The world had vanished.
Tharion felt it first as a vertigo, a twisting in his stomach. When his eyes opened, it wasn't the Earth he knew. Darkness surrounded him, damp and suffocating. The air was cold and heavy with the scent of wet stone. Every sound echoed strangely, every drop of water falling from the ceiling sending vibrations through the floor beneath his boots.
Instinctively, he gripped his saber. His blade, faithful through countless battles, whispered silently: Be ready.
He rose slowly, muscles taut like drawn cords. Years of combat didn't fade overnight. His eyes scanned the shadows. Fissures in the stone, stalactites dangling from the ceiling, symbols carved into the walls by some unknown hand — nothing about this place felt accidental.
The silence was thick, but not perfect. Soft rustlings came from the darkness, almost imperceptible. A faint vibration, then another. Tharion narrowed his eyes. His senses, honed through countless fights, picked up every tremor in the ground, every whisper of wind sneaking through cracks.
He stepped forward cautiously, boots sliding over slick rock. His hand tightened on the saber. Even in this strange world, he could feel the familiarity of death, of combat. Danger wouldn't always announce itself.
A low growl suddenly cut through the cave. A massive shadow lunged from the darkness, its eyes glowing like coals, claws scraping against the stone. Tharion pivoted. He did not hesitate. His saber sliced through the air with a deadly, practiced motion. The creature collapsed with a dull thud. Silence returned. Tharion's breathing was heavy, but his gaze stayed fixed on the shadows.
He pressed onward. Small creatures scattered into cracks, vanishing before he could reach them. Every noise kept him alert. The solitude of this place weighed on him — he was the only human here, alone in a world that did not belong to him. Memories rose unbidden: cobblestone streets, the fire of past battles, the smell of powder and blood. None of it was real anymore. Everything had vanished.
The cave seemed endless. Sometimes, a gust of wind would drift through a fissure, carrying whispers Tharion could not understand. He frowned. Imagination, or something else? A mercenary's senses rarely lied. He stopped, listening intently. Only water dripping in rhythm, echoing through the rock.
Step by step, he advanced. Each movement was deliberate, each breath controlled. Thoughts flickered between curiosity and caution. This world was different, perhaps more dangerous than anything he had faced. But Tharion was not one to flee. His instincts, his strength, and his mastery of the blade would be his allies. And if he had to become a monster to survive… then he would.
Finally, light appeared. A shaft cutting through the darkness, reflecting off crystals and stagnant water. Tharion straightened, adjusting his grip on the saber, and moved toward the exit. The outside world awaited. Untamed lands, perhaps filled with creatures, perhaps with lords. Every step toward the light reminded him that nothing here would be easy.
When he stepped out, the wind of this new world slapped his face. The horizon stretched wide, wild, and strange. Broken mountains rose in the distance, and shadows moved across the hills. No roads were drawn, no guide to show him his place.
Tharion inhaled deeply. His eyes glimmered with cold determination.
"A stranger here. But no man will see me fall. I am Tharion."
And somewhere, in the shadows beyond, someone—or something—was already watching.