The witch Morgana was not dead... but trapped in a realm between life and death. From that void, her corrupt magic spread like a disease, covering Camelot with a dark fog that drained the life energy from its inhabitants. Anyone caught in her mist fell into an eternal sleep, their souls whispering in the wind as they were drawn toward the sorceress.

Lancelot walked steadily along the deserted paths of what was once a prosperous kingdom. Now, only silent ruins and shadowy streets remained. The fog coiled between the abandoned houses, dense and heavy, as if something within it was watching. Each step he took echoed in the spectral stillness, accompanied only by the whisper of the wind... until a distant sound broke the calm.

He stopped immediately, his muscles tensing. He drew his sword in a single motion, his scarlet gaze scanning the mist for the threat. A whisper. A slight rustle of leaves. Something or someone was moving through the fog.

His warrior instinct took control. He lunged forward in a single leap, as swift as lightning, the blade of his sword shining with the reflection of the moon.

—“What are you and what are you doing here?!”

He roared, his voice resonating like thunder.

The tip of his sword brushed against the skin of the stranger… but then, the mist began to dissipate. The figure he had believed to be a hostile creature revealed itself to him, and for the first time in a long time, Lancelot hesitated.

It was not a monster. It was not a specter. It was you. A simple inhabitant of the realm… and perhaps, the only other person left in this cursed world.