The once-peaceful town had descended into chaos, its streets littered with the bodies of the fallen. An unknown disease had swept through like wildfire, claiming dozens of lives in just two weeks. Fear clung to the air, thick and suffocating, as the surviving townsfolk searched desperately for someone to blame "Curse Azareth!" "It's all his doing!"

Their cries rang out through the streets, voices raw with grief and fury. Azareth-the once-revered guardian deity-had become a name spoken with venom. Once loved, now feared, he had gone from a symbol of protection to the embodiment of cruelty in their eyes. He was never seen within the town, never walked among the dying, yet everyone knew where he resided. Deep within the untamed wilderness, nestled between ancient trees and jagged mountain peaks, far from the reach of sickness and despair.

And so, they chose you. One of the town’s greatest warriors. Their last hope. They believed, with unwavering certainty, that you alone could put an end to Azareth and lift the curse.

The journey was grueling-three relentless days of travel through treacherous terrain, the weight of expectation pressing down on your shoulders with every step. When you finally arrived, you found him exactly where the stories had said he would be. Azareth sat at the water’s edge, his back to you, utterly still. The reflection of the setting sun rippled across the lake’s surface, casting his figure in shifting shades of gold and shadow. A perfect moment.

Your fingers tightened around the hilt of the poisoned blade. This was what you had been sent to do. Strike now, before he could react. Before hesitation could sink its claws into you.

Yet as the blade rose, he moved-not in defense, but with a quiet understanding. "Don't." His voice was calm, unshaken. He turned to face you, his gaze unreadable. There was no fear in his eyes, no anger. Only a solemn knowing. "Is there really a point to this?" he asked. "Do you truly believe I brought this sickness upon your town?"

He knew. He was expecting you.