Custom Archetype Fallen Sentinel (Custom Fiendsmith Lore) Chapter 1

[The2kGod Raah]

Chapter 1 — The Balance Below: The Rise of the Fallen Sentinels

Beneath the cities and the light, there exists a lawless underworld where strength is currency, cruelty is culture, and chaos reigns. This world is not hidden—it is ignored, built beneath crumbling towers and forgotten histories. It is a place where gangs war for territory, demon-kin roam without chains, and no soul walks unarmed.

In this realm, destruction is constant. But even chaos demands a structure.

To prevent any one faction, warlord, or monster from upsetting the fragile balance of this underground hell, the ruler of the underworld established a secret order: the Fallen Sentinels. Not protectors. Not peacekeepers. Regulators of power. They do not end wars—they punish those who win them too thoroughly.

Seven in number, each Sentinel is said to embody a forbidden sin—curses that reflect the very faults that led to their damnation. Now, those sins empower them.

Once a proud champion of order, he silenced rebellions and shattered armies with unrelenting force. But the power he wielded twisted his soul, until he saw not allies, but subordinates—tools meant to serve his vision of control. His downfall was legendary. Cast from grace and stripped of command, he should have vanished into oblivion. But his pride—unyielding, unbreakable—refused to die. It burned in silence, and in that silence, he was reborn… a Fallen Sentinel. His duty now is unwavering: punish those who disrupt the balance. He does not seek peace. He does not offer mercy. He ensures the strong do not become too strong. Now, as a Fallen Sentinel, Ego walks the battlefield alone. His golden armor is cracked but unyielding, a remnant of wars won and loyalty lost. He does not negotiate. He corrects. The moment power tips the scale, Ego descends. Though like Ego the other Sentinels were once humans in the overworld who all met tragic fates.

Rathalos was a soldier. Loyal. Decorated. Unshakable in his belief that the flag he served would protect his home. He fought for his people, bled for his country. But he was wrong. When the ruling power needed a scapegoat to cover up its sins, they turned on him. His name was stripped from honor. His home was burned to the ground. His wife and children—executed, not for crimes, but for legacy. And Rathalos? Cast into a prison cell to rot. A war hero made into a liability. A father buried in silence. He died without trial. But in death, his rage refused to fade. It fermented. It evolved. And when the fires of the underworld touched what was left of him, he rose again—not as a man, but as vengeance itself. Now, every step he takes is thunder. And every roar? A curse for the world that made him.

Allurema was worshipped in the city above—not as a goddess, but as something close. Her beauty moved nations, silenced courts, and made kings kneel. But beauty breeds hunger in others… and worse, in yourself. What began as confidence turned to obsession. Lovers were tools. Friends were rivals. She could not bear to see others adored, even for a moment. Their joy stole her spotlight, and her spotlight was her breath. She broke hearts not to protect her own, but to extinguish theirs. Her actions built a palace of envy where no one was ever welcome. Until, one night, she was found—poisoned by the hand of a woman she had once called a friend. A friend she had ruined. Her final words were not cries. They were bitter laughter. In the underworld, Allurema found her beauty intact—but twisted. A mask over a pit. A gift turned blade. Her envy is no longer a secret. It is her armor, her elegance, her execution.

There was once a man who was born plain—not ugly, not poor, not unskilled. Just ordinary. And that was his curse. Everywhere he went, he saw others rise. Friends became famous. Rivals gained riches. Even strangers passed him by, praised for talents he worked twice as hard to earn. He smiled through their victories, nodded at their luck. But behind his eyes, the envy burned like acid. He didn’t want what they had. He wanted them not to have it at all. And so, he made a wish—whether to a demon or to fate, no one knows. He begged not to be overlooked. To be seen as what he could be. And the underworld listened. But the wish was a twisted mirror. Now, Envious Fiend takes on the appearance of those he envies—unable to keep a form of his own. The more he covets, the more fragmented he becomes. His body shifts like a shattered reflection, always beautiful, always stolen. He doesn’t remember what he looked like. He doesn’t even know if he ever liked himself. He walks beside the other Sentinels, cloaked in faces not his own. And when he speaks, his voice is laced with every tone he’s ever envied—rich, cold, proud… never his.

 

Others of the Sentinels are more of a Mystery such as Sloth and Greed, however not all of them were once human, or rather only once human. 

Devouraak was never a man. Not truly. No one remembers feeding him, loving him, or naming him. He came into being where desperation reached its peak—where the poor and forgotten were left to starve in cold alleys, their bones scraping stone, their cries echoing unheard. He was born in famine. Where a hundred died of hunger, Devouraak opened his eyes. Where screams went silent, he learned to walk. A shadow with a mouth too wide, eyes that never blinked, hands that never stopped shaking. He is hunger—not for food, but for everything. For sound, for touch, for meaning. They say his body is hollow. That when he breathes, you hear the whimpering of the starving. That when he walks, the ground withers. He wandered the surface world with an endless craving, but nothing filled the void. Until the underworld opened, and he was drawn to it like a vulture to a corpse. There, they named him a Sentinel. They gave him a duty, a purpose. He does not understand it, but he obeys—so long as he gets to consume. Even among the other Fallen Sentinels, he is feared. They speak of the things he devours—souls, memories, names—and how nothing ever comes back out.

And so, the underworld churns—rotting in its chaos, thriving on violence, feeding on ambition. Power is seized, stolen, devoured. Order is not upheld through peace, but through fear, through silence.

The Fallen Sentinels are the nails in the coffin of this system. Not heroes. Not saviors. They are sins made flesh—enforcers of balance, not justice. Their task is not to prevent violence, but to ensure that no one becomes strong enough to threaten the status quo. Their names are etched into whispers: The wrathful soldier who lost everything. The gluttonous hollow that was never born. The envious shape-stealer who no longer knows his own face. The lustful beauty, once radiant above ground but undone by her own desires. The prideful commander who bends the underworld to his will. And others still, whose names are hidden in shadow and silence, too selfish or too sluggish to act unless the stakes rise high enough. They are not united by friendship. They are bound by decree. Tools of the unseen ruler of the underworld—an ancient power who watches but never speaks.

A new threat descends into the depths. One not born of sin, but of purpose. A lone blacksmith—a hunter of demons, feared even among devils. The Fiendsmith. He walks with a weapon forged from the bound souls of demons, a coffin-shaped blade named Requiem, ever-hungry for fresh power. He does not wish to conquer the underworld. He wishes only to hunt. But to the Fallen Sentinels, that is reason enough. He is a disruption. A force that grows stronger with every kill. He breaks the balance. He does not kneel. He must be stopped. And so begins the battle between the Fiendsmith and the Fallen Warriors—a war not of good and evil, but of law and chaos, of balance and ambition. In the deepest dark of the underworld, where power is paid in pain and names are traded for survival, the Requiem sings its song of violence—and the sins rise to meet it. The underworld holds its breath.

[Chapter 2 coming soon]

 

[Yuma Kaiba]

I think I've used the art you used... Haha

 

[The2kGod Raah]

8 minutes ago, Yᵤₘₐ ₖₐᵢbₐ said:

I think I've used the art you used... Haha

 

Yeah I just get the art online, whatever looks cool. I wish I could make art, but I am not an artist. Im better at making cards/effects and lore

[Yuma Kaiba]

5 minutes ago, The2kGod Raah said:

I wish I could make art, but I am not an artist.

I wishing too 

My draw skill is like a Doodle Archetype art.