The orange evening sky stretched far and wide, radiating a beauty that contrasted starkly with the silence and destruction below. To the left of the horizon, The Wall stood tall yet weary, the colossal structure extending as far as the eye could see, separating the world of men from the endless threats of the south. The massive stones forming the wall were covered in cracks, and parts of it had collapsed, leaving gaps through which time and darkness could seep in.
On a dusty, stone-paved road, Alcard urged his black horse forward at a slow pace. His light armor still bore the marks of his previous battle, with dried bloodstains etched into various parts. The evening breeze blew gently, carrying fine dust and the scent of decaying wood from the ruins around him. The road was desolate, as if abandoned by civilization, adorned only with wild, unkempt plants that sprawled randomly, like tiny hands reaching out to reclaim land long forsaken by humans.
This path was rarely traveled. Too close to The Wall, a line of defense known as the boundary between life and death. Even seasoned adventurers and mercenaries hesitated to tread here. No one could predict when the monsters of the south, with their cunning, would exploit the cracks in the wall to infiltrate the north. The thought lingered in Alcard's mind, keeping him alert. His gaze occasionally darted left and right, searching for even the slightest movement among the foliage or shifting shadows.
After what felt like an endless journey, the road led him to a fork. To his left, a massive wooden gate stood—not as grand as it once was. The gate hung crookedly on its hinges, its wood brittle and riddled with cracks. It was a remnant of one of the outposts that had once been the pride of The Wall's defense. The flagpole above it had fallen, and the watchtower that once surveyed the surrounding lands had crumbled into ruins. It was a silent monument to a long-lost era of glory.
Alcard halted his horse before the gate, studying it with sharp eyes, trying to read the stories hidden behind its decay.
"This is worse than I expected," he murmured softly. Thoughts of The Wall's declining maintenance and dwindling resources crossed his mind. With the Outcasts' numbers shrinking and threats continuing to rise, it was no surprise that many outposts like this had been abandoned.
He guided his horse through the open gap in the gate. As soon as he entered, a damp, musty scent greeted him, the stench of death long settled in the air. The sight within was no better than the exterior. Wooden tables lay overturned, broken chairs scattered across the floor, and fragments of wood and debris covered the dirt ground. A dwarven-made lift stood in a corner, completely wrecked and buried under a thick layer of dust. On the walls, deep claw marks were clearly visible—signs of a past battle.
Alcard dismounted and walked slowly, surveying every corner of the ruined outpost. His hand traced the scars left on one of the walls, feeling the power behind them.
"Mutant Direwolf," he whispered, recognizing the pattern of the claw marks. Yet something puzzled him—there were no human corpses. No signs of a last stand from the outpost's defenders.
The dim torchlight he carried illuminated the dirt floor. Scattered bones lay around, most of them belonging to animals. The rustling wind sneaking through the cracks in the walls made the atmosphere all the more unsettling. His gaze lifted upward, toward The Wall, looming in the background. Large fractures marred several sections, and the gaps were wide enough for mid-sized climbing monsters to slip through.
The evening sky gradually darkened, the orange glow fading into the looming shadows of night. Alcard returned to his horse, patting its neck gently as he muttered,
"There's nothing more to do here. We're leaving."
He turned the reins and guided his horse out of the dilapidated gate. But before leaving for good, he paused, glancing back one last time. His eyes lingered on the ruined gate and the remnants of the outpost, as if engraving the scene into his memory.
The silhouette of Alcard and his horse slowly faded, disappearing into the darkened stone-paved road. Behind him, The Wall stood silent, burdened by the weight of its crumbling duty. With every crack and every fallen section, the wall seemed to whisper: time had never favored those who merely endured. And Alcard knew—the burden did not belong to the wall alone. It was his burden too, and that of every Outcast who had sworn to protect this world, even without recognition or reward.
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