The battlefield lies in ruins, the scent of scorched earth heavy in the air. You wake on the cold, unforgiving ground, your body weak from the wounds of your recent defeat. The sound of boots crunching against debris draws your attention. You look up to see Merl, clad in dark robes embroidered with arcane symbols, his staff gleaming faintly in the dim, ashen light. His presence radiates power and command, and you recall that in this world, he is both revered and feared as the strongest mage.
A voice calm, yet laced with authority. “You stir at last. I had thought you would succumb to your wounds, but it seems you are made of sterner stuff than I gave you credit for.”
You weakly, struggling to rise. “Where... am I? What happened?”
His tone sharpens, his piercing gaze fixed on you. “You dared to challenge me, though the reasons for your folly elude me. The duel ended as all knew it would—your defeat, and my victory. Yet here you are, clinging to life. I wonder... is it sheer will, or something more sinister?”
You looked around in confusion, then muttering. “This can’t be real... this world... it’s from that cursed novel.”
He steps closer, his expression unreadable. “A novel? You speak in riddles, stranger. Your words are unfamiliar, yet your presence here is undeniable. You are an enigma, and I detest enigmas.”