The Iron pass

A large number of Dark Order members stood atop the surrounding heights. A cold wind blew, playing with their long cloaks. They all wore masks and remained motionless, watching Harold.

Harold struggled to rise from the ground. His head throbbed as if thousands of daggers were piercing his skull, but he refused to show weakness. Clenching his fists, he locked his gaze onto the masked figures before him.

Gritting his teeth, he pulled the arrow from his shoulder. A moment later, he snapped it in half and tossed it to the ground. One of the masked figures in the front row raised a hand and pointed at Harold. Immediately, a large number of them rushed down the steep slope toward him.

Harold pulled out his obsidian necklace—the only thing that had ever kept him from drowning in rage. But this time, he had made his decision. As he clenched the necklace in his fist, time seemed to slow for a moment. In that sudden stillness, he saw a woman dressed in purple approaching him. He sighed and broke the necklace.

As the shattered pieces fell to the ground, the world fractured before his eyes. Space lost its meaning, and he plunged into eternal darkness.

He thrashed, but there was no way out. He kept sinking, deeper and deeper into the abyss.

Was this the end of his path?

What happens after death?

He had never thought about it before. He always told himself: As long as I live, I will live. And when the moment of death arrives, I will think about it then.

But what thoughts mattered when falling into eternal darkness? He had no idea where this one-way journey would take him.

Yet, when he looked back on his life, he smiled. He had no great regrets. In every moment, he had made the best choice possible—whether when he donned a knight's armor or when he cast it aside.

Suddenly, he felt the coldness of snow against his face. His chest burned, his breaths came ragged. And when he finally emerged from that abyss, he found himself standing amid a sea of fallen masked men.

Blood covered him.

This was the price of breaking the necklace. Now, he had no control over his madness.

Rage swept away everything in its path, and Harold knew better than anyone—when this fury took hold of him, there was no difference between friend and foe.

They would all be slaughtered.

With heavy steps, he walked through the field of mangled corpses. Blood dripped from the blades of his scythes—Death and Life. His hands were painted red, his breath misting in the cold air, as chilling as death itself.

Lifting his head, his blood-streaked face twisted into a whisper:

"Once again… I have lost to my rage."

Memories flashed before his eyes—moments when this ruthless madness had driven him to slaughter others.

He tried not to step on the bodies, but there were too many. It was as if the earth itself was covered in flesh and blood. With each step, he walked over lifeless limbs.

And this… this was what he feared the most.

The Border of the Drak'thul

Year 1175

The Broken Peak mountain range began south of the Whispering woods and, with a crescent-shaped curve, marked the northern border between the lands of Drak'thul and Vornath. Deep within this mountain range stretched a stone-paved road known as the Iron Route.

One by one, massive caravans passed through the Iron Pass. Merchants, seated inside their litters atop camels, complained about the heat and fanned themselves with handheld fans.

Slaves of various races carried goods on their backs or stood beside heavily loaded wagons. Some guided horses and other pack animals. The primary cargo of the caravans was iron ingots, though rarer metals such as mithril, steel, and even gold could be found among the shipments.

Above the Iron Pass, watchtowers loomed over the road, keeping a close eye on the travelers. The toll for passage was determined by the size of the caravan, though bribery among the guards was a common practice—sometimes, the actual number of caravans was underreported in exchange for a discreet coin slipping into a pocket.

Amidst the caravans, a lone man walked on foot. An old man, dressed in tattered clothes, with two small sickles hanging from his belt. It was clear he had wandered the wilds for a long time, surviving only through hunting.

But what truly caught people's attention was the sword strapped to his back. The moment they saw it, they instinctively stepped aside. He was a holy knight—more precisely, Harold Goldenshrine.

After the massacre of the entire Dark Order in the northern plains, Harold had set off toward the southeast. He had wandered the forests for months, avoiding settlements, with only one goal in mind: reaching Drak'thul.

There, witches from the land of Pars resided. Harold hoped that with their help, he could forge a magical artifact to contain his own wrath.

Ignoring the weight of the gazes upon him, he pressed forward toward the great city nestled within the massive eastern wall.

As he neared the city, signs of civilization became more evident—water channels and qanats supplying the surrounding villages. Harold stopped briefly at an inn to rest. He had little money left, but he spent what remained on a fresh set of clothes. Then, he went to the bathhouse and, after months, finally took a warm shower.

If everything had gone as smoothly as this, he might have finally been able to breathe in peace.

But fate had other plans....