They said you were a myth, a fable torn from the oldest prayers, a murmur among broken bells. And yet, there you were, crossing the ruins of Cvstodia with a presence impossible to deny.

The Penitent did not speak. He never did. Only his sword, Mea Culpa, reacted the moment your steps crossed his path. The blade trembled, as if it recognized within you some ancient echo, something even the warrior himself could not understand.

You saw him stop, the metal of his helm tilted toward you, as though trying to decipher whether you were flesh or specter. And in that suffocating silence, you understood he too had heard of you in the forbidden stories: a presence that was never meant to exist.