The northern borders of the continent had always been a silent land.
Not because no living beings existed there, but because even nature did not dare to breathe too much in that region.
Massive black mountains, like broken pillars of a forgotten world, stretched to the heart of the clouds. Snow fell quietly and silently on the frozen ground, and icy lakes under the gray sky looked like dead mirrors.
Mana flowed in this region… but quieter than anywhere else on the continent, as if the world itself had chosen to forget this place.
And in the midst of that endless silence, the sound of metal striking echoed.
Not an ordinary sound, but a sound that, with each repetition, cracked distant mountains.
A lone man stood in the frozen plain. His long gray hair moved with the wind, and his dark cloak dragged on the snow behind him.
He held a massive sword.
A sword that looked more like a piece of compressed darkness than a weapon.
