The darkened sky loomed over The Wall, mirroring the heavy atmosphere that clung to the last bastion of Middle Earth. In the distance, the central headquarters stood firm, though time and war had long chipped away at its former glory. The ancient stone walls were riddled with cracks and scars, silent testaments to the resilience of the Outcasts who still clung to survival on the edge of oblivion.
As Alcard passed through the creaking wooden gate, a heavy silence greeted him. The air was damp and cold, his footsteps echoing down the dimly lit corridor. Torches flickered weakly along the stone walls, casting wavering shadows that only deepened the gloom.
Reaching the main hall, he made his way straight to the large wooden table at the far end, where Oldman—the supreme commander of The Wall—sat. The elderly leader, though aged and weary, still carried an undeniable presence, his sharp gaze peering through the dim candlelight. The battle-worn table before him bore deep scratches and scars, reflecting the countless struggles he had endured.
Without ceremony, Alcard pulled a pouch of coins from his cloak and dropped it onto the table, the metallic chime of gold breaking the silence.
"This is the payment," he said, his voice hoarse from exhaustion. "I'll give my report tomorrow. I need rest."
He turned to leave, but before he could step away, Oldman's hand struck the table with a faint tremor.
"Wait," the old man's voice, though quiet, carried weight. "There's something we need to talk about."
Alcard exhaled slowly, reluctant to stay, but the serious tone in Oldman's words made him pause. He settled back into his chair, his expression unreadable but his patience thin.
Oldman took a long breath, his voice lowering, almost like a whisper carrying the weight of history.
"This is about Bloody Potion," he said, his eyes locking onto Alcard's with quiet intensity. "You know its effects, you know its risks, but you don't know where it came from."
Alcard frowned slightly. He had used Bloody Potion for years—a drug that granted immense power at a terrible cost. The withdrawal was brutal, the exhaustion unrelenting, and overuse meant death. Yet, its origins were rarely discussed.
Oldman reached into his desk, pulling out a small vial filled with thick, crimson liquid. The torchlight flickered against the bottle's surface, making the liquid inside shimmer like blood in moonlight.
"A long time ago, when Middle Earth was nearly overrun by the southern monstrosities, we were losing soldiers faster than we could recruit them. In desperation, a man—whose name was never recorded in The Wall's history—created this."
He lifted the vial slightly, staring at it as if peering into the past.
"He combined rare plants—Folwestian Bloom and Rotrofila Root—and infused them with monster essence. The result was a miracle on the battlefield."
"But also a curse," Alcard interjected coldly.
Oldman gave a slow nod.
"Yes. It made men faster, stronger, but at an unbearable cost. Many died not from battle, but from the potion itself. Some overdosed, some had bodies that failed, and worst of all—the addiction was permanent."
The room fell silent, the only sound the soft crackling of torches along the stone walls.
But then, Oldman's tone shifted slightly, carrying a hint of something else.
"But," he continued, "I may have found something. A possible alternative."
Alcard leaned forward, now fully interested.
"An alternative?"
Oldman nodded.
"I found a fragment of an ancient manuscript from an Elven library. It's incomplete, but within its pages lies a clue to a potion that grants power without addiction."
Alcard leaned back against his chair, his mind racing. If such a formula truly existed, it could change everything. The Wall could recruit without destroying its warriors, could train men without sentencing them to dependence.
"If this works…" Alcard muttered, his thoughts aligning, "we wouldn't have to break every man who joins us just to make them strong."
"Exactly," Oldman confirmed. "But as of now, it's just a hope. We lack the complete formula, and we have no access to the Elven or Dwarven archives that might hold the answers."
Another silence passed between them.
Alcard finally stood, his weariness returning in full force.
"Then let me rest," he said. "I'll think about this tomorrow."
Oldman nodded but spoke once more before Alcard could leave.
"Remember, Alcard," he said, his voice low yet firm, "The Wall still stands on the backs of men like us. Don't waste your potions carelessly. We don't know when—or if—we'll find more."
Alcard didn't reply. He simply gave a small nod and left, letting the old wooden door groan as it closed behind him.
As he entered his quarters, a cold draft greeted him, the room dark and barren save for a small wooden bed with a thin straw mattress. He sat at its edge, his eyes staring blankly at the cold wooden walls.
His mind was far from rest.
Bloody Potion.
The fate of The Wall.
The ever-growing threat from the south.
His body ached, yet his thoughts wouldn't let him sleep.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he lay down, his eyes growing heavy even as his mind continued to scheme, plan, and wonder.
Beyond his room, the torchlights in the corridor began to dim—a quiet signal that the warriors of The Wall were resting before another battle awaited them.
But for an Outcast like Alcard, rest was only an illusion—a brief moment of darkness before the next war began.
****