The man in the black cloak moved through the trees.
A thick mist hung heavy around him. The dry leaves on the ground did not crunch beneath his boots, and snapped twigs made no sound. He walked in absolute silence—no heavy breathing, no pauses, no hesitation.
At his waist, the sword in its plain black scabbard swayed gently with his stride. The hilt, forged from ancient metal, was etched with archaic engravings—symbols unknown to any modern scholar, relics from an era before the current kingdoms were even a thought.
He had been walking for hours. Perhaps half a day. Perhaps longer. This forest was vast, but he was in no hurry. Time had never been his enemy.
Suddenly, a rustle erupted from the thickets. Not just one, but many.
The man stopped. His boots remained still on the damp, black earth. From behind the blackened trees, monsters began to emerge. One by one. Slowly.
