Dehu Chembai placed a hand on the shoulder of the warrior walking ahead and made him lower to one knee, then he himself lay low on the ground and ordered the others to do the same.

"Dehu-guai," the warrior turned his head after obediently taking a seated position, "this odd orchin is alone! Let me kill him!"

"Not now." The leader of the punitive detachment of the Steppe Runners nomadic teip replied calmly.

"We've been wandering these hills for five days," Bolad Kirshih grumbled in response, "always hiding from someone. We should be killing, not hiding!"

"Shut up," Dehu hissed through clenched teeth, barely restraining himself from drawing his sword and slashing the throat of this noble fool.

If it were any other man, the head of the punitive detachment would have put him in his place long ago. But Bolad was the beloved nephew of the chieftain, and Dehu couldn't afford to just kill him in front of the other warriors. So, for all five days of their raid, he has been tolerating the antics of this fool, whose only achievement in life was being conceived by an influential father.

Unlike earthly worms, or city ones, the nomads of the Yellow Steppes don't bother with gathering resources in the dungeons or clearing them. Such work is for those sitting-in-place. A true man, raised in the free Steppe, has only one true calling - battle. However, even the free people of the plains need resources to forge weapons and other tools, create artifacts and potions, and therefore, all steppe teips impose a tax on tunnellers who visit dungeons on their territory or near its borders. Taking a tax from those sitting-in-place is a task worthy of the Bright Dairin.

For many years since the great war, which essentially ended in a stalemate, certain unspoken rules have been established on the Border Ridge. Warriors of the nomadic teips don't kill tunnellers, and in gratitude, the tunnellers leave a third of what they find right at the entrance to the dungeons. Of course, there are exceptions when newcomers refuse to honor this unwritten agreement and hide behind the guards of the coastal city. In such cases, the council of elders sends detachments to the Ridge to beat respect for their word into the heads of the overly greedy sitting-in-place. Such raids usually consist of the clan's youth because there are no high-ranked dungeons on the Ridge and, therefore, no tunnellers above Bronze rank. These raids are a good opportunity for the green youngsters to prove themselves and fill their Core with growth energy through worthy deeds.

Such a fragile balance, maintained with varying success for several years, was recently shattered. Two groups of newcomers, seemingly appearing out of nowhere and unfamiliar with the common rules, took to clearing all the dungeons of the Ridge with a perseverance worthy of the steppe wolves. Some greenhorns, still on Iron rank, didn't even think to leave the customary tribute for the Steppe after clearing a dungeon.

Then the council of elders of the Steppe Runners teip assembled a group of young men and sent them to teach these brash newcomers a lesson. Only half of that group returned. The clan's youth lacked wisdom; they allowed themselves to be lured into an ambush, and found themselves fighting not against tunnellers but with the border guards of the port city. The Steppe Runners teip is large, with many young warriors, so another group was dispatched to replace the failed one. This group disappeared entirely. Yet, this didn't discourage the elders, and they rallied two dozen more young warriors who promised to rightfully punish the brash tunnelers. Out of those twenty, only three returned to camp.

These brazen newcomers, breaking the unwritten rules of the Border Ridge, proved very cunning. Barely knowing how to fight like true warriors, they were nonetheless adept at ambushes, traps, and even luring the steppe dwellers to the patrols of the port city. They even used the dungeons themselves as part of their tactics!

However great the Steppe Runners' teip might be, losing so many young fighters was a heavy blow. Yet, the steppe people couldn't simply walk away and forget the blood that had been spilled. The blood demanded revenge. The chieftain then sent a squad led by Chembai, comprised of three warriors and a mage, all of Wootz rank, and Dehu himself, at the Sapphire step, to collect their due in the form of the culprits' severed heads. For five days, like jackals, they roamed these endless hills, tracking their prey. Five times Dairin rose above the Ridge, and for all those days, they did nothing but wander, following long-abandoned trails and paths leading to nowhere. Now, this was their first clue: a lone traveler ambling in the post-sunset twilight.

Dehu's squad, full of fervor, was ready to charge and cut him down right there, but Chembai was more experienced. He noticed that the townsman, judging by his clothes and unfamiliarity with walking the hills, behaved oddly. He wandered forward, not watching his path. He stumbled, fell, yet got up and continued onward. Such peculiar behavior, even for those sitting-in-place, was strange. And anything strange could at any moment turn into a trap. Dehu, more experienced than the warriors in his squad, understood this simple truth, and so he did not let his men attack immediately.

"We move silently. Look around. Look closely. Townsfolk usually don't walk alone here, especially such defenseless pups as this one looks." Dehu whispered. "Follow. Attack only on my command." The squad leader turned to Bolad and, looking him in the eye, added, "Anyone who disobeys will be killed on the spot, and I'll be in the right!"

Dehu chose his words wisely, and even a brat like the chief's beloved nephew didn't dare to object.

The squad of steppe warriors moved through the tall grass so quietly and skillfully that even a young coyote, watching the same townsman the steppe warriors were, didn't notice the presence of five experienced fighters.

"Bator Dehu," one of the warriors said, breaking the silence, "what now? Surely, this dog-bitten fool didn't go into the dungeon alone?"

After the townsman, to the astonishment of the five warriors, placed his palm on the Dungeon's Sign and stepped through the opened Gates, the steppe warriors were stunned.

"Maybe he's just... you know?" Bolad suggested. "Lost his mind? And we've wasted our time?" The chief's nephew then added with malice, "We should have killed him right away!"

"Shut up!" Dehu Chembai growled. Though he, too, was perplexed, he couldn't show his confusion in front of his men. "Everyone shut up! We know the cheeky ones are slyer than coyotes! It's clearly a trap! It means we've been noticed, and they're watching us! And they've been doing so for a while!"

"Oh, come on," Bolad brushed off his leader's words, "he's just a real fool..."

The chief's beloved nephew couldn't finish his sentence. Because it's very difficult, even for a Wootz warrior, to say something with a head rolling down a hillside. In the same instant, the rest of the punitive squad also lost their heads. As if an invisible, incredibly sharp, gigantic sword had drawn a line, cleanly slicing their necks. Dehu Chembai, unlike his men, managed to flinch; he even recognized the spell that killed his men – "Wind Blade." But even such alertness couldn't save the warrior of Sapphire. His skull, split precisely in half, sprayed in all directions, and the dark-gray slush, once human brains, settled on the nighttime grass.

A man, unnoticed until that moment by both the townsman boy, the young coyote, and the skilled squad of steppe tracker-punishers, began to descend from the neighboring hill, tucking a chef's knife into his belt.

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He was dressed entirely inappropriately for these places. A working kashaya, ordinary wooden sandals on his feet, and an apron stained with flour and oil. It seemed as if he had just stepped out of a bakery, not walking on the slope of an unnamed hill somewhere dozens of kilometers away from the nearest city. This man was far from young; in fact, he looked like a very old man. And truthfully, he was one. A month ago, this man quietly drank a glass of wine for his 130th birthday. But nobody knew his true age. Even those who had lived with him for many years and bought his sweets thought Master Coen was at most seventy years old, no more. And for someone who had just turned seventy, he looked very good: not an ounce of excess fat, a lean figure, like a sahel branch, with a confident, direct gaze, not clouded by old age. Only the constant grumbling and deep wrinkles, not only on his face but also on his hands, betrayed that this man was nearing his Twilight.

Approaching the Sign of the Dungeon, Grandfather Vyuan placed his hand on it. The dungeon was "occupied." After standing in this position for over a minute, the old man angrily struck the innocent rock with his open hand. In response to this blow, the mountain, as old as this world, which had come to resemble a regular, albeit quite tall hill, shuddered almost to its very foundation.

The old man was furious.

Not at the mountain. Not at the dungeon. Not at the steppe men he had casually killed. And not even at the foolish boy.

The Mithril Warrior-Mage was angry at himself.

Once, the one called Grandfather Vyuan in Tries was known throughout Ain. Every boy in Pentapolis dreamt of becoming his apprentice. All the doors of the world respectfully opened, and the kings and heads of the Great Guilds bowed their heads when they heard his name. Back then, almost half a century ago, he was called Karnak, the Wind Conqueror. Having achieved Mithril without anyone's help, he was a twelve-time Champion of Deytran and Feyst. The vanquisher of many Monsters and the one who descended to the incredible depth of the seventy-ninth Floor of Elai's Tower! He who, in his lifetime, earned FIVE Adamantium Achievements - an inconceivable feat for anyone else except the great heroes of antiquity! Master of Masters, Teacher of Teachers – that's how people addressed him. The best mentor of Pentapolis, the one who personally raised a full dozen apprentices, who later achieved the Mithril rank! Half a century ago, everyone knew his name...

And even now, a legend circulates in Pentapolis that Karnak the Wind Conqueror neither perished nor vanished into obscurity. The tale claims that he still ventures through the Mist of Divino, heading towards the Stairway of Ascension, aiming to ascend it and stand alongside the sons of Eyrat. For who, if not him, the Teacher of Teachers, is worthy to rise to such a high Step?

Alas, who better than the old man standing by the cliff would know that this legend is nothing more than a city tall tale. A fabrication.

But underneath that story, there was a small foundation of truth. Because the last time people saw Karnak the Wind Conqueror, he was entering the Mist of Divino.

They saw him enter, but no one noticed him leave.

Then, after taking one and a half thousand steps in the Mist, he realized he was faltering. And at the moment when the Mist had almost drained all his strength, the man named Karnak the Wind Conqueror chose to vanish at the peak of his Glory and Power. And so, unnoticed by all, out of the Mist emerged not the famed master of Mithril but a plain, ordinary, very tired man.

Ah! Had it not been for his tempestuous youth and his disregard for rules, he could have remained at the pinnacle of human strength for many more years. If only...

But in his youth, he had done many things, including committing blasphemy, just to show how brave he was and how far he could go. People indeed admired his courage, but the Echoes of Fallen Gods also took notice of him. Numerous curses, including two adamantium ones, gradually eroded both his body and soul.

Walking in the Mist, he realized that he would soon fall from the peak. That within five years, younger and bolder individuals would first push him out of the top ten and then trample his once-great name into the dust, sand, and mud. And so, out of the Mist emerged not Karnak the Wind Conqueror but a grey, unremarkable pilgrim, resembling the thousands who wander Ain's roads seeking the gods' blessings. For over fifteen years, he roamed the continent, hoping to earn Elai's and Ishid's forgiveness for the sins of his youth. He performed good deeds, helped the weak, and defended the innocent. For years, he prayed in the True Temples.

Yet, he was not Heard. Not Understood. Not Forgiven.

All the great skills of one of the greatest masters of Mithril proved useless against Divine wrath. All that remained for him was either to die with honor or merely exist, trading his strength for years of life.

He chose the latter. He returned to his once native city. Using Mental magic, he assumed the place of his recently deceased nephew and dedicated the rest of his days to what he loved from his carefree childhood - making sweets. For three decades, every boy in Tries knew him as Grandpa Vyuan. And all these years, he was genuinely happy. He felt more content and joy than when he raised his sword in victory in the Arenas of Deytran and Feyst. Chasing the city kids away from his shop, yet allowing them to steal some sweets, he smiled more than when he defeated the most dangerous monsters and beasts.

Only one thing prevented him from going to sleep entirely contented. In living such a simple life that pleased his old bones, he had forgotten his true calling - to teach.

The first years in Tries were especially hard for him. It was physically painful for the once-great Teacher to see young people wasting their talents. He yearned to drop the guise of a harmless old man, grab them, and set them on the right path. The urge was overwhelming. But he resisted, never allowing his desire to teach to disrupt his new happy life. No matter how talented those who stole his sweets were, he never gave even a piece of advice to any of them.

Recently, while having a drink to celebrate his years, he clearly understood he didn't have much time left. Maybe a year, possibly two, or, if he was very lucky, three. But this did not scare the old man; on the contrary, he simply smiled, lay down, and slept a peaceful, undisturbed sleep.

If it weren't for that insufferable boy, who, despite being at the Iron Rank, executed the "Perfect Wind Blade" right before his eyes, he'd still be in his kitchen, preparing pastries to sell the next morning.

The "Perfect Wind Blade" might seem like a regular skill on the surface, but it's inherently much more deadly and complex to master. Even for him, who had Four Stars in Sword and Five Stars in Wind, it took a whole nine years to master this skill. And here, right in front of him, a boy he'd known from infancy, trying to protect the elderly seller from one of the assassins, uses this skill, available to a mere handful in all of Ain! He uses it casually, instinctively, as a mere reflex.

Unthinkable!

An incredible, impossible talent.

At least Five Stars in Sword and the same Five in Wind. But even that wouldn't be enough! The old master was certain that without an Affinity with Air, even if hidden and not yet manifested, using this skill instinctively would be impossible in principle.

For several days, the one once hailed as the "Master of Masters" struggled with an incredible temptation - before death would claim him, to guide onto the true path the one who - in this, the old man had no doubt - had the potential to become the greatest Sword of the Winds since the divine Evelan himself!

Alas, in the time remaining before his Departure, even he couldn't teach the boy everything. But he could lay the foundation for the boy's Ascension along the Coils of the Spiral. It seemed that fate itself was bestowing upon him an incredible gift - to mentor one last disciple. But he had become too entrenched in his new identity and rejected this gift. He declined it... until he recently felt an odd, irrational anxiety. A chill that froze his old heart. He hadn't felt such a sensation for many years. Not since he renounced his old Name and ceased to be Karnak the Wind Conqueror. This heart chill, for someone whose calling was to teach, meant only one thing: the Shattering of a Disciple's soul. Such a Shattering often ends most people's lives. Yet, for a select few, this Shattering signifies something else - an opportunity to forge themselves anew.

But even after receiving such an unambiguous hint from fate, the old man was hesitant. He was tormented with doubts. He was torn apart by heavy thoughts, caught between his calling and the bliss of his final years.

In the end, he made a choice.

He chose to end his life nobly, as befits one whose name once shook the entire world.

But his hesitations and doubts had cost him so much time. So much... time...

And now, he stands at the entrance of the Sealed Dungeon, weakly knocking his palm against the stone. A damn old fool who arrived too late! Fate had given him a parting gift, but he lacked the courage to accept it in time.

Human nails scraped against the granite rock, leaving behind deep grooves. The one who was once Karnak the Wind Conqueror collapsed to his knees.

Heavy, as life itself, the scarce drops of an old man's tears fell upon the cold nighttime stone of mountains as ancient as this world itself...