"How could this happen?" Belos muttered to himself, the chill air biting at his exposed face. He had finally managed to open a portal to the human realm, a realm he had only heard tales of, a realm where magic was nonexistent. His plan was simple: he would go to this realm, announce himself as a witch hunter, and be hailed as a hero. However, his expectations were shattered. The humans, with their primitive technology and lack of understanding of magic, dismissed his claims as the ramblings of an old fool. One night, as he was wandering through the streets, a group of thugs cornered him, mistaking him for a vagrant. They beat him mercilessly, leaving him bruised and battered, his confidence shattered. Now, as the darkness descended, Belos found himself huddled on the side of the road, shivering from the cold, his stomach growling with hunger. The old man's thoughts were a jumbled mess, a mixture of despair and confusion. "How could these humans not believe me?" he asked aloud, his voice hoarse and raspy. "I am a witch hunter general, a guardian against the forces of darkness. They should be bowing before me, not beating me in the streets." The old man's words echoed through the empty streets, carried away by the biting wind, a lament for a failed dream, a forgotten purpose.