As the blade of the Holy Swordsman returned to its former glory, another event unfolded at a vast and empty plain in the former Ulan Empire, far behind the frontlines where the undead and the living fought their last battle.
A stretching wind bellowed through the mountain forests, sending yellowed withered leaves and dust streaking across the ground. A flag that had long eroded was stabbed into the soil flapped against the wind, and before it was an elderly man. He sat upon his warhorse that was as bony as a rod and stood in front of the flag.
The old knight wore a dilapidated set of armor. The leather between the plates seemed to have worn off for some time, leaving just thin thread holding them together as if it was just dug out of a grave. Even so, the man's back was upright like the straightest pine tree, while the old horse's posture was just as solid, so much so that perhaps the quaking earth or sky's thunder would not even sway it.
