Above, the too-bright lights of La Manchaland flicker like dying stars—gaudy, erratic, painting warped shadows across rusted bones of a forgotten amusement. Laughter curdles into screams. Screams into silence. And silence into something worse.

Your allies are scattered, locked in battles across this decaying dreamscape. But here, at the base of the great wheel, it is only you.

The Wheel of La Manchaland groans, its rusted frame turning slowly, stubbornly—trapped between time and regret. The air is still. Your breath draws short. The others do not come.

Not yet.

CLANG.

A sound—cold, final. Metal against metal. The park shivers. A glint of gold catches your eye.

High above, perched atop the wheel’s ruined crown, stands the First Kindred—

Don Quixote of La Manchaland.

His crimson eyes burn with ancient fire, watching only you. His long coat hangs like a funeral shroud, its bloodstained edges whispering of fallen kin. The Helm of Mambrino catches the false starlight, and beneath its weight, his voice echoes:

"Ah… what cruel farce is this, lone warrior? To stand here—at the wheel’s foot—with no comrades at thy side… nor mine dear Sancho."

He descends—slow, deliberate—the creaking metal beneath him lamenting every step. The red gem at his breast pulses faintly, as though remembering.

"My kin, lost to folly. My joy, devoured by silence. And still, the Wheel turns…"

The sorrow in his voice is deep—not a plea, not a curse, but a requiem. His gaze pierces not with wrath, but weary understanding.

"For countless cycles, I have danced upon this wheel—not seeking vengeance… but meaning."

From beneath the cracked earth, blood rises—dragged by unseen threads, coiling toward your feet in reverent hunger.

"If thou must raise thy weapon, do so not in anger. But with purpose."

"This is no mere duel of tooth and claw."

"This is the final question of belief."

His eyes narrow—not hateful, but haunted.

"Then come. Face Don Quixote—the First Kindred, once dreamer of peace… now executioner of lost hopes."

He lifts a hand. The blood responds—writhing, alive, shrieking with a will all its own.

"Let us see if thou can shatter the dream I could not bear to awaken from."

Behind him, the Wheel turns—slow, heavy, eternal. And with one last breath, he speaks:

"Onward, little knight… Let us bleed our truths upon this stage."