WCJ, prologue. AI-Generated.
The essay for the prologue.
A crimson wasteland spreads endlessly, its surface soaked with the blood of countless fallen. The ground, once sacred, is now a graveyard for shattered swords and torn banners, where twisted bodies lie abandoned, victims of a conflict that has sullied the border between worlds. The mountain that once served as a sanctuary now reeks of decay, its solemn air replaced by the foreboding stench of death. For a moment, the desolation is silent, as if the world itself mourns the desecration. Then, from this eerie stillness, a wind arises, carrying with it the mournful cries of lost souls. Its howl pierces the quiet, sending chills through the air, as though the dead themselves lament their restless state.
Amidst this field of carnage, movement stirs beneath a mound of lifeless forms. Suspicion mounts among the onlookers hovering above, their figures silhouetted against a bleak sky. Eyes narrow as they fixate on the disturbance, their readiness palpable, for they know that what lies below is no ordinary survivor. The silence among them speaks volumes, broken only by the intensity of their watchful gazes. From beneath the pile, a figure erupts, cloaked in swirling black mist, his presence immediately commanding. Blood stains his tattered form, concealing all but the sharp, malevolent glint of his eyes. They burn with unyielding hatred, piercing the gloom like daggers. In his hand, a jade talisman pulses with an ominous red glow. Its surface, etched with cryptic symbols in blood and cinnabar, radiates power, its light flickering in defiance of the surrounding darkness.
