"Get your fresh potatoes here!" a street vendor shouted, his voice cutting through the bustling market of Neidaria, the capital of the Krandor Kingdom. The cobbled streets were alive with movement as civilians haggled with vendors, buying food, trinkets, and clothing.

Amid the vibrant chaos, a lone cloaked figure limped down the main thoroughfare, making his way toward the city gates. His presence was an oddity among the lively crowd, a stark contrast to the jovial atmosphere of the market. Standing at around 178 cm, the figure’s tattered brown cloak fluttered faintly in the wind, but it barely concealed the silver armor beneath, which was heavily scratched and stained with mud and dried blood. The armor seemed to tell its own story, a silent testament to the battles it had endured.

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With every step, the figure’s limp grew more pronounced, as if each movement was an effort of will rather than strength. His face was hidden beneath the shadow of his hood, his eyes obscured, but the weight of exhaustion clung to his every step.

The vendors continued their calls, unaware of the figure’s weary presence, as if his struggles were nothing more than a faint ripple in the ocean of daily life.

A rough voice pierced through the murmur of the crowd. "What brings you to the capital?"

The cloaked figure paused, his limp slowing to a stop as he lifted his head slightly. In front of him stood a guard, fully clad in polished silver armor, his stern gaze fixed on the stranger.

The figure remained silent for a moment, his body tense, before he finally spoke. His voice was hoarse, cracked, as though it hadn't been used in days. "I heard... there's a dungeon in the public library."

The guard narrowed his eyes, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. "A dungeon?" he repeated, his tone skeptical. "In the library? You’ve got to be mistaken."