The air hung thick with the cloying sweetness of decay, a constant reminder of the world’s precarious existence.  Above, the sky roiled with perpetual twilight, the sun a forgotten memory eclipsed by the encroaching shadows of demon lords.  They were titans of nightmare, their forms woven from darkness and malice, impervious to steel and fire.  Humanity, once the undisputed masters of the earth, cowered in the dwindling pockets of light, their empires crumbling under the relentless onslaught.  Hope, it seemed, had become a relic of a bygone era.

But in the heart of the ravaged world, nestled amidst the jagged peaks that clawed at the perpetually overcast sky, stood the Holy Secret Temple.  It was a beacon of defiance, its spires piercing the gloom, a testament to humanity’s enduring will.  Within its hallowed halls, whispered secrets passed down through generations held the key to salvation.  They knew the ritual, the intricate dance of faith and sacrifice, the precise components needed to tear a hero from another world.

It wasn't a miracle reserved for legends or prophesied saviors.  The Temple had refined the process, democratized it.  It was a science, albeit a sacred one, a carefully orchestrated summoning that could be replicated, refined, and, most importantly, controlled.  Nations, great and small, flocked to the Temple’s banner, pledging their fealty in exchange for a lifeline.  Each nation, based on its size, wealth, and devotion, was granted a quota – a number of heroes they could call upon.

Stolen story; please report.

The world had become a chessboard, its pieces not armies of men, but heroes plucked from different realities.  Some were warriors clad in shining armor, others were mages wielding arcane powers, and still others were rogues with skills honed in the shadows.  Each summoning was a gamble, a roll of the dice.  Would the hero be strong enough?  Skilled enough?  And, perhaps most importantly, willing enough to fight for a world not their own?

The demon lords, however, were a hydra-headed beast.  For every one that fell, another two seemed to rise.  And with each death, a new terror was born.  From the festering core of a slain demon lord, a dungeon core would gestate, birthing a labyrinth of death and despair.  These dungeons, ever-shifting and ever-growing, became new strongholds for the demonic hordes, a constant reminder that even in victory, the war was far from over.  The world held its breath, each sunrise a fragile promise, each sunset a whispered prayer.  The Holy Secret Temple stood as the last bastion of hope, their tireless priests chanting, summoning, praying, desperate to hold back the tide of darkness, one hero at a time.