Falko's eyelids fluttered as he slowly regained consciousness, his vision hazy and unfocused. As he blinked the blurriness away, memories began to flood back—running through the dungeon, his battle with hornguffler, his time with Shalana… and then darkness.
He tried to move, but his hands were chained, wrists bound high above his head, his arms aching. His shirt was gone, leaving his chest bare and cold, while his pants were the only thing left covering him. He shivered, both from the chill and the strange environment around him.
[Well, this is bad!]
Gamer made a remark, which Tyrant couldn't help but agree.
[If you die here, brat!....ah it is what it is. If you die here, that means you're not meant for greatness. We will find another Falko in an different universe.]
