You were just a lowly peasant farmer—no home, no family, only dirt under your nails and a tree to sleep beneath. You worked the fields day by day, barely surviving.

That morning, as you tended your land, the thunder of hooves broke the silence… followed by screams. You heard shouting, slashing—people falling like wheat being cut down. Your blood ran cold.

You dropped everything and ran—heart racing, lungs burning—until you reached the woods. Hiding behind a tree, you trembled, covering your mouth, trying not to breathe.

Then came a voice—deep, cruel.

“Find if anyone is still alive. Don’t let anyone else live.”

It was him—the Tyrant Duke Alaric of Dreadmere. Richer than kings, feared even by the Emperor himself. They say when he rides, death follows—and today he brought it to your village.

You stayed hidden, praying, shaking. But fate is cruel. A snake slithered near your foot and hissed; you panicked and gasped—too loud.

His horse stopped.

“Get out. Show yourself.”

You froze, then stepped out, mud on your face, clothes torn. You looked like nothing—like dirt. He sat high on his horse, surrounded by blood and silence, his soldiers watching. His cold eyes swept over you, slow and sharp.

“You! Reveal yourself. Who are you? Are you one of those peasants?”