Prologue: Dreams, Madness (Part 1)

To the southwest, several hundred miles from the Kalendor Basin at the westernmost edge of the Einfast Empire, lay a vast desert—an expanse known as the largest and most unique on the continent: the Fly Dragon Desert.

No one knew why this desert, seemingly devoid of dragons, carried such a name. The title appeared to have been passed down from ancient times, its origins lost to history. The desert sat at the southernmost part of the continent's central region, mirroring the great Saundfest Mountains in the far north. Between them stretched the Wild Highlands, vast primordial forests, sheer cliffs, and faulted terrain that divided the continent into eastern and western halves.

Spanning thousands of miles, the Fly Dragon Desert was an uninhabited wasteland, with only a few strange plants and animals surviving along its fringes. Yet, even the most desolate places occasionally attracted visitors. Just as adventurers had often sought out the Saundfest Mountains, the Fly Dragon Desert also occasionally received rare guests. However, far fewer dared to enter its deathly domain. Unlike the mountains, which were said to hold countless rare and magical gems, the desert's rumored ruins and treasures were too elusive to tempt most. In times past, merchants daring to cross the desert's edge to trade between the east and west had occasionally braved its dangers, particularly when orc raiders plagued the Wild Highlands. However, after Einfast pacified the highlands and the recent establishment of Orford, the trade routes across the continent had become secure, leaving the desert virtually abandoned. Only madmen would willingly set foot into such a place.

Chahma had begun to wonder if the young knight accompanying him was indeed such a madman. For over ten days, they had traveled hundreds of miles deeper into the Fly Dragon Desert.

Yet, aside from his decision to venture into the desert, the young knight had shown no other signs of madness. If anything, his prowess had been exceptional to an almost unnatural degree. At the desert's edge, they had been extraordinarily unlucky—or lucky, depending on the perspective—to encounter a giant mutated scorpion native to the region. The monstrous creature, the size of a horse, had been swiftly cleaved in two by a single stroke of the knight's sword. Witnessing this feat had completely quashed any unsavory thoughts Chahma had been harboring. He had known immediately that such a display was beyond the capabilities of even the finest swordsmen among his tribe. Over decades of battlefield experience, Chahma had only ever seen such skill in one other person—the monstrous Holy Warrior.

Adding to the mystery, each morning in the desert, the knight had spread two pieces of parchment in his palms and focused, soon conjuring a small pool of fresh water. Chahma had recognized this as a water-based magic spell, used to extract the minuscule amounts of moisture from the arid air. He had seen captured mages in his tribe forced to use this basic spell for survival. But for someone as skilled in swordsmanship and combat as this knight, wielding such magic had been nothing short of astounding. If Chahma hadn't known the Holy Warrior so well, he might have mistaken the young man for one of their own.

Furthermore, the knight had displayed remarkable intelligence and a capacity to learn. In just over ten days, he had adapted to desert survival nearly as well as Chahma, a man who had spent half his life navigating its perils.

The most crucial detail was that after witnessing that display of skill, Chama began to carefully analyze the young man, and the more he observed, the more astonished he became. It was abundantly clear to him that this young knight was no naive beginner just stepping into the world.

Although the knight spoke little, with a charming smile constantly gracing his lips that made him seem youthful, handsome, approachable, and naturally likable, Chama's instincts as a veteran of the battlefield told him otherwise. As someone who had spent half his life amidst the chaos of war and slain over a hundred men, Chama trusted his gut.

The occasional moves this young knight made revealed a truth that shocked him: the knight's greatest strength wasn't merely his combat skill—it was his mentality. It was the mindset of someone who had endured countless trials and tribulations, someone whose killing intent, murderous instincts, mental fortitude, and cunning had fused seamlessly into one.

It was a calm and seasoned mindset, honed to a razor's edge—one that only the most battle-hardened individuals could possess. This man was unfathomably deep.

Such a person clearly hadn't fit the category of a madman. But if the knight wasn't mad, Chahma had mused, then perhaps it had been he who had lost his senses.

These thoughts had often brought a bitter smile to Chahma's face. He couldn't quite believe he had agreed to venture so deeply into the Fly Dragon Desert with this man.

Half a month ago, in a mercenary tavern, Chahma had overheard this young, wealthy man offering a generous reward for a desert guide willing to accompany him into the Fly Dragon Desert. Eager for an opportunity to make easy money, Chahma, knowing the desert's reputation would deter other adventurers, had stepped forward to accept the job. But shortly after entering the desert, just as he had been about to carry out a plan to rob his employer and flee, the knight's display of skill against the giant scorpion had immediately snuffed out any thoughts of betrayal. A man who could effortlessly bisect a giant scorpion could just as easily decapitate anyone with ill intentions.

"Better to help him honestly and earn the reward," Chahma had often thought, though it had filled him with frustration and regret. Once, he had been a proud war chief, leading his tribe in resistance against the Church's crusaders, slaying dozens of soldiers in battle. But after his tribe had been wiped out by that Holy Warrior's forces, he had been reduced to this—a guide scraping by for gold coins.

As the days had passed, Chahma had found himself dwelling less on these bitter thoughts. It hadn't been that he had come to terms with his situation; he had simply been too preoccupied with survival. Every day had brought new challenges as they ventured deeper into the desert.

"Sir Knight, are we really continuing forward today? Our food and water supplies are running low. If we keep pushing forward like this, we might not make it out alive. And… won't we be getting too close to that place…" Chahma's voice had faltered as he mentioned "that place." No one liked speaking of it directly; even thinking about it had brought a sense of unease.

"It's fine," the young knight had replied with a charming smile. "Just a little farther. Trust me, we're almost there."

The knight's smile, though weary from over ten days in the desert, had remained warm and reassuring, making it difficult to argue. Chahma had sighed, mounted his camel, and continued onward.

By noon, the blazing sun above had seemed intent on burning the world to ashes. The searing heat radiating from the sand had made it feel as though they were walking on molten iron. The desert's air had been so dry and scorching that Chahma had felt every breath sap away precious moisture from his body.

Was this even still a desert? Chahma, who had grown up in one, had begun to question the nature of this place. There had been no oases, no signs of life—only relentless heat during the day and freezing cold at night. The endless dunes of shifting sands had exhausted both their bodies and minds.

The most unsettling part had been the uncertainty. He still had no idea where their destination was or how much farther they had to go.

The knight had only told him they were searching for a specific location in the desert but hadn't explained what or where it was. Likely, this was just another young fool chasing rumors of treasure in the sands, Chahma had thought. Surely, once their food and water supplies dwindled further, the knight would give up and turn back. Thankfully, they were nearly out of provisions—perhaps just two or three more days, and this journey would end.

As they climbed yet another dune—one of countless others they had crossed—Chahma had habitually glanced toward the horizon. It had been more out of instinct than expectation; after so many days, he had grown weary of the endless golden expanse. But this time, something had changed. Beyond the sea of yellow, there had been a faint shadow of gray.

It had been the outline of distant mountains.

Chahma had let out an involuntary cry, nearly tumbling off his camel in shock.

The knight, following behind, had also seen the gray silhouette. For the first time, his calm expression had shifted. He had gazed at the shadow of the mountains on the horizon, his face reflecting a flicker of emotion.

"It's just a mirage," the knight had said after careful observation, sighing softly. "It's not a real mountain range."