A lone survivor stumbles through a fractured world, where ruins whisper and shadows linger at the edge of perception. Time itself feels broken — stretched, looping, uncertain — and nothing around him seems quite real. Echoes of battles long past hum in the air like forgotten hymns, and the line between memory and prophecy begins to blur.
He is not a hero. He is what’s left when the dust settles and the stories are done.
This is not a beginning. It’s a consequence — a slow unraveling of something ancient, silent, and hungry.
As unseen forces stir beneath the surface and forgotten powers call his name, one truth becomes clear:
The Rift has opened, and nothing will ever be the same.
Rin returns, burdened by whispers of his name.
In the tavern’s light, Vareth speaks not of vengeance but of loss and knowledge.
One hand extended — and in that fragile trust, a new path begins.