Prologue

August 15, 1689

The once lush and green province now lay devastated by famine. The soil, once bountiful, now parched and lifeless. The once vibrant river silenced, leaving behind a barren pit. The wind, defeated, ceased its journey for months. The scorching heat punished everything in its path, with no respite. 

Gharna, wiped the sweat off her forehead, her fatigue evident. Despite the desperation and unthinkable choices for survival, hope flickered in her eyes.

"Morning Gharna! It seems like you've taken a sweat shower, eh! ho ho," chuckled Mo'o, an elderly man, as he sifted through infested cabbage.

"More sweats means hardwork elder Mo'o" 

Lies in the mountaintop lies that a desperation had woven its cruel threads through the people, leading to unthinkable choices simply for survival.

"Believe it or not," began a portly man, covered in bloodstains, his apron notably tainted deeper with each slice of his blade. "The flesh of man tastes far richer, far more tender, than any animal I've butchered before this accursed famine." His eyes gleamed with an unnatural, inhuman delight, his smirk chipped away the remainder of his lost humanity.

An intricately crafted wooden carriage pulled up by the rancid facade of the butcher shop. The driver, an average-height man garbed in a fine linen robe, remained conspicuously silent. He unloaded his cargo, a corpse procured from a distant village, into the macabre setup of the shop.

"Leave it over there," grunted the butcher, pointing towards a nondescript corner heavy with the stench of decay.

"Much obliged, Dialo," drawled the butcher, a grotesque parody of gratitude etched on his face. "I look forward to more...supplies." His laughter, chilling in its maleficent glee, echoed long after the carriage had disappeared into the horizon.

Meanwhile, in a small village, a fainting voice cried out for food. The young child desperately begged his mother, "Mom, I'm hungry."

"Mom will find food," she whispered through tear-filled eyes, unable to bear the sight of her child suffering from hunger. She, too, felt the gnawing pain in her stomach, but she endured it, for the sake of her child.

In another part of the province, Manuel and his Abuelo struggled to plant crops in their barren fields. The harsh reality of the failing harvest weighed heavily on their hearts.

"Manuel, no luck today," sighed Abuelo, his face etched with disappointment as he surveyed their fruitless labor.

Manuel wiped the sweat from his brow, his heart heavy with the weight of their failing harvest. The famine that plagued their village seemed only to grow worse with each passing day. The once-flourishing fields now stood as a stark reminder of the slow death that encroached upon them.

In another village where the scorching sun beat down upon the parched land, refusing to grant any respite. The village chiefs gathered, desperately seeking a solution to their problems. They had sung songs to beckon the rain, offered prayers to the goddess of weather, but all in vain. The sky remained mercilessly clear, with no sign of relief.

Sikhoulo, a wise elder, voiced the frustration that plagued the hearts of the villagers. "Chiefs, it seems our efforts have been in vain. We have exhausted every method, but it appears that the gods refuse to hear our cries and prayers."

The words hung heavy in the air, acknowledging the harsh reality they faced. However, there was one chief who refused to give up hope. Holding his staff, a powerful artifact crafted by Ribom, he stood tall amidst the weary faces.

"We must not waver in our determination," he declared with unwavering conviction. "We must continue our efforts, for it is only through perseverance that miracles can happen."

As the scorching sun seared their skin, the woman in a flowing robe exclaimed, "Ah, my skin feels like it's melting, and my hair is on fire!"

As the night sky enveloped the land of the mankind, a haunting silence settled over the village. The air carried a distinct scent, a mixture of sand and despair. It was a putrid stench that lingered, a constant reminder of the hardships faced by the villagers.

The winds blew in from the north, carrying with them the cries of the ravagers. These savage creatures had become a relentless threat, raiding the village and stealing the hard-earned rations of the villagers. Months of toil and labor vanished in an instant, leaving nothing but empty stomachs.

Morning arrived, the scraps and leftovers that were painstakingly stored in the village's meager storage had been scattered outside, a cruel reminder of the havoc wrought by the ravagers.

As the warm breeze rustled through the tall grass, I sat on the porch of my humble cottage and gazed up at the cloudless sky. The familiar sounds of chirping birds were noticeably absent, leaving a haunting silence that seemed to echo through the valley.

And so, the era of famine, poverty, and corruption consumed the continent, leaving only survival or death as the options for its people.

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