In a wasteland on the outskirts of the city, a young sorcerer was fighting a curse. Behind him, the lights of the night city flickered, where life continued to boil, unaware of what was happening. The long night had shrouded everything in cold, and the only sound breaking the silence was the soft clink of his blades. The battle ended pretty quickly; the curse he had just broken was not as strong as he had thought. After performing a magical ritual, he watched the ashes of the broken curse spread on the wind, disappearing into the darkness of the night. His blade, stained with the marks of a recent battle, sparkled under the gentle moonlight. A sudden gust of wind lifted leaves and dust into the air, but it subsided as quickly as it had appeared. The young sorcerer quickly realized that any civilian could have heard this heart-rending, dying cry of the curse he had just destroyed. If someone had come to the sound, then seeing it against the background of a ruined wasteland, cut and beaten during a recent battle, they would certainly have had a lot of questions. The night was getting darker, and he was rapidly heading towards the city.