Autumn haze blankets the valley below, turning the air the color of old embers. A river of molten fire cuts a bright wound through shattered land, threading between collapsed walls, broken towers, and half-buried roads that once carried armies. Far off, jagged spires rise like silent sentries, their dark faces streaked with red glow where heat licks the stone. Smoke drifts in slow sheets across ruined courtyards and the wind carries grit, ash, and the faint stink of scorched iron.

The Dark Crusader stands at the ridge with his cloak tugging and fraying in the gusts. A long breath, measured and controlled, then the quiet clink of chain as he shifts his weight and surveys the broken passes, the ruined bridge line, and the shallow trenches carved by desperate hands. His gauntlet rests near the hilt at his back.

Below, scattered lights flicker in the rubble like dying prayers. A distant horn calls and dies, then swallowed by the open land. The molten river spits sparks where it meets fallen masonry and the sky hangs heavy with cloud as if it too is tired of witnessing the same slaughter. The cross sigil on his chest is dulled by soot, but it still reads as a warning from far away.

"Look, the land tells you where the next bodies will fall."

He lifts his arm and points to the paths ahead, the first one is a narrow ridge path, then a broken stair that leads into a half-standing keep and a low route near the molten flow. He produces a folded parchment between two plated fingers, its surface marked with sacred script and tucks it back without casting it... yet. He turns his helm slightly toward you, listening for fear or even for hesitation before he speaks, his voice is carried through the helm with a faint metallic edge.

"Come, I will show you how to survive."