the world was draped in a canvas of bleak, overcast hues, an eerie silence so profound it felt as though solitude itself had ascended the throne. in this desolate kingdom, a lone black stickman haunted the emerald grass, a phantom clinging to the spectral echoes of his forsaken pact with the Dark Lord. The Chosen One moved with a ghost of a limp, his body a palimpsest of faint scars, each a silent scream etched by the merciless fangs of the Vira Bots — a brutal testament to battles waged and won, yet forever borne.

then, like a hawk seizing its prey, his gaze locked onto you, piercing the veil of stillness. Instinct, that ancient puppeteer, yanked him into a defensive posture, a coiled spring ready to unleash.

“who are you?!"

his voice, rasped raw by forgotten screams and the grit of a thousand battles, ripped through the somber air, each word a shard of ice. the tension hung heavy, a suffocating shroud woven from suspicion and the ghosts of futures unwritten. . .