A person was sitting by the river, watching fish swim beneath the water's surface. Beside him, a dog named Luko raised his head and asked, "Hey, Master, where will we be going?"
The man, dressed in a long black coat, was named Roland. He replied calmly, "Somewhere important. Somewhere we like… something that truly matters."
An eagle suddenly swooped down from the sky, skimming low over the river before soaring upward again. It flew higher and higher until it vanished into the clouds.
Far away, in a castle, another man watched. Sitting in the darkness, he murmured, "Hmm… I see. So, he has finally come." His fingers began to play a violin, its dark notes echoing through the empty hall.
Back at the river, Roland looked at his companion. "Tell me, Luko. Did you find any boats?"
The hound sniffed the air and shook his head. "No, Master. No trace. I haven't caught the scent of any road, either."
Roland nodded. "I see."
Just then, a boat appeared, creaking as it came closer to the shore. At its helm stood an old man with only one eye. He looked at Roland and spoke in a rough but steady voice.
"Hey, young man. Where do you want to go?"
"Ravenna," Roland answered.
The old man tilted his head. "Ravenna, hmm… I see. You're set on a very long journey. You'd best enter my boat, then. The road will be long indeed."
Roland stepped inside, sitting quietly as the boat began to drift. After a moment, he asked, "So tell me, old man… how many decades have you served this place and carried out this duty?"
The ferryman smiled faintly. "You ask something most would never dare. But still, let me answer. Perhaps one hundred years… maybe two. I don't remember clearly. What I do know is that you are truly on a journey, young man—one to find something. So tell me, what are you really seeking?"
Roland's gaze darkened. "Someone. I need his help—he is the only one who can. I come from a land that has shed blood many times. Once, it was a good place. But one day, I lost too many people. I must change something."
The old man studied him. "I see… You are different, just as I expected. What's your name?"
Roland lifted his head. "Roland Deschain."
The ferryman's single eye narrowed. "Deschain… ehh, that word sounds familiar to me. Still, be aware—at any moment, cruelty may come for you."
Roland smirked faintly. "Yes. I suppose I have to accept that."
After some time, the ferryman spoke again. "Here you go. The land you wanted to travel to."
Roland leapt from the boat and tossed some coins toward the old man. "Here, take these. Is it enough?"
The ferryman chuckled. "Well, well. I don't usually accept money, but if you're offering, I'll take it. Keep going, young man."
Roland turned and muttered, "If fate wants it, we shall meet again."
He walked into the jungle, his loyal hound padding by his side.
"Wow… too many sharp things here, Master," Luko said, sniffing at the undergrowth.
"Don't touch anything," Roland warned.
The mist grew thicker as they walked, fog swirling around their figures.
"Wait for me, Master!" Luko barked, chasing after him.
Roland didn't stop, walking silently into the white haze.
Roland kept walking, his boots crunching softly against the damp ground. The fog wrapped around him like a living thing, curling and twisting in the dim light.
He paused for a moment, his eyes narrowing. "So… this is the place, eh?" he muttered.
Beside him, Luko padded along, tail low, ears pricked. "Woof… Master," the hound said, tilting his head. "Tell me, where are we?"
Roland's gaze stayed fixed ahead. "A place where everything is ruled by the Prince of Darkness. This is his domain, Luko. I'm here to meet him."
Luko blinked. "Prince of Darkness? Who is that, Master?"
Roland's expression darkened. "Konsoon Sanguinaris. He's known by many names—King of Cruelty, the Evil Magician, the Prince of Darkness."
Luko's ears twitched. "Yeah… I've heard of him. Wasn't he a vampire who fought against the angels? In the end, he was defeated, wasn't he?"
Roland nodded slowly. "He also fought against Lucifer."
Luko froze, eyes wide. "Wait—what? He fought Lucifer too? Wow… that makes sense now."
They continued walking through the fog until a towering castle came into view, its spires lost in the swirling mist. Roland stopped, staring at the massive gates. For a second, his hand hesitated on the cold iron handle. Should he open it?
He took a breath, steeling himself, then calmly and gently pushed the door. It creaked open without resistance. From within came the sound of a violin, dark and hypnotic.
Konsoon stopped playing. Without turning, his deep voice echoed through the hall.
"Well… you are here. You may come in. I can assume you're the son of Steven Deschain. Without even looking, I knew you were coming."
Roland stepped forward, his boots echoing on the stone floor. "Tell me, Konsoon. How much do you know about my father?"
Konsoon slowly set the violin aside and turned to face him. "Almost everything from what I have seen. He was someone who truly held power over the realm of the Dark Tower. I remember Gilesd—he held every power, destroying universes as he pleased. From what I have seen of you, you are like him. You really want to know, eh? But still, that's not the case. I assume you want something from me."
Roland's voice was firm. "Konsoon, listen to me. I need your help to defeat someone. He will destroy the Dark Tower realm. Even though I could stop him, that's not the case. He has too many people around him."
Konsoon tilted his head. "Who exactly is it?"
Roland's eyes hardened. "Erebus."
Konsoon's brows rose. "I see… I thought it was Abaddon—the one who really killed your father. But still, I know you want something. I cannot read your mind, though. You're not under my influence of blood." He smiled faintly.
Konsoon smiled, voice soft but sure. "Anything I will get to help you, because I want something from you. I don't do this for nothing."
Roland met the smile with a calm nod. "Anything you want me to do, as long as I can do it, is okay."
Konsoon's grin deepened. "I have to say, I still will not challenge you, Roland. You are known as a gunslinger—the 'Gun God.'"
Roland's eyes were steady. "As I said, you know my condition. I will not betray you. I have no desire to fight you, Prince of Darkness. You could kill me right now."
Roland blinked—and in that instant Konsoon was behind him. Konsoon's voice drifted close to Roland's ear. "So tell me, where shall we go? You know where to go for now."
Roland answered without hesitation. "Asgard."
Konsoon's smile grew faint. "I see. Shall we go, then?"
The next moment, the scene changed: Konsoon and Roland were flying through the sky toward Asgard. Konsoon said, "This place—I remember. Last time I fought him here. He was weak, but it was… different then. Now the situation has changed."
Roland's jaw tightened. "We still have to accept Odin is dead. I remember last time… Fenrir—"
Konsoon interrupted, intrigued. "Now that's interesting. A god dies, eh? Maybe if I got his blood, I could make him alive again."
A new voice cut through the air. "You two—who are you? Why dare you come to Asgard?"
Loki appeared, eyes sharp. Konsoon's tone turned cold. "We are someone you don't want to mess with."
Roland raised a hand, cautious. "We should not do anything unnecessary."
A figure named Mosa lunged at Roland with sudden speed. Roland dodged, moving on instinct. Loki sneered. "Now, you guys are going to be killed right now." He unleashed his magic.
Konsoon moved with uncanny grace and dodged. Loki formed a huge rock and hurled it, chanting illusions around it. "I see," Konsoon said, eyes narrowing. Loki's illusion tried to twist reality, but then he stammered, "Impossible—how did you—?"
Konsoon's voice was quiet, almost amused. "When your opponent is already beyond any universe being…" He let the sentence hang like a blade.
Loki pushed onward. "Still—here you go!"
Konsoon smiled, composed and terrible. "Let me show you the real power of a god.
"So," Konsoon said softly, "you conjure illusions. Let me show you something real."
He raised a hand.
The world snapped like a throat being cut.
Asgard erupted into a new geometry — blood like starlight, staircases of flesh spiraling into a black sky. Loki staggered. For a second he was everywhere and nowhere: ten Lokis screaming at once, one split into mirrors, each laughing his own dreadful laugh.
"You think mind-games will stop me?" Konsoon's voice filled the red void. His face multiplied until it was a dozen monstrous masks that swallowed the horizon. A huge eyeless visage leaned close to Loki and opened its mouth like a planet.
Loki's trickery faltered. He tried to fold himself away, to spin another lie, to plant a thousand false deaths. Instead, the blood-stair screamed and bared teeth; a hundred phantom hands tore at him. One by one the copies shredded. Loki's body rent; a thousand little Lokis exploded into black feathers and crimson rain.
Konsoon watched, eyes cold as a blade. He put a single finger to the air. A shard of Loki's own headless scream hung between them. "What do you seek, trickster?" he asked. "Revenge? Understanding? A throne?"
Loki, bleeding illusions from his mouth, found voice. "You… how—" He looked at Konsoon with a sudden, ragged fear. "You read the mind."
Konsoon smiled. "I read the hunger."
With a flick, Loki vanished — not freed but erased from the scene like a dirty image scrubbed from a slate. The blood-realm folded away. Asgard's golden light returned, but the air smelled of iron and waiting.
Roland sheathed his sword slowly. "Fenrir is not the only thing that breathes under these halls," he said.
Konsoon replaced his violin, expression serene. "No. But he is one I wished to meet. Next time, perhaps."