Stepping into the lands of the Abyss hadn't thrown up a tough fight for Saland. He was used to the guts of the earth, so even though the sudden change in environment was jarring, it didn't catch him off guard. Amalur, the memory of it, was a riot of green, an explosion of plant life. Here, though, a monochrome of greys ruled, broken only by a few skeletal trees that clawed at a perpetually gloomy sky. A sharp cold bit right through him, but the years he'd spent in darkness had toughened Saland up for much worse chills.
Survival in this desolate realm meant constant movement, a silent dance through the rough terrain. It didn't take long for Saland to figure out the locals: magical creatures, sure, but wild, primal in their brutal interactions, dedicated to tearing each other apart in bloody internal squabbles. His own withdrawn nature pushed him to steer clear of any trouble, to stick to the edges of those furious death ballets. Still, just living demanded its price. His diet was the rare, tough herbs that dared to push through the barren soil and, when the chance came, hunting alone those magical creatures that wandered away from the pack. In those moments, Cut Mountains, his trusty weapon, proved an irreplaceable friend, slicing through mystical flesh with shocking ease.
Oblivious, Saland moved through this theater of shadows, not knowing he was being watched all the time. A handpicked squad of warriors, the ruthless Executors, the eyes and armed fist of the Abyss King, tracked his every step. Their job: spot and wipe out any possible threat to the big boss.
One officer, his curiosity piqued by the weird behavior of this newcomer – a magical creature that wasn't looking for a fight, just trying to survive on its own – decided to report straight to the king.
He stepped across the threshold of the throne room. The darkness was almost solid, thick like a shroud. The only thing he could see was the massive throne looming in the center, topped by grim black banners hanging still. And there, in the gloom, sat the lord of these desolate lands.
"What drags you here? Get to the point, my time is gold," the king's voice boomed, rough as scraped stone.
"My Lord," the officer began, a respectful fear coloring his tone, "I wanted to let you know about a strange magical creature that's entered our territory. It's acting really odd: not fighting anyone, just taking down lone creatures for food."
A heavy silence followed the officer's words. Then, the king's voice cut through the darkness, laced with dismissive indifference. "An insect. Doesn't twitch my interest. However," he added, a flicker of a dark idea lighting up his eyes hidden in the shadows for a split second, "if you're itching to test its mettle, go ahead. If it turns out strong enough to give you a run for your money, then… then it might just be a perfect gladiator for my arena."
"Yes, my Lord. It will be done," the officer replied with a deep bow.
Having been dismissed by the king, he plunged back into the desolate wastelands of the Abyss, his new mission crystal clear: find that silent shadow named Saland and see just how much destruction it could unleash. The solitary hunter's fate was about to crash into the ruthless will of the king, and the Abyss arena waited, unaware, for its next potential contender.