Prologue – What Kind of Hell Is This?
A searing pain hammered Eamon's head as he slowly pried open his eyes. Above him, an endless expanse of starlight sprawled across the heavens—a cold, indifferent dome. Disoriented, he squinted at his surroundings: splintered wooden planks lay scattered, while the creaking of wheels and the frantic clatter of hooves echoed in the dark.
"Where… where am I?" he wondered, his mind scrambling to piece together the fragments of memory. If his recollection served him right, he had been on a mission just moments ago… before everything plunged into chaos.
A strained voice suddenly pierced the heavy silence. "Young Master! Young Master, are you awake?"
Eamon turned his head to see an elderly man, his white hair unkempt and his face etched with worry. Clad in battered leather armor and shouldering a long sword, the stranger exuded an odd blend of austerity and urgency. Though the man spoke in a tongue foreign to Eamon's ears, an inexplicable understanding washed over him—as if some ancient magic had rendered the words clear as crystal. Still, questions tormented him: Who was this man? Why did he call him "Young Master"? And who, indeed, was he?
Before Eamon could form an answer, a razor-sharp pain, like needles pricking his skull, forced him to clench his fists in agony. His vision blurred as the world around him began to warp. Out of the chaos, a pulsating blue radiance emerged—a luminous circle materializing before his eyes. It unfurled into a strange, intricate interface, its appearance both familiar and mystifying. A soft, ethereal voice intoned, "Interface activated… system starting… soul wavelength detected… initiating authentication…"
As the voice spoke, Eamon's suffering escalated. His entire body convulsed in a torment akin to being dismembered by unseen forces; blood seemed to surge in reverse, and his heartbeat thundered as if desperate to break free from his chest. Amid this maelstrom of pain, shouts rang out from nearby.
"Lord Carter! They're gaining on us!" cried a desperate voice.
Before Eamon could comprehend the words, another shouted, "Damn it! Hurry and get the Young Master away—we'll hold them off!" The sound of clashing metal and the roar of an explosion filled the air. In an instant, the vehicle that had once carried him erupted in flames. Eamon felt himself hurled into the void, tumbling like a forsaken plaything as the world spun wildly around him.
When he finally regained control of his senses, Eamon lay sprawled on a cold, unforgiving ground. Around him, a desolate wilderness stretched under a shroud of darkness. The burning remnants of the carriage smoldered nearby, its horses now nothing more than blackened husks. In the distance, silhouettes clashed—a band of rugged retainers locked in desperate combat against armored knights clad in glistening silver.
"Young Master! Get out of here!" the old man's voice echoed once more, desperate yet resolute. But even as he called, calamity struck anew. A silver-armored knight lunged forth, his blade finding its mark. The old man staggered, his eyes wide with both shock and sorrow, reaching out as if to impart some final benediction before his head was severed in a flash of silver light.
Amid the chaos, a cold, imperious voice spoke from the shadows—a figure draped in a flowing black robe, standing silently behind one of the knights. "It is him. The treasure must lie within his grasp."
Another knight, his voice void of compassion, stepped forward. With his sword pressed menacingly against Eamon's neck, he hissed, "Surrender the sacred treasure, and I will ensure your end is as swift as it is painful."
Eamon's heart pounded as confusion warred with terror. Treasure? Sacred treasure? His mind reeled at the unanswerable questions—what relic did they seek? And why were they so determined to claim it?
In a final act of desperate resolve, Eamon's trembling hand reached out toward the glowing circle. But fate was cruel—an iron boot crushed his hand before he could complete the gesture. A cry of agony mingled with the din of battle as he felt the crushing weight of his own vulnerability.
Then, as if summoned by his very desperation, the blue circle spun with blinding speed. Its light coalesced into a massive, ornate tome—a sacred codex aglow with otherworldly splendor. The knights faltered, their eyes widening in fearful wonder. The black-robed figure bellowed, "That must be the treasure! Do not let him activate it—kill him now!"
Time slowed as Eamon, bloodied and battered, stared at the miraculous book. Within that fleeting moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. Amid the clamor of steel and the cries of the fallen, a spectral voice—both ancient and tender—whispered within his mind:
"Child, when you were born, the ancient forests of Lordaeron whispered your name… I watched with pride as you grew, destined to become the embodiment of justice…"
In visions both haunting and beautiful, Eamon saw majestic peaks, sprawling cities bathed in twilight, and lands ravaged by endless strife. The spectral narrative continued, recounting the rise and inevitable fall of civilizations, the endless cycle of destruction and rebirth. Amid the roar of the present battle, these prophetic words resonated deep within him.
The vision shattered as quickly as it had come. Eamon's eyes snapped open to the harsh reality: a knight's blade gleamed at his throat, cold and unyielding. The voice, now a lingering murmur, intoned, "One day, my life shall end, and you shall be crowned king."
In that instant, an icy power surged from deep within him. As if commanded by the fates themselves, the very air around Eamon grew frigid. The silver knight advanced, yet before his blow could fall, Eamon's hand—once crippled by pain—struck the arcane circle. A dazzling explosion of light and magic erupted, heralding the awakening of a power that he had only ever dared imagine.
In that moment, the battlefield, the burning wreckage, and the cacophony of death converged into a single, searing truth: Eamon was no longer merely a victim of fate. With trembling determination, he realized that within him lay the spark of something greater—a power intertwined with destiny, a key to unraveling the mysteries of this cursed realm.
And so, as the night's chaos raged on and the silver knights drew ever nearer, Eamon steeled himself. His journey into a world of ancient magic, relentless warfare, and profound destiny had only just begun.