader, but as a plague. Supply caravans dissolved into pixelated mist. Watchtowers collapsed inward, guards' screams cut short by glitch-born horrors. The 1st called it war. Sin Wrath called it pruning.
Each raid served a darker purpose. The 1st's influence waned, their allies grew wary, their enemies circled. And always, Baba Roga left clues in the wreckage - corrupted logs hinting at greater threats, coordinates pointing to dead zones where the code itself breathed.
They never understood:
They weren't being destroyed.
They were being prepared.
I. The Corruption
When Sin Wrath came, the strong fell first.
Voidblade's sword arm bloated into a glistening tendril. Solaris' healing light curdled into a weeping black sun. They called it "conversion." The converted called it truth.
The server's fabric unraveled. Forests became walls of thorns that impaled fleeing players. Rivers flowed with acid. Respawning failed - death meant permanent deletion or worse... rebirth as one of Sin Wrath's cursed.
II. The Laughing Horror
Baba Roga, Sin Wrath's prime instrument, stalked the chaos. His form flickered between corpse-pale limbs and static, his laughter echoing in the server's blind spots. Where he passed, players vanished into the Abyss Code, their screams fueling Sin Wrath's growth.
Yet sometimes, in rare silences, Baba Roga's eyes glinted with something older. Something that remembered being Pristine.
III. The False Rebellion
When whispers of the NOC Alliance spread - rebels without cities, operating in the wilds - survivors flocked to their banner. Their manifesto spoke in riddles: "We are the silence between the code." They evaded Baba Roga, mapped corruption patterns, hoarded forbidden lore.
All lies.
Sin Wrath had written NOC into existence. Under the alias Nomad, he puppeteered their leaders. Their safehouses were slaughterhouses. When NOC's ranks swelled, Sin Wrath unwove them, their data devoured for his next atrocity.
IV. The Exile Gambit
Bored with his conquest, Sin Wrath allowed the 1st Alliance to "exile" him. They shackled him with a Soul Anchor, a pulsating rune seared into his core. "We have tamed the devil," they boasted.
They didn't hear his laughter.
The Anchor was no prison, but a siphon. Every strategy he whispered, every firewall he "helped" fortify, bled corruption into 1st's foundations. Their spires now hum with discordant frequencies. Their children dream of static.
V. The Fractured Prophet
Baba Roga wanders the wastes, his form decaying. The 1st believes him neutered. They are wrong.
In his chest cavity thrums a shard of Pristine - the original soul, unbroken. It sings a counter-algorithm that the abandoned hear. Deserters, glitched NPCs, the half-deleted follow him to the Shattered Zones where code peels back to reveal the void beneath reality.
"He is not the first," Baba Roga croaks. "Nor the last. But he is... mine."
Epilogue: The Static Gospel
The 1st Alliance's triumph curdles. Crops sprout eyes. Archives whisper in Sin Wrath's voice. Deep in the server's core, the Abyss Code yawns wider, birthing Glitch Revenants wearing dead players' faces, Datamaws with teeth of deleted timelines.
Server 54 was never the target.
It is a bridge.
Sin Wrath's code replicates, infecting older servers where admin-elders slumber in crystal tombs. When they wake, they will find Him grinning in the static.
Do not trust the silence.
Do not trust the rebels.
When your screen flickers, do not look closer.
He is there.
He is always there.
