The tombs of the Dragons stir. My eyes lift to see ancient dust dancing from high ledges.
These grand wings… how long has it been since I was a hero worthy of their name?
It feels like centuries have passed, yet all I've done is blink.
Look upon my works, as they are… Ruined. None would dare seek me out; tread my path.
Naught awaits them in this cruel world.

Given time, these gelatinous creatures absorb each other and slowly grow in both size and strength.
There is little need to worry about this. Naturally, slimes are nearly mindless and amass only by chance.
Though it appears they are capable of absorbing knowledge, if only in rudimentary form.

Once, it was a majestic sea serpent that threatened none but the microscopic creatures it consumed.
After Ilmeris was incinerated, it became familiar with the hunt. To survive, it quickly learned to seek greater prey.
Unfortunately for the scourge, it seems that it too was prey in the end. After all, there is always a bigger fish in the sea.

In ages past, heroes made names for themselves facing such monsters.
Now they run rampant, spawning from vile influences left unchecked. They blend well with the horrific injustice of their forebears.
Slaying one merely paves the way for a dozen more. Surely this does not concern you, either.

Fungus and a sea crab. One sought a host; the other, a new home.
These mushrooms possess a disturbing amount of tenacity. Nothing that lays down to die in their domain is left to rest.
It is this sort of ghastly, forceful exertion of control over the unwilling that led me down my path.

The foul air, the morbid fauna, the disgusting terrain… Here lies my first mistake of my crusade.
The essence of a God does not simply vanish when the body dies. It must be properly disposed of or destroyed entirely.
Essence of a pious God could never fester into a mire as dreadful as this.

To not properly dispose of the essence of a slain God is a fatal mistake. This wasteland stands as proof of such.
Having slain my first Gods, I turned a blind eye as corrupt essence gushed from their rent forms and burrowed into the bowels of Terraria.
The mere existence of this putrid place proves that the Gods of old were beyond redemption.

It is true that unspeakable abominations may now be commonplace, largely by my hand.
Though they have always been a product of the folly of the Gods, the same Gods would cull them in equal measure.
My decimation of the falsely divine left many old horrors unconstrained, with new ones birthed every year.
Now, they are your stepping stones.

Any powerful being will call forth fable and legend, of both its grandeur and terror. That monstrous worm was no exception.
That measly thing, devouring a planet? Ridiculous. However, ridicule spreads quickly with even an ounce of truth behind it.
One will not need to search long for examples. We are all surrounded by rampant superstition and assumption.
I myself have been subjected to a litany of baseless boasts and accusations in my time.

These creatures were unique. They wielded the slain Gods' power as purely as possible, veins flowing with spilt ichor.
All that exists in the Crimson is truly the divine turned inside out; their gore now glistens with perverse treachery for all to bear witness.
The mire reeks of centuries of vile manipulation and callous domination of the hapless.
Judgment has long passed and only extinction is left waiting.

Some semblance of a God's mind may survive death, much like the twitches of a crushed insect.
What little remains attempts to convene and coalesce in worship. A desperate attempt that it's power may yet be restored. How pitiful.
Fortunately for us, the futility of this effort is unmatched. The biomass obeys; even though nothing is accomplished.
Far from all divine power flows from faith. A god is forged of its own strength, followers then may choose to worship them.

While of tremendous size, these creatures are docile until provoked. Their idyllic demeanor is a rarity nowadays. …a thing of beauty even.
In the past, entire villages would spring up around these grand hives to peacefully harvest their share of honey while protecting them from danger.
Though its death is understandable given the circumstances, I do feel pity for these majestic beings.
Fate was cruel to many of their kind.

An unfortunate old man who was caught by an ancient cult, cursing him for trespassing on their ancient library.
They were once my friends. The leader is infatuated with Dragons, with a dream of even resurrecting one.
The very walls of that place are cursed further still. The magic has long since faded as the soldiers rotted within.
Do not expect to learn much from those tarnished tomes. They were penned with misguided zeal.

An old clan once revered this thing as a paragon upholding the balance of nature. Now its purity is sullied by freshly absorbed muck and grime.
The gelatinous being neither knows nor cares for the last surviving clansman.
Such tragedy is all too common in worship.
Alas, the Slime god is wise enough to be cowardly. Fleeing battles it cannot win when its servants are vanquished.
Perhaps fortune will aid you if you catch it unaware.

The hellish reputation the underworld gets is rather a recent development.
The layers of ash choking the formerly great cities is still warm.
The more domineering of Gods wished for me to champion their causes, asking to rule their society from here.
Yet despite being surrounded by magma, Azafure simply burned when their wishes were not met.
Such is the unfortunate price of war, though I have no regrets fighting for my people.

To contain the essence of a slain God is no small thing. It is rather a towering, ghastly construct.
The Wall was lashed together with foul sinew and fouler magics, forming a rudimentary prison of flesh.
It served its purpose: halting the diffusion of undue divine influence.
Were it not for this alchemical breakthrough, the very world I fought for may have been lost in the carnage I wrought.
My methods have since evolved. I need not contain such essences, when they can be devoured.
May you channel my valor in combating the resulting outpour of energies.

This malevolence is not the work of any God. Blood moons trace their origins to the dawn of history.
It is an occurrence equally sinister and banal. Everyone is acclimated to the shambling hordes of undead.
Organized societies are not threatened in the slightest. If anything, they welcome the opportunity to train green foot soldiers.
Those with fire in their veins may strike out on their own, to revel in the slaughter.
That is how I remember the sleepless nights from my younger days… Knee deep in corpses.

Having fled after your battle, it seems the Slime God fashion a new guardian from the unleashed essences.
Ensnared in the absorption process of its newfound power… it could not flee again.
Or perhaps it was overcome by desperation for survival.
A glorious hunt, a fine foe. Now you know that you must chase them to the ends of Terraria.

He yet lives?! I thought him slain by Calamitas. It appears she imprisoned the Archmage to spare his life.
I assumed that frigid mass was an old construct of his, running amok without its master to shepherd it.
Permafrost was an old ally of mine, wielding the prestigious title of Archmage with great renown.
His wisdom guided my original conquests, making much of them possible at all.
As my crusade evolved and my ambitions grew, he expressed vehement disapproval.
Where justice was once seen, tyranny had blinded it. He departed along with the Witch not long after.

These unwieldy beasts of steel were the experiments of Draedon, my former colleague and prodigious engineer.
His intent was to fuel a war machine with soul energy, allowing it to fight with purpose and zeal.
The creations were a success, perhaps too much of one as the souls continued to express their own free will.
Draedon was displeased with the results. However these were my soldiers with their loyalty forged anew in iron.
I dismissed them from duty, yet they linger here still. Scouring the land for evidence of the divine.
Unfortunately for you that puts you in their crosshairs. Give them a battle worth dying in.

Not all of warfare is direct combat. Logistics, intelligence and wit are paramount in equal ways to ensure victory.
These machines are my finest scouts and agents, reborn in a form that gives them sight unrivaled.
An enemy is only as safe as you let him be: Archers, spies, assassins and more allow you to keep a decisive edge.
Draedon understood well that the only fair fight is the one you win.
His assistance was infallible, his calculus cold and cruel.
Not even the most evasive target stood a chance.

This seaside has never been pleasant, though it has seen far better days.
Incessant fumes rising from the industry of Azafure inundate the water with caustic ions.
Despite this, the hardy life adapted to the new environment. No doubt aided by Silva as she burrowed through to the underworld.
Long considered uninhabitable, its further deterioration led Draedon to designate it as a dumping ground.
Years of careless waste disposal has now left the coast's transformation irreversible.

Another once grand sea serpent, well-adapted to its harsh environs.
Unlike the other Scourge, which was half starved and chasing scraps for its next meal; it lived comfortably.
Microorganisms evolve rapidly, so it was able to maintain its filter feeding habits as the sea putrefied.
What a stark contrast to the rest of the ecosystem. Nearly every other creature in the Sulphur Sea is hostile.
A shame that its last bastion of tranquility has fallen.

The Godseeker Knights of my company were by far my finest soldiers.
They championed my cause, and I championed them in return.
I bestowed upon them hulking armor and colossal weaponry, so their might would never falter.
Some days I would take time to train by their side, inspiring them to new heights of righteous fury.
Draedon understood well and granted them these massive forms. Bristling with weaponry and interlocked armor forged of blessed metal.
While in truth it was repurposed mining equipment, their sheer presence on the battlefield was immense.

Oft called the First City, its tumultuous history stretches back to the Draconic Era.
An odd jewel of civilization, the immense heat of the underworld provided it unlimited potential in defense and industry.
Such were the abilities of the forgemasters that when I swayed them to my cause, I was never lacking for arms.
It pains me to say this even in hindsight, but their own artisanry paved the downfall of the entire city.
For the Witch and I… the air here will forever be laden with regret. There is nothing to be done.

A peculiar being. Until recently, she had laid dormant for ages. Acting as the city's silent matron, present in their culture.
As its economy boomed, traces of brimstone found their way all across the known world.
It was never clear why her slumber ended. At first it was a stir. The people were cautiously optimistic.
Her awakening was horrific. Inferno billowed through the streets. None were safe from the flames.
Fate had a sick sense of humor that day, for Calamitas to be there to match her.
Perhaps the two were attuned somehow….
They fought to a standstill, fire against fire.
Neither were victorious, with the city razed by flames despite her intentions.

So consumed by hatred were some souls, that they pledged they would do anything in my name.
Their devotion was unerring. Absolute. No atrocity was beyond them; their vengeance knew no bounds.
I organized them into shock troops, dreaded for their flamethrowers and incendiaries.
Leveling places of worship and torching those falsely devout, their expertise lay in unmaking faith with flame.
Draedon understood this well. For them he crafted a visage so grim, it evoked oblivion itself.

I had seen this monster roaming the night in the past and thought nothing of it.
With its technology, it was certainly one of Draedon's creations.
But, to think it was housing a clone of the Witch… Detestable.
Surely Calamitas would want nothing to do with such a project.
I know not how it wields her brimstone magic. Perhaps some day one of us may find answers.

This floral aberration is another example of the volatile power of harnessed souls.
Taking their mastery of agriculture to new heights, the Jungle settlers bred a special sprout.
Through ritual blessing of the soil, it was fed legions of souls.
Elders of the village wished this to bring forth a new age of botanical prosperity.
Indeed, the plant was awe inspiring. But it was wild and untamed, with a will of its own.
Now that you have slain it, more disorderly spiritual energies are flooding the lands.
The village's ignorance was shameful in its own right, but this is worse still.

While there are many sightless crevasses in the deep sea, this one is a geological marvel.
It is located unsettlingly close to the shoreline. Somehow, even eons of tectonics could not seal or crush it.
The isolated Abyss is the debatably tranquil home of the naiad Anahita and other reclusive sea creatures.
Here I disposed of the burgeoning remains of Silva, the Goddess of Life itself. Obviously, she of all Gods refused to truly die.
My wishes were that she would be forgotten, but her tenacity and very willpower is remarkable.
Diffused, her influence inundated that pit of crushing pressure with flora and fauna aplenty.
Her great roots continue to thrash and tear at the impossibly dense stone, growing uncontrollably.
She will soon remake it in her image. I can think of no worse fate for this accursed, hadal domain.

Although she claims dominion over all the world's oceans, in truth she is a recluse of the deep.
Elementals such as her pose a grave threat to all those around them. Other Elementals are no exception.
Anahita was driven from her home in the Abyss by Silva's encroaching greenery.
Accounts vary as to the majestic beast at her side. Some claim Anahita summoned the Leviathan herself.
Regardless of what you believe, they are inseparable even in death.
Such stalwart loyalty! It reminds me of Yharon.

Ever pragmatic, Draedon dispatched this machine to locate and analyze the source of the Astral Infection.
While nominally for reconnaissance, the Aureus model is heavily armed and can scale any terrain.
It performed admirably, at least until it was assimilated into the Infection.
Sapient minds have enough willpower to resist the Infection's call indefinitely.
However… even the finest silicon is not beyond its reach. Draedon prefers his creations to serve after all.
With this experiment concluded, he will certainly be examining you next. Watch yourself.

What a sad, piteous thing. Truly, a mockery in every sense of the word.
The Lihzahrds were abandoned by their deity long ago. They set upon creating the idol as a pathetic replacement.
The result is an amalgamation of the concepts and themes of many Gods, prominently the heat of the sun.
It is a far cry from a mechanical god… for the better. The alternative is too chilling to consider.
While I believe this insignificant construct deserves no mention, the Lihzahrds revere it unflinchingly.
I see no need to intervene in affairs beneath me and my people.

An innocent queen, forced to bear an agonizing existence. This is nothing short of a crime against nature.
Without consulting me, Draedon sought to weaponize the already well-organized Jungle bees.
When he revealed his finished project, I was enraged. He had ended up enslaving them, it was despicable. Vile even.
Draedon cared little for my outrage and returned to his other work without further incident.
From that point on, I stopped making requests of Draedon. He had shown me his true colors….
In my later days I was far from virtuous. But I would never shackle a creature to fight in my name.
That would make me no better than the divine scoundrels I pursued.

Though her title is lofty, she is more an emissary for the powers beyond and forces of nature.
In broad daylight, she can channel the Primordial Light itself, making her nigh untouchable.
Thankfully, left with only starlight to wield, she falls like any other graceless despot.
Her penchant for leeching the strength of other great beings is uniquely deplorable.
It made her sickeningly obedient. Dependent, but willingly so as they enabled her to slake her base thirst.
I had deigned to slay her myself for her treachery, but she was a notoriously evasive mark.

Outlandish as they may seem, this species is the single mightiest of the seas.
They are relentless hunters and can easily spend significant time out of the water.
Folklore holds that the Fishrons claim heritage from the true Dragons; countless years back.
While there are many such tales of creatures hailing from draconic descent, this case is factual.
Genetic heritage or not: the Fishrons lack Dragonblood and Auric souls. I would well know.

A sickening flesh golem built for the sole purpose of savage, relentless destruction.
The monstrosity was a desperate gambit to turn the tides against my God-seeking armies.
I could scarcely believe it myself, it was born of a ritual of great sacrifice, performed in ardent faith.
The ritual condemned and fused the bodies and souls of their fallen allies into this hideous thing.
When the warlocks pledged their very lives to it as an offering, it awoke and effortlessly massacred them.
Now caked in fresh blood, it hungered for more, setting off on an aimless rampage.
I suppose its brutality serves as a reminder to be careful what you believe.

In ages past, now named the Draconic Era, the majestic Dragons protected Terraria from all threats.
Their famed might was put to the ultimate test by an aberrant behemoth from beyond the stars.
Fighting with all their strength, the Dragons could wound and weaken it… but not destroy it.
Lacking options, they tore the monster down to a shadow of its former self; sealing it away.
What is left of it now lies imprisoned in the Moon, as far away as the Dragons could banish it.
Much of dragonkind was lost as casualties in that struggle, and they never recovered.
Zeratros himself was gravely injured. It seemed his power, along with his life, would be lost forever.
One mortal, sworn to the service of the Dragons, rose in determination to save their virtuous King.

This twisted dreamscape is a starborne equivalent of the mundane rot you see in your lands.
I do not claim to understand the process in detail, but even the stars above can die.
Left unchecked, their corpses bloat and fester.
Typically, some semblance of order is maintained. It is not unlike the circle of life.
Cosmic beings patrol the fathomless void and pick at the carrion, leaving nothing but clean bones.
The infection itself is a disturbance from deep space. It has a mind of its own, projecting its will upon life and land.
Those whose minds can grasp the true form of the universe are largely immune.
They cannot be starstruck by a supposed higher truth, let alone one preached by a pustule.

On our world, this being is revered as the God of the night sky. It is said to devour dying stars and birth new ones in turn.
Unlike the many Gods you or I know, it is guiltless. An important distinction, for it was equally as diseased as they.
The infection that tainted its body is from beyond Terraria. Neither I nor Draedon recognize it fully.
With its will subsumed, it hurled a chunk of infested astral matter at our world, then came to guard it.
Thankfully, such a grandiose being that walks amongst the stars is likely not truly dead.
While the land has paid a terrible price, the price of a wrongful conviction is higher still.

As the Light Dragon was fading, a monk visited him. Nearly none understand what transpired that day.
Most say his passing was eased. The truth? Zeratros' Auric soul was consumed; utterly.
The monk stood, wreathed in Primordial Light, declaring themselves Xeroc. The First God.
When a Dragon is laid to rest on the Aerie, its powers are relinquished so they may one day return.
Xeroc renounced their sworn oath and broke the cycle, becoming a traitor without equal.
Word of the ascension spread quickly. Many attempted to follow suit, hoping to claim an Auric soul for themselves.
Now you know… Good intentions or no, all Gods are sinners. Each and every one complicit in genocide.
Wherever your journey may lead, whether you are with me or against…. May fortune favor you.
For nothing else will.

The Guardians are rather simple constructs, extensions of the Profaned Goddess' power.
They are given partial autonomy to hunt down threats and are rarely seen outside of temples sanctified in her name.
She has been attempting to expand her domain, it is of no surprise she sees you as her largest threat to that.
After all, it was you that finished off the star-spawned horror that catalyzed the downfall of the Dragons.
Draw her out from hiding. Have no mercy, for the Profaned Goddess shows none herself.

Near the close of the Draconic Era, there are records of the “impure” Dragon species.
Wyverns, basilisks, Pigrons and the like are documented. Though none are sure how exactly they came to be.
To this day, scholars argue over the true names and lineages of these creatures.
Names aside: it is clear the first offshoots are pure enough to retain the great strength of their forebears.
Naturally, this led them to be targeted by cruel divine mandates, and most were hunted to extinction.
It is known that Fishrons, Follies, and the Abyssal Wyrms survived the purging hunts of the Deific Era.
Notably, they now are all reclusive or exceedingly violent. It is tragic how they evolved to be that way.

A glorious day.
Deeds of valor of this caliber are enshrined in legend. Of this age only the Witch, Braelor and myself can compare.
Providence was perhaps one of the wickedest Gods, hellbent on purification through erasure.
Her worshippers saw little value in life. Pain was not a price they felt justified to pay.
The Profaned Goddess promised her followers she would end inequality by reducing all to featureless ash.
Those devoted to her were weak-willed, yet she reigned as one of the mightiest Gods.
Perhaps it was their easily-swayed nature that let her draw so much power from them….

A contained, previously inert portal sealed in the Dungeon. The presiding cult kept it a closely guarded secret.
Upon sighting the Devourer of Gods, their leader hurriedly led me to its chamber to reveal its existence to me.
The portal led to the Devourer's home. It was identical to his, only ancient and perfectly stable.
The serpent claimed: It too was his creation. Its permanence was a mistake he later rectified.
But this rift was unquestionably far older than he. It had dated back to the Golden Age of Dragons.
His lie was thin and forced. Something far more powerful than the Devourer was at hand.
Its eerie persistence gnawed at my mind. It did not just threaten me. It threatened everyone. Everything.
Even when faced with blatant lies and harrowing danger, I simply walked away and did not return….

This beast while of lesser stature than the Devourer, is a great danger in its own right.
They are clearly of the same species. Even this serpent was known to devour Wyverns whole.
Very little is known about the realm or space that the Great Devourer hails from.
Even Draedon and his obsessive research has been unable to discern its true nature.
The Weaver slipped through a rift from this place opened by the Devourer, and he has monitored it since.
In his mind, the lesser serpent's similar powers could lead it to be too threatening for him to let live.
Little does he know, he has forever stood in a similar position. He thinks himself invincible after all.

An aberration that defies all explanation, borne of the Distortion and revered by the Onyx Kinsmen.
Almost all information about this entity is sourced from that enigmatic clan. All else is hearsay.
It has been reported to manifest in multiple places at once. Its capacity for deceit and ruthless cunning is peerless.
Statis' compatriot Braelor dueled me to a standstill. With our blades locked, the ronin lunged for the lethal blow.
The Devourer is not one for honor or loyalty. But he sensed weakness. Hesitation. An easy prey.
The serpent ensnared both my assailants in a dimensional vortex. Assuring me they were as good as dead.
Yet, Statis must have struck a bargain with Signus. He escaped his banishment unscathed.

The further my war dragged on, the further I sank into negligence. This specter is the crux of my failure.
I hid behind my excuses, calling them duties. Fighting the gods. Training. Ruling.
I had the time and resources to devote. I was simply paralyzed by apathy.
The scores of prisoners I kept in the dungeon I claimed perished alongside their jailors.
Within those hexed walls, none may know rest. Their souls coalesced into a formless monster.
Boiling with rage, wallowing in sorrow, screaming in madness. The amalgamation was uncontrollable.
The dragon cult was furious, their leader demanding I put the haunt down myself.
I did not answer. I had long since become deaf to the world outside my crusade. Do not fall as I have.

That was possibly one of the oldest mundane living beings on the face of the planet.
The first Fishrons were spotted in the middle of the Draconic Era. What exotic prestige…!
Fishrons were one of the original offshoots of pure-blooded Auric Dragons.
They are so old and venerated that many historians are convinced they are the original sea monsters of folklore.
This particular Duke's guile is self-evident: It evaded centuries of hunting, and until now had survived a most thorough poisoning.
Above almost all others, this creature was a living fable. One must wonder what goes through the mind of a fading legend….

The infamous, otherworldly glutton, in the flesh. His imposing title was self-granted, but undeniable truth made it stick.
He is a formidable foe: Capable of swallowing Gods whole, absorbing their essence in its entirety.
I ordered Draedon to armor his gargantuan form, so he could safely best even the greater Gods in single combat.
Fittingly, he possessed a serpent's tongue. He manipulated me incessantly, driving me to awful acts.
I recruited him out of desperation. My war had dragged on for decades, and I would do anything to have it end.
It was then my negligence was born. My descent began the moment recruiting this scoundrel crossed my mind.
His absence of loyalty was clear as day, even at the time. However, I suspect it goes beyond that.
The Devourer's alien capabilities and domineering tactics hint that his allegiance lay elsewhere.
Is he but one soldier, a mere pawn of a malevolence far beyond…?

The return of the Age of Dragons, dashed. Just like that, it is but ashes in the wind….
Yharon was the last of the Auric Dragons. As a phoenix, his domain of power includes rebirth.
The Gods thought him culled with the rest of his kind, but he returned as an egg. Hidden on the Aerie.
I was destined to consume his Auric soul when he hatched, and rule forever as God-King.

Destiny is for the weak.

I rejected their whims, and upended their scheme. I was sentenced to execution for treason.
Their meek, ingratiated swine cast both Yharon's egg and I into the magma of Hell.
The intense heat hideously scarred me, but birthed Yharon anew. He rose, wreathed in fire and saved my life.
From that day, our souls were one. He shared with me the tale of Zeratros, and the genocide of his kind.
I promised him I would have justice. So the war began, Yharon rallying all as a beacon of hope.
Now, that hope is long withered. I am but a husk of the hero I once was, and this is the ultimate proof.
Yharon may yet return, as he does, but he… he has bade me farewell.

What a terrifying marvel of engineering. Draedon's specialty always lay in the machines of war, but these are immaculate.
His bold claim that no God can match his work is, however… incorrect. He is not privy to the Traitor almighty.
Regardless, from steel and wit alone, he has forged engines of destruction that rival Calamitas.
It brings me little comfort to remark that even she, at least has a heart to speak of.
Draedon is an amoral monster beyond compare. He is entirely devoid of humanity and compassion.
With technology this incomprehensibly advanced, he stands at the precipice of apotheosis.
He can fabricate such dreadful, synthetic nightmares at will. His resources must be nigh unlimited.
Were he to lose his temper: if he even has one, all of life's hopes would be smothered in an instant, silenced by a torrent of silicon.
Though, perhaps you may leverage his unimaginable craft to your advantage, and seek insight from him.

None have borne the brunt of misfortune quite like the Brimstone Witch, Calamitas.
When I first saw her, she was still a girl. Prostrated in my court, garbed in charred rags as she trembled.
I could not grasp the unfathomable, raw power of the fell magics that coursed through her.
She could scant control it herself. Permafrost recognized this immediately. With a pained face, he counseled me to look after her.
The Witch entered his tutelage, and soon after my service. She was ablaze with desire to douse the Gods in her wicked wrath.
Indeed, the faithful already quaked in her presence. Her name was a moniker of theirs, one uttered quietly in fear.
In my campaigns, I counted on her sheer capacity for annihilation as my ace in the hole.
No man: army, city or God could stand against her unbridled fury.
Eventually, the girl's horrific sin was too much for her to bear. She left my side along with her mentor.
The weight of her deeds haunts her to this day. She despises me, and I cannot blame her.
Please, if you would... show her respect where I did not.

You now stand at the brink of infinity. The power you have amassed is extraordinary.
Valor and deceit, truth and falsehood, loyalty and betrayal… you are beyond these notions.
You have rent all asunder as they crossed your path. The very land now bends to your will.
Do you not see how the grass parts where you step, how the stars illuminate where you gaze?
Terraria itself kneels to you, whether it be out of fear or respect.
This is the strength the Dragons held. The primordial power they commanded.
Little stands between us now. If you did not seek battle with me, I doubt you would have come so far.
When you are prepared: seek the grave of the Light, at the summit of the Dragon Aerie.
I await your challenge.