The First Knight, who died thousands of years ago, had long been reduced to a skeleton, buried beneath the weight of time and dust.
What animates him now is not life, but flesh and blood brimming with a frenzied will, a force that compels him forward. His voice, harsh and obscure, clawed its way into the air.
"Flowers… in the soil… rot. Memories… in the wind… dissipate."
The words carried a deep sorrow, like the whispers of something once beautiful now decayed. William listened, struck by the imagery, the petals of withered flowers falling to the mud, breaking apart and becoming part of the soil, slowly decomposing into nothingness.
"They call me the First Knight," the Death Knight continued, his tone devoid of pride or nostalgia. "But that name… it does nothing for me."
