In the heart of a suffocatingly dark cave, a man of imposing stature sat motionless. His back was as straight as a spear, and his long, raven-black hair flowed down his shoulders, merging with the shadows of the cave walls. A thick, dark beard framed a face that seemed carved from ancient stone—calm, yet carrying the weight of a thousand storms.
Before him, a small campfire flickered. However, there was no wood beneath the flames, no oil, and no tinder. The fire burned directly upon the cold, damp rock, fueled by nothing but a surge of pure, invisible energy. It was a manifestation of a "Leen" so potent that it forced the very atoms of the air to ignite in a perpetual dance of gold and red.
Propped against the rugged wall was his companion of many wars: a long Ottoman-style sword. It was broken halfway through the blade, a silent testament to a moment in history that the world had tried to forget.
The silence was broken by the familiar beat of wings. A black crow, its eyes glowing with a sharp, piercing gold, glided through the entrance. It didn't caw; it simply dropped a rolled parchment—the Journal of the Star—into the man's lap.
Karsa reached out, his large hand moving with surprising grace as he patted the crow's head. It was a silent ritual, a rare moment of gentleness for a man who had spent six years in the company of monsters. He unrolled the journal, his eyes scanning the lines of text with the indifference of someone who had seen empires rise and fall.
But then, his breath hitched. The golden light of the magical fire danced upon a specific page, illuminating a photograph that froze the blood in his veins.
It was a teenage girl. Her hair was as dark as a moonless night, and her eyes—sharp and defiant—held the exact same molten gold hue as his own.
The fire before him suddenly roared, the flames leaping higher as the air in the cave began to vibrate with a terrifying intensity. After six years of self-imposed silence, the General of the Sun had finally found a reason to move.
"Oh..." Karsa whispered, his voice gravelly and trembling with a bitterness he hadn't felt in years. "Her eyes... they are exactly like her mother's. Even her hair... it's just like mine."
He closed his eyes for a moment, as if the memories of six years were crashing against his soul. A single name escaped his lips, heavy with a longing that could shake mountains.
"Amana... I have missed you so much, my daughter."
In that instant, the atmosphere of the cave shifted. The magical fire didn't just die; it vanished as the atoms of the existence bowed to the sheer presence of their master. Karsa stood up. As he rose to his full height, the very ground beneath his feet began to crack—not from physical weight, but from the raw, terrifying aura of a man who had decided to end his penance.
The earth itself seemed to tremble in fear of his stride. He grabbed his broken Ottoman sword and walked toward the exit without a single glance back at his prison.
As he emerged into the moonlight, the monsters of the Lower Continent retreated into the depths of the earth, sensing that the predator was no longer in his cage. Karsa looked toward the horizon, his golden eyes burning with a new purpose. After six years of silence, the Sun General was coming back—not for the throne, and not for the empire, but for the child he never got to watch grow.