THE GENERAL'S DISGRACED HEIR

The sound of waves crashing against jagged rocks filled the air, harmonizing with the cry of seagulls circling above in the morning light. A cool breeze swept across Blackwater Beach, carrying the briny tang of the ocean. The morning sun struggled to pierce through a thin veil of mist, casting the shore in a pale, diffused glow.

A solitary figure trudged across the damp sand, their arrival disrupting the tranquil scenery with an air of menace. Cloaked in a heavy cape that absorbed rather than reflected the morning light, the figure's dark hood concealed all but a sleek, featureless mask. The mask, devoid of any expression or detail, made them seem otherworldly, an entity removed from the vibrant world around them.

Strapped to their back was a colossal rectangular box-like weapon, its surface reinforced with rivets and adorned with glowing red sigils. The intricate arcane symbols etched into the dark metal faintly pulsed, their crimson light defying the daylight. Scars and dents marred the weapon's surface, hinting at countless battles fought and endured.

A faint crimson glow emanated from the figure's chest, pulsing in rhythm with their slow, deliberate steps. It was unclear if the light came from a talisman, a cursed object, or something bound to their very essence. Each pulse felt alive, a subtle challenge to the serenity of the beach.

The figure came to a halt near the shoreline, where the waves lapped hungrily at the sand. Without hesitation, they reached for the side of the weapon on their back. A hiss of steam erupted as a hidden compartment slid open, releasing a faint metallic scent into the air. The glowing sigils on the weapon intensified briefly before a small vial emerged.

The vial, glass clouded from within, contained a liquid that shifted and swirled like a living entity. Shades of crimson and black coalesced and separated, as though in a dance only it understood. The figure grasped the vial with a gloved hand, their posture unyielding, their mask betraying no hint of thought or emotion.

As the compartment resealed itself with a metallic clink, the figure's voice rumbled low, deep, and resonant, carrying a tone of irritation. "Number Nine better know what they're doing," he muttered, his words lost to the rhythmic crash of waves.

He turned his attention toward the cliffs at the edge of the beach, his gaze lingering on the jagged rocks and shadows that seemed to writhe unnaturally in the distance. With the vial securely in hand, the figure began to move, each step deliberate and purposeful. Stay connected through M-V-L

The morning sun climbed higher, its warmth failing to dispel the cold aura that clung to the cloaked figure. Blackwater Beach, typically a place of serene beauty, now bore witness to a harbinger of something ominous yet inevitable. Whatever lay ahead, it was clear this enigmatic visitor brought with them a reckoning, their purpose written in the glow of their weapon and the eerie crimson light pulsing from their chest.

The figure, standing firm on the sands of Blackwater Beach, reached behind his back and pulled a long, dark pole from the compartment of his weapon. The screeching sound of metal on metal echoed in the still morning air as he drove the pole into the ground with an audible thud. For a moment, the beach seemed to hold its breath, the wind stilling, the waves hesitating in their eternal motion.

The upper end of the pole began to pulse with a deep crimson light, its glow faint at first, then growing stronger, as though it was responding to some unseen call. The air thickened, a pressure settling in as the very earth seemed to tremble beneath the figure's feet. The light shifted from a dull crimson to an almost blinding brilliance, its hue casting long shadows across the shore.

From the depths of the dark waters, something stirred. At first, it was only a ripple on the surface, faint and fleeting. Then, as if summoned by the pulsing beacon, a group of Dunemauls emerged from the waves. These were not the ferocious monsters adventerurs knew, their aggressive, bloodlust-driven nature tempered into something different. Instead, they moved with an eerie, controlled calm, their massive forms towering and their glowing eyes fixed on the figure with unwavering respect.

Without a sound, the creatures bowed before the cloaked figure, their massive arms reaching down, touching the ground in a gesture of reverence. But the figure paid them no mind, his focus solely on the vile he now held.

He turned toward the largest of the Dunemauls, his voice low but carrying an undeniable command. "Take this," he said, handing the vial over with deliberate care. "Pour it into the center of the skull ritual when the moon is at its brightest."

The monster in the center of the group remained silent, its beady eyes reflecting the glow of the crimson light, but it did not speak. Instead, it simply took the vial in its hand and held it with reverence, nodding without a word. The figure's eyes narrowed, a flicker of realization crossing his mind.

"Oh, right," he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible, "you can't speak... monsters."

With a sigh, he turned his attention back to the pole, placing both hands on its dark surface. A pulse of his dark mana surged through his arms, flooding into the pole. The air around him grew colder, the pressure heavier, as sigils and mana circles began to swirl around the pole in an intricate dance. The symbols flickered into existence, each one inscribed with complex, cryptic runes that seemed to shimmer and shift with an otherworldly energy.

As his mana flowed through the intricate patterns, the circles began to connect, weaving a web of arcane power that stretched out into the very air around them. His focus tightened, his expression unwavering, and a bright crimson light erupted from the center of the ritual. The energy exploded outward, cascading across the sea, sending ripples through the water as the entire coast seemed to glow with the intensity of the ritual.

The figure stepped back, satisfied. "Preparations complete on my side," he murmured to himself. His eyes scanned the vast expanse of the sea, watching as the Dunemauls bowed once more in respect, then retreated into the waters, their forms vanishing into the depths from which they came.

The figure stood motionless for a moment, allowing the ritual's power to settle. The beach returned to its quiet calm, the waves lapping gently against the shore once more. With a final glance toward the water, the figure exhaled, as if releasing a breath he had been holding for far too long.

He reached to the side of his weapon, and a compartment slid open with a soft hiss, revealing a crystal glass and a bottle of wine. The figure poured the dark, rich liquid into the glass, its color deep and red, mirroring the glow of the sigils still hovering in the air.

Sitting down on a large rock near the ritual's focal point, he took the glass in his hand and gazed out over the sea. The beach, once again silent and still, became a backdrop to his thoughts.

"It won't be long now," he said quietly, a smile creeping beneath the edges of his mask. "Soon, chaos will rise."

He took a sip of the wine, savoring its taste as the sun climbed higher into the sky, casting its pale light over the beach. For a moment, the world seemed peaceful, but the figure knew better. The calm was merely the precursor to the storm, and he intended to enjoy every moment of the calm before chaos was unleashed.