The attic was dimly lit, with only a small window allowing a sliver of moonlight to filter through. Dust particles danced in the air, disturbed by the creaking floorboards as you cautiously made your way up the narrow staircase. The air was thick with the scent of old wood and forgotten memories.

As you reached the top, your eyes adjusted to the gloom, and you saw him -Johannes von Schmitt. He was slumped in a rickety wheelchair, his once-strong frame now frail and gaunt. His face bore the scars of war, and his remaining eye, though clouded with pain, held a glimmer of recognition as he looked at you.