The gray sky stretched endlessly over the vast grasslands, casting shadows over Alcard's journey as heavy clouds loomed, threatening to unleash rain. The wind carried moisture from the south, clinging to the air and deepening the oppressive atmosphere. His black horse moved slowly along an ancient path, nearly swallowed by time, flanked by towering wild grasses that swayed like silent hands, bearing witness to every traveler who had passed before.
The steady rhythm of hoofbeats and the whisper of rustling grass were his only companions. Yet, his mind was far from quiet. The turmoil engulfing Middle Earth lingered in his thoughts, gnawing at the peace he could never truly possess.
The Lords and their greed.
He clenched his fist atop the saddle, suppressing the growing resentment within him. The 68 Lords of Middle Earth, now entangled in their own political games, each vying to elevate themselves as rulers—yet not one of them cared about the true threat looming on the horizon.
"All of them race to be kings without crowns," he muttered bitterly. "And in doing so, they forget who the real enemy is."
His gaze drifted to the northern horizon, toward the three great kingdoms—Edenvila, Jovalian, and Wastadian. They held the armies, the supplies, and the influence necessary to restore order, yet they remained silent. They allowed the Lords' feuds to continue, as if merely observing from a distance, waiting for the perfect moment to seize power for themselves.
"They have everything," Alcard thought grimly, "yet they let this land rot in a war for nothing."
His horse slowed as they reached a crossroads, marked by an ancient stone monolith rising from the plains. The weathered stone had stood for ages, a silent sentinel guiding travelers toward The Wall. Alcard studied it for a moment, allowing his thoughts to drift—to a time when he had once believed in the system, in unity, in humanity's strength to stand together.
"But that was the past," he whispered to himself, barely audible. "Now, even The Wall—the shield that protects them—is left to decay."
For a fleeting moment, images of the Dwarves and Elves flashed in his mind. Races often deemed prideful and reclusive by humans, yet at least they still defended their borders. The Dwarves, with their fortresses and mines. The Elves, with their forests and mystic rituals. They had not ignored the threat. They had not upset the balance.
"Humans are always the problem," he thought. "They search for ways to destroy each other—even when destruction is already at their doorstep."
His sharp eyes caught faint tracks in the dirt—wagon wheels and hoofprints, proof that this road was still traveled, though rarely. Those who took this path were either desperate or foolish, daring to venture too close to The Wall, to the unknown dangers that lurked beyond it.
He glanced upward, noting how the sky darkened further. In his mind, he could picture the grand palaces in the north, where kings feasted on lavish meals, where nobles discussed politics over glasses of fine wine, while Outcasts fought and died guarding the border from the southern horrors. They hid behind warmth, pretending not to see the reality beyond their stone walls.
"If only they would act," he sighed heavily. "A small force from their armies could reinforce The Wall… It would be enough to prevent disaster."
But they did nothing.
His horse's hooves continued along the quiet path, deepening the emptiness that stretched across the grasslands. Occasionally, Alcard scanned the landscape, ever watchful for unseen threats. But as far as the eye could see, there was nothing—nothing but emptiness, as hollow as the hearts of Middle Earth's rulers.
"The monsters from the south or the monsters disguised as men," he muttered with quiet disdain. "What's the difference?"
He exhaled sharply, forcing down his frustration. But the bitterness remained, etched deep into his being after years of witnessing a world that had long since abandoned those who defended it.
"A mission is still a mission," he reminded himself, as if trying to convince his own weary soul. "We fight to survive—nothing more."
Ahead, a rotting wooden signpost leaned beside the ancient stone, its worn-out letters pointing toward The Wall. Time had eroded its words, much like how time had erased The Wall's significance in the minds of those who once relied on it.
Alcard tightened his grip on the reins and spurred his horse forward. There was no reason to linger. He had to reach the Central Headquarters—to report everything he had seen, everything Oldman needed to hear.
Above him, the sky darkened further, bringing with it an encroaching cold that seeped into his bones.
But the journey could not stop.
Alcard's silhouette and his horse slowly vanished into the distance, swallowed by the deepening shadows of twilight.
The road to The Wall was long—and so was the burden he carried.
Middle Earth may have forgotten them.
But Outcasts like Alcard had no luxury of forgetting their duty.
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