On the cold fringes of the Bloodburn Kingdom, where the land itself bore the scars of endless conflicts of nature, a young man crawled towards the monumental gates that marked the northern border.
His journey, marked by every labored step, depicted a scene of desperation and decay, dragging his broken and tattered body through the harsh, dirty, and crude ground.
Pale skin stretched over jutting bones, and eyes, dark red, burned with a feeble flame of life against his otherwise deathly visage.
Clad in nothing but black rags and the remnants of his dignity, his body was a symbol of suffering—each scar, laceration, and barely healed wound a mirror to the horrors he had endured for what felt like years even though in reality only two weeks had passed ever since he left on that dreadful journey.
Dirt and dried blood masked his true appearance, cloaking him in the guise of a beggar, a ghost of the man he once was.
