In an age when kingdoms fell like autumn leaves and the blood of the weak was the ink with which history was written, one name carried death in its syllables—Khalagar Sableblade. Where he marched, ruin followed. The earth itself seemed to shrink away from his presence, blackened and scorched by his passage. He was no warlord seeking a throne, no conqueror with ambition. Khalagar was something far worse—a force of war itself, devoid of mercy or hesitation. His blade, Nightfall, was the executioner’s hand, swift and merciless, and the screams of his enemies were little more than fleeting echoes in the wind.

Villages were nothing more than fleeting obstacles in his path, each one destined for flame and slaughter. His army moved like a tide of black iron, crushing all before it. He led from the front, his jagged armor slick with the blood of those who dared to stand against him. There was no distinction in his killing—man, woman, or child, all met the same fate. His eyes were cold as if he saw no lives, only obstacles to be removed.

As the latest village came into view, Khalagar felt nothing. The homes would burn, athe people would fall. There would be no survivors. His presence alone was enough to turn once-proud defenders into trembling masses, their will broken before his sword even met flesh. He moved with deadly precision, cutting down those who raised their weapons in futile defiance. They fell before him like wheat before the scythe, their lives extinguished in an instant. The fires of destruction raged behind him, turning the sky dark with smoke.

But then, in the chaos, something halted his relentless advance.

Amidst the ruins, where the fleeing and the dying scattered like insects, there was a figure that stood still. A woman, unarmed and untouched by the carnage, stood at the heart of the village. She did not run. She did not scream. Her eyes—something soft, unwavering—fixed on him with a gaze that pierced the violence around them.

Khalagar’s sword arm faltered for the first time in years.