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The air in the village didn’t just carry the scent of rain; it carried the heavy, metallic tang of old blood and unsettled accounts. Vedha sat on a weathered wooden bench, his face a roadmap of scars that told stories he preferred to keep buried. In his hand, he balanced a simple blade, its edge catching the moonlight—a stark contrast to the chaos he knew was coming.

As the heavy gates of the local manor creaked open, a line of men emerged, their shadows stretching long and jagged across the dirt. They came with gold and threats, thinking a man's soul had a price tag. The air in the village didn’t just carry

Vedha finally looked up, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across his face. "The era doesn't matter," he said, his voice like grinding stones. "The debt remains the same." As the heavy gates of the local manor