Bamboos meandered along the forest labyrinth and the dim alleys reeked with an unpleasant aura, enough to send gravely chills to the spine. The milieu was heavy, not a tranquil place where one can find rest easily. Trees were like maze walls, and to a lost traveler, chances of escape would be a mere possibility without aid. Rain pounded furiously on a small village nearby in this isolated forest. Flames that the native tribals kindled faded in the mist. To the perception of a foreigner, they would have been classified as nomadic barbarians due to their immense physical strength and hulking size.

Named as Lonewolves, they were a private and ancient clan that survived guarding the valuable treasures of their ancestors buried within the forest. The Lonewolves once emigrated from the northern portions of the land, to settle a secretive life in the forest. Desert empires in the north, such as the Zapotec Empire, who often waged wars against them, had driven these once honorable men to retreat downwards in search for a new haven. Now well accustomed to the thick surroundings, these “barbarians” have abandoned the life style of the high snow-capped mountains that were brutally cold during the winter.

Muscles knotted on biceps and thighs, these burly warriors appeared even formidable enough to intimidate a bear. The majority were bald, bound to the etiquettes of their old laws. Lonewolves, like many other barbarian tribes, had respected the power of the natural forces. Ferocious beasts such as leopards and wolves were revered by the clan. These nomadic barbarians were also surprisingly skillful workers, as they had been employed to many wealthy empires.

Those who departed never preferred to return to their homeland. Paradise it was, in contrast to the chaos that had been afflicting the lands. In the Lonewolf society, the tribe members had always called one another brother or sister, regardless if they are related by blood or not. Bramble leaves extended out of tree branches, connecting to their deer-skin tents. Minutes seemed to blend into hours and hours into days. Each day lasted longer than usual. With their superior awareness of their surroundings, they sensed that this unusual night had a deadly and foreboding silence around them.

Certainly, it had not been an opportune moment for the nomadic folk lately. The Lonewolves knew that they had only a modicum amount of food, and that alone ensured that they would not survive the unforgiving winter. Time shifted restlessly. Torepol, the captain of the Lonewolf clan, beckoned to his scouts to investigate a clearing beyond. He marched to the encampment and prepared a brief speech. Twenty or more kinsmen and descendants gathered around a circle, listening what he had to say. Few gave hopeless glares while others eagerly wait to hear what solutions Torepol might formulate.

Despite the conflicts in the community, Torepol was ironically optimistic, a man who always viewed the bright side of the world. Barbarians were actually friendly and hospitable folk towards outlanders but the surroundings toughened them emotionally. Torepol wore long black hair, as dark as the ravens. He also had sharp facial features with thick, bushy eyebrows, innocent brown eyes, an unusual appearance compared to most tribal warriors. His complexion was in fact mixed with other tribes that had once been in friendly alliance with the Lonewolves. Torepol always wore a smile, as the opposite to most tribals who were stressed from their harsh life. The barbarian had survived long years, strong enough to lead without his parents since childhood.

"My kinsfolk, hear me. The time where I must leave and abandon this place to seek work draws near but not today. It is my duty to find a better home to you all and I will guide you to a city where we must continue a new life. Come, my brother Koreg, and five of you to accompany me tonight to stock the last goods. I make a promise that this will be last winter we’ll face in this forest," Torepol declared.

Five warriors along with Koreg followed Torepol and ventured to the dark woods. Bringing torches was the solution, the only possible light source that could expose hidden perils and reveal swindlers. A nervous feeling of being spied immediately rushed through Torepol’s mind. Pitch-black everywhere. He needed to rely on torches the scout crew had brought along. Several haunted trees loomed beyond. Lofty and limber, they wavered in the winds, as if they were mourning in eerie, spooky tones. In the sky, there was a mustering of gray clouds that stretched in wide amplitude. A tempest was going unleash its wrath in a few days.

"Let’s check out this place," Torepol mentioned. The group concurred and then set their feet into the unknown domain. So chilly here, the barbarian thought. His hands were freezing and the cold breeze rushed through his lungs. Torepol shivered with numbness and felt temporarily paralyzed to the bone by the tormenting, inevitable cold. The barbarian knew that he required hunting a creature big enough to be feasted for several days. The band huddled together and they were now far away from the camp, perhaps almost half a mile now.

Haunted and abandoned, the pathways indicated that the region was isolated as well as full of unspeakable perils. A group of five hurried abruptly, accompanied by their vigorous leader. A warrior slashed with a machete against the low trees to clear passages. Hedges grew tall, and Torepol waited desperately for his prey to spring out and die at his secret long bow. The barbarian though, never favored handling long ranged weapons. Torepol wielded something more powerful and spectacular, a maul by the name of the Darkmoon Descendant. Passed through family generations, it was stunning to behold.

Torepol raised it in the air fiercely, it was designed to crush and penetrate the target’s defense. He had long revered it and always kept the magnificent warhammer to himself. Colossal was the only way to describe it, yet strangely, it was incredibly fast and light to wield. The shining silver surface encrusted with a few jewels of the Darkmoon Descendant glowed brightly in the dim sky. Koreg, Torepol’s brother, was a fine warrior but much less skillful than him. Koreg long revered his brother’s abilities and would portray him as a role model to emulate.

The band halted to a stop, which was a fungus grove teeming with mysterious mushrooms, and they had no clue for sure if the spores were poisonous. Suddenly, a wild boar scrambled along the skinny trees, and it was difficult to capture a meal in the night. The Lonewolves ran like mad, eager to claim their prize. Desperately, they won in the hunting game. Koreg moved in to celebrate their trophy but a magical, ominous black tornado lifted him up from the sky, making him soar beyond the limits. Raising their weapons in defense, the forest barbarians were alarmed by what happened to Torepol’s brother.

Storms continued to form up again, dragging two more into the air. Now only two scouts remained along the company but the black tornado stopped instantly. Backing away, they were frightened by this ordeal. Torepol meticulously scanned around, and now, he was certain that a powerful mage or a supernatural entity wreaked havoc here to put Koreg to his demise. From behind, there leapt a shape, so silent and menacing but the figure vanished in a fraction of a second. Torepol spun back but he knew that the entire band was gone. The captain of the pack rushed in to find out and he saw two deep puncture wounds, caused by huge axes. "No! Whoever you are, reveal yourself now, coward murderer!"

"Ha Ha! Your brother must have been blown yards away now!" a sinister shape laughed and unveiled itself out of the mists. There was absolutely no way to recognize the true identity of the entity, Torepol saw that his face was disguised as a man and his skin mimicked the chameleon’s color. Green magical, skeletal-like armor that grew like vines ran all over the spirit’s body like a bramble tree branch. Furious, Torepol charged in but instead he caught the mist, the entity was nowhere visible. The supernatural being teleported to the opposite side.

"No! He’s my only family! I shall seek vengeance upon you! Know that only death will stop me in tracking you down!" Torepol roared.

"Fight me now and you shall meet your doom! I shall let you live in agony until you become a more of a worthy opponent!" the sorcerer mocked but he was nowhere in sight.

"We shall see sorcerer… Bitter vengeance is on its way…"

He drifted across the Lower Plains in the Evolunion Realm, a universal plane where all life existed. It was the world of creation. The Lower Plains was a southern barren land in the Evolunion Realm, humid and hot like the deserts of the Northern Kingdoms. The sand the warrior walked was trailed with numerous footsteps that ranged from human footprints to claws and talons of the hybrid races. A nation existed here, as tombs were built to honor the dead according to their cultural traditions. Races in the Lower Plains mostly cling onto their ancient beliefs and never adopted new customs.

Prickly cactus-like plants composed the arid environment. Desert dwelling lizards and sand-swimming snakes make up the wildlife population here as well. When food was scarce, the inhabitants of the Lower Plains would capture these reptiles and feast on them. Frogs that were buried in the sand were often dug up by the desert inhabitants, for its juicy body provided a good substitute for water. Surprisingly, the barren and unfertile land was also home to many races including the Svakame, an ancient ninja clan as well as the Bunnkado that were the necromancers fond of dark magic. Both were proud races where the hero constantly dropped by for a visit. They were his allies.

Camels had replaced horses as a means of transportation in the Lower Plains. While the warrior rode on his horse, it drew curious stares from the desert inhabitants. Horses by far, were more obedient than the stubborn camels. His memories about those beasts were unpleasant too, for they often refused to proceed in the direction where the owner was riding. How much harder it would be without his beloved horse! The warrior always wondered.

Sand dunes swept along the rough terrain of the Lower Plains, forming a minor maelstrom. Desert tempest was rather common here, where the permanent residents got adapted to. Hurricanes occasionally invade the barren deserts in the South, as it was still an active zone, but the mysterious clans were unscathed. Despite his fond visits here, a place like this was never his true home and never will be.

He was known as Frasken, a noble knight of the city Avasgaroth, which was an empire, classified as moderate according to the many civilizations built in the Evolunion Realm. Frasken rode his horse, one of his most trusted companions. A light-brown male stallion it was, mighty with great hoofs. Forren, it was what he had called him since childhood. Graceful and agile was only the possible way to describe Forren. The horse was the swiftest of its kind in the Southern Empires.

Frasken wore black boots and was shrouded in a bluish, magical cloak called the Kindavil. Universal harmony or the concept of coexisting with all creatures in peace is tattooed on the cloak, represented with a symbol of a spiral, a cluster of stars gathered together. The warrior wielded two swords named the Legend and the Tempest, which had powers that many jealous swordsmen could only dream of.

The Legend was clearly identified as a broad platinum sword while the Tempest was notably a very long slender scimitar with a wicked edge. Relics like these were passed from family generations and Frasken polished them once in a while to keep them nice and sharp. The blades he knew would be tested again when war comes. The Legend cuts through even the toughest of defenses, while the Tempest struck like lightning. Plus, its incredible speed made it difficult to parry. The shining handsome face of the warrior could be reflected upon the blades. He had brown hair grown to medium length, hazel eyes and small eyebrows.

Shields however, were not Frasken’s preference of an armament, for the hunter believed them to be cumbersome, and considered them as a cowardly form of protecting a true, mastered swordsman. Frasken fathomed that they would bring more trouble than aid, for a shield’s defense was no match for the swift and deadly strikes of two blades. Combined with a magnificent flow of dazzling swordplay, these weapons could vanquish an adversary in the blink of an eye.

Frasken was called ‘the hunter’ by most of his followers and companions because it was a code name given to the knights of Avasgaroth. In his homeland, when a knight was called ‘the hunter’, it ensured that he was one of the finest warriors in the Realms. Wherever evil existed, good had always triumphed. Where there was darkness, light had always been victorious. Frasken is a moral man, regarding that peace should always be over war. The hunter’s deadly blades claimed many lives but all was for the side of the righteous. Violence was never favored but he knew that it had to be done to carry out justice. Mercy was always granted to a defenseless and fallen enemy.

Time flew by quickly. Frasken mounted on Forren and explored the last wonders of the Lower Plains. Four hours lapsed by and Frasken could only resist the desert heat for a few tormenting minutes. Water was all he could think of. The hunter nearly arrived at Avasgaroth to bring good news about trading with the Svakame ninja clan in arms and helping them in city projects. Frasken urged his horse to gallop faster by slapping his back lightly.

Forren knew the request and madly dashed down the curvy slopes in an incredibly fast pace. Desert-like sand dunes began to fade away from Frasken’s vision. Instead, there were low trees close by and city walls appeared. Frasken reached his homeland, near an adamantine gate. There were no guards patrolling here yet during midday but a glimpse of a person caught his attention.

Outside the compound though was something disturbing, a horrific sight. Frasken spotted a wounded man was clutching his stomach and several throwing daggers pierced his abdomen, he walked a few steps and then collapsed down. The hunter rushed in immediately and discovered a shocking incident. The man was his mentor – Onikung! His role model and ultimate teacher! Onikung’s conditions revealed much that he was near heaven’s door and Frasken could only pray that his mentor would be able to say some words before his last breath ended.

"Halt, Forren!" The horse obeyed immediately.

"Onikung, what happened to you?!" Blood dripped from his neck, the poor individual had no chance of survival, the hunter rushed in with a cloth to stop the overflow. His mentor was breathing heavily, attempting to at least talk the last words.

"It’s too late Frasken… An assassin ambushed me somewhere in the trees. He was disguised in a mask and stabbed me several times with a cruel phantom-looking dagger. I escaped that but he launched these wicked knives down my guts…" Onikung gasped.

"Whoever he is, I will bring vengeance to him! Where is he now?" Frasken said angrily.

"Vanished in the woods, he threatened that he will reduce the Evolunion Realm to ruins and would establish a realm of terror on his own."

"A scheme to conquer the empires, I must prevent that. Hold on, you cannot leave me!"

"Remember my teachings Frasken, never reveal anything to strangers. Be careful, even to your close friends! A terrible omen is going to come."

"Onikung, I will get you to safety."

"No, I am destined to leave this world. Fate does not control everything, your actions do. Now I must leave. Wear this token. I see great exploits within you. Promise me that you’ll fight honorably when war comes. Do not shed any tears, grow strong and gain the true nature of a warrior."

"I promise," Frasken swore. That had been the last chapter of Frasken’s mentor and the hunter had to face the perils of the world by himself. Frasken did what Onikung told him, he had not shed any tears that showed weaknesses but hid his sorrow profoundly inside. Frasken skimmed through the token, garnished with silver and had a symbol inscribed on it. A mystery the relic was. On the token it said:

Frasken absolutely had no clue of what the passage on the relic meant but he knew that it was absolutely crucial and important. The hunter examined his surroundings, hoping to find the hidden culprit who had murdered Onikung. The token was a cryptic source of information and Frasken assumed that sooner or later, he would discover the true meaning hidden inside it. He meticulously observed the markings and engravings on the symbol. Silvery it was, inscribed in ancient languages at the back. Frasken only comprehended the language that had been written in the front.

The relic was made of silver. Frasken could only wait for a wizard to elucidate its complex concepts.