THE DEAD RULER MUST RETURN
Hellcrown is a side-view roguelite strategy where you play as a dead monarch raising a fortress around your own grave, fending off brutal sieges with the only thing you have left: your hand. Each run is a unique narrative shaped by random events, irreversible mistakes, and their consequences.
YOU ARE DEAD, BUT YOUR HAND STILL RULES
Your demons act on their own volition: they build, fight, and perish without explicit commands. However, when the tide of battle turns against you, the dead ruler's hand can snatch a servant from their position and hurl them to a location where their demise will serve a tactical purpose.
A KINGDOM AROUND THE GRAVE
Your crypt is defenseless; thus, an impregnable bastion must rise around it. Construct mines, workshops, and outposts. Forge deadly traps and summon legions. It is your decision where to erect impenetrable walls and where to position those who will fall first.
THE FUTURE REMEMBERS YOUR DECISIONS
Not every wave begins with the clash of steel and dying cries. Sometimes, strange visitors arrive at your crypt, believing a dead ruler can still be reasoned with. Their requests, threats, and bargains rarely yield obvious outcomes. Your decisions echo into the future. One agreement may grant a powerful boon. Another may draw an enemy to your walls. A third wave might commence as a peaceful dialogue and conclude in bloodshed.
EVERY MONARCH RULES IN THEIR OWN WAY
Your strategy is forged during every run. Gather blessings and observe as random discoveries form powerful synergies. Transform your crypt into an impregnable fortress, a living weapon, or a hive that spawns legions. Every run presents an opportunity to discover your ideal balance or engineer something entirely unprecedented.
THE FATE OF ASTARTA
Following the Great Rebellion, the Kingdom of Satanel was left without a true heir. Dukes tear at each other's throats for power, ancient lands decay, and within the forgotten Limbo, the soul of the rightful ruler awakens. Your path leads through the frozen Kingdom of Astarta, where white-barked apple trees once blossomed and pale halls gleamed with gold. Now the castle lies in ruins, the gardens are bound by frost, and maddened guards continue to serve a dead sovereign whose head is stitched to her body with a crimson thread. They still await the savior foretold in prophecy. Will the young Astarta be restored to life, or is the prophecy merely a falsehood?