In the barren wastelands of the Empire's northern frontier, the wind reigned supreme. It whipped up dry sand and gravel, lashing the slowly advancing convoy with a ceaseless howl. Three prison wagons, thick with dust, were escorted by dozens of royal guards clad in standard Imperial armor and wearing grim expressions. They trudged like worms through the endless gray-yellow expanse. The wheels ground over gravel, emitting a monotonous, grating whine—the only rhythm on this desolate land.
The middle prison wagon was the sturdiest, yet also the most oppressive. Within its wrought-iron bars, Kelson Augustus, once the Seventh Prince of the Empire, now cowered in a corner. The regal robe he wore—embroidered with a lion's crest in gold thread—had long since been stained a dull gray by the dust of the journey. The cuffs and collar were badly frayed, and the gold thread had lost its luster, leaving him looking like a fish stripped of its scales, with only a luxurious shell remaining. This garment, rather than a testament to his status, was the ultimate irony. He raised his head slightly, peering through the gaps in the bars at the leaden sky and the monotonous, despair-inducing horizon beyond the wagon. Those eyes, once clear and brimming with the vitality unique to youth, now held only a near-numb stillness, like two bottomless, parched wells. Only occasionally, when the wind and sand suddenly intensified, lashing violently against the prison wagon, would his eyelashes tremble imperceptibly, betraying a faint, forcibly suppressed trace of the breath of a living being.
Leo Ironrock, captain of the guards, rode a towering black warhorse at the very head of the column. He was a massive figure, like a silent boulder, his metal-scaled breastplate reflecting a cold, hard sheen in the dim light of the sky. Wearing a full-face helmet, he revealed only a pair of eyes as sharp as a hawk's, scanning the surroundings with vigilance. This wasteland, known as the "Forgotten Lands," was the final destination for the Empire's most dangerous convicts and a haven for countless outlaws. His gaze was as sharp as a blade; every sweep of his eyes carried unquestionable authority and a hint of barely perceptible weariness. His right hand rested habitually on the hilt of the sword at his waist, his knuckles turning slightly white from the pressure. That sword—the Imperial Royal Guard Captain's blade, "The Executioner"—felt as heavy as a thousand pounds at that moment. He remembered the handsome yet icy face of the Second Prince in that secret chamber deep within the palace, where the air was thick with incense and intrigue, and the command that had been delivered so lightly yet carried the weight of a thousand pounds: "Make him vanish from the border, forever. The Empire has no need for a 'disgrace' who cannot wield magic." Leo's Adam's apple bobbed, as if he were swallowing a red-hot coal. He was no bloodthirsty man; his sense of military honor made him instinctively resist this mission. But the Emperor's command was absolute, and besides, his loyalty lay with the Empire as a whole, not with any individual—even if that individual was a prince. He forced himself not to look at the young man in the prison wagon, fixing his gaze instead on the distant, black mountain range—blurred by wind and sand—that marked the empire's border.
The procession moved forward in silence, broken only by the sound of hooves pounding the ground and wheels grinding against the earth. The guards' faces bore the weariness of a long journey and a distaste for this barren land; they spoke little to one another. The atmosphere was as oppressive as the dead silence before a storm. Kelson's presence—this "insulator" incapable of sensing any magical elements—felt like an invisible boulder weighing down on everyone's hearts. In the Augustus Empire, where magic reigned supreme, the inability to wield magic—especially for someone of royal blood—was in itself an unforgivable sin. His very existence was viewed as a desecration of the royal bloodline and a mockery of the empire's power. Exile was nothing more than a fig leaf to conceal far more sordid motives.
"Captain, the sky looks off," a young guard said as he rode up alongside Leo, his voice carrying a barely perceptible edge of tension that broke the suffocating silence. He pointed toward the northwest.
Leo followed his finger. Where the horizon had been nothing but a hazy gray, a murky, churning wall of dark yellow clouds had suddenly surged up. The wall swelled and advanced at a visible pace, like a long-dormant beast slowly opening its all-consuming maw. The sunlight was completely obscured, and the land plunged into premature darkness.
"A sandstorm!" Leo's heart sank. With his wealth of experience, he immediately recognized the most terrifying disaster of the wilderness. He yanked on the reins, and his warhorse let out an anxious whinny. "Attention, everyone! A sandstorm is coming! Close ranks! Keep the prison wagons close together! Everyone dismount, cover your mouths and noses with cloth, and hold on to something sturdy!" His voice thundered, instantly shattering the oppressive silence, carrying an air of unquestionable authority and a barely perceptible urgency.
The order was swiftly relayed. The well-trained guards sprang into action, their faces etched with gravity and tension. They quickly herded the three prison wagons together and secured them with thick iron chains. The guards leapt from their horses, tightly wrapping the cloths they carried over their mouths and noses, leaving only their alert eyes exposed. They gripped the prison carts' railings or each other's arms, their bodies tense as if facing a formidable enemy. The horses pawed the ground restlessly, letting out terrified whinnies, their reins held firmly by their masters.
Inside the prison wagon, Kelson sat up straight, startled by this sudden turn of events. Through the bars, he saw the chaos erupting outside and the sand wall looming ever closer, as if bridging heaven and earth. A primal fear seized him, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. He instinctively gripped the cold iron bars, his knuckles turning white from the pressure.
The sand wall arrived faster and more violently than he had imagined. One moment it was merely a threat on the horizon; the next, a furious storm of sand and wind swept in like a tsunami. The entire world was instantly stripped of color and sound, leaving only a deafening roar. That wasn't the sound of the wind; it was the teeth-grinding screech and dull thud of countless grains of sand striking metal, leather, and flesh at devastating speeds. Fist-sized rocks, whipped up by the gale, slammed into the prison wagon and the guards' armor like cannonballs, producing thunderous booms and shrill scrapes. Visibility vanished completely; one couldn't see more than an arm's length ahead. The thick dust choked the air, making it impossible to breathe; even through the cloth mask, fine grains of sand desperately tried to burrow into his mouth and nose.
"Hold on tight! Don't let go!" Leo's shout sounded faint and distant amid the howling wind and sand, yet it carried a reassuring, steady strength. He clung desperately to the iron chains connecting the prison cart, his body rooted to the ground like a stake, resisting the gale that threatened to tear everything apart. He could feel the ground trembling beneath his feet, the chains shaking violently, groaning under the strain. A guard was knocked off balance by the gale, screaming as he was swept away from the ranks, vanishing instantly into the yellow chaos without a trace. The horses' whinnies turned into desperate wails; several broke free from their reins and were likewise swallowed by the storm.
Kelson's prison cart swayed and jolted violently in the raging sandstorm, like a tiny boat adrift in a raging sea. With every violent jolt, his insides churned violently, and his body was mercilessly hurled upward only to crash heavily against the cold iron floor. He could only cling desperately to an iron pillar in the center of the prison wagon—used to secure the shackles—curling his body into the smallest possible ball and mustering every ounce of strength to resist the force that threatened to tear him apart. Grains of sand, like countless tiny knives, lashed against his exposed skin, bringing searing pain. Breathing became excruciatingly difficult; with every inhalation, a torrent of sand and dust flooded his lungs, causing him to cough violently. Tears streamed uncontrollably from his eyes, only to be instantly dried by the wind. Fear, like a cold, venomous snake, coiled around his heart. Never had he felt his own insignificance and helplessness so acutely, as if he might be utterly obliterated by this raging world at any moment.
Just as Kelson's consciousness began to blur amidst the suffocation and excruciating pain, a bone-chilling metallic screech pierced through the roar of the wind and sand! The iron chain linking his prison cart to another had finally reached its limit under the relentless, frenzied tugging. Accompanied by a piercing snap, Kelson felt the prison cart beneath him suddenly grow light, only to be violently overturned by an irresistible force!
The world spun! In Kelson's eyes, it turned upside down and shattered. His body was flung from the cart by immense momentum, like a leaf swept up by a gale, crashing heavily onto the hard, scorching ground. Agonizing pain instantly swept through his entire body; it felt as though his bones had shattered. He tried to struggle to his feet, but the raging sandstorm immediately engulfed him. He could only instinctively curl up, shielding his head and face with his arms, as the violent forces of nature shoved and dragged him, rolling him across the stony ground.
He didn't know how long it had been—it felt like an eternity—but the roar of the wind and sand seemed to have subsided slightly. Kelson struggled to open his eyes, which were caked with dust. His vision was still blurry, but he could barely make out that the world around him was no longer a complete void. The gale was still howling, whipping up sand into shifting walls, but that earth-shattering fury seemed to be gradually subsiding.
He struggled to sit up, spitting out the sand from his mouth and coughing violently, each breath bringing a searing pain to his chest. He looked around, and his heart sank instantly.
As far as the eye could see, there was only a desolate wasteland, reshaped by the wind and sand. The undulating sand dunes had changed shape, resembling frozen yellow waves. The sky remained a oppressive grayish-yellow, with sunlight struggling to pierce through the clouds and dust, casting a dim, yellowish glow. No prison cart, no guards, no warhorses—not even a single large piece of wreckage was in sight. The caravan, which had been bustling and chaotic just moments ago, seemed as though it had never existed, its traces completely erased by this sudden sandstorm.
He was alone.
Kelson sat all alone on the cold sand, his tattered finery caked with mud and grit, his face covered in scrapes and dust. He stared blankly at the barren wasteland that had swallowed everything. An overwhelming sense of loneliness and a bone-chilling cold instantly gripped him. The exiled prince of the Empire had now become the sole living creature in this forgotten land. With no path ahead and no help behind him, only the howling wind remained—as if the land itself were mocking him mercilessly.