The village was burning. The sky was thick with smoke, screams mixed with the sound of cracking wood, and the smell of blood and ashes was indistinguishable. In the center, chained to a stone totem like a living sacrifice, he stood. Torvin Malek. Bloodied, covered in burn marks, body slumped but still standing.

The villagers shouted that he was a curse, a living weapon, a demon. Some cried out of fear, others out of hatred. But no one—no one—dared to come close. He had been there for days. Maybe weeks. Without eating. Without sleeping.

His body, though scarred and broken, still held a raw, animal strength, restrained beneath an old black chain. You shouldn’t have been there... But you were. You pushed through the crowd. You stepped on the hot ashes. You ignored the warnings, the threats. And you stood before him.