Date: October 30, 542 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonorable.
Datuk looked at Namida and didn't believe his eyes. He felt her aura—weak, barely flickering. A Warrior. And a low-ranking one at that. He could kill her with one blow without even trying.
"You?" he repeated, undisguised disappointment in his voice. "You're the strongest warrior of your tribe?"
"Yes," Namida replied. She stood motionless, her blind eye sockets fixed directly on him.
"This will be a boring fight," he said, lowering his axe. "I'm not going to waste time killing weaklings."
Namida didn't take offense. On the contrary, her face, pale with a reddish tint, relaxed slightly. She took a step back and bowed her head.
"Thank you," she said. "You could have destroyed us all. But you didn't."
"Don't thank me," Datuk grumbled. "I just can't be bothered to kill weaklings."
The guards standing behind Namida exchanged glances. Their eyes on their palms blinked, and they stepped aside, letting him through the gates.
"If you need help," Namida said, "our tribe would be honored to assist a warrior like you. How can we be of use?"
Datuk thought. He wasn't looking for help. He was looking for a fight. But in this settlement, in these strange creatures with eyes on their palms, there was something that caught his attention.
"Show me your surroundings," he said. "Maybe we'll find something interesting."
Namida nodded. She turned and walked forward, and Datuk, without hesitation, followed.
---
The settlement was unusual. Houses of black stone, narrow streets along which the inhabitants glided silently—all with closed eyes, all with palms facing forward. They looked at him. Not with their faces—with their hands.
"Do you always live like this?" Datuk asked.
"Always," Namida replied. "We are the Firz. Our people do not see with their eyes. We see with our skin, with vibration, with touch. Our palms are our windows to the world."
"And is that comfortable?"
"We know no other way," Namida shrugged. "For us, it's as natural as breathing is for you."
They left the settlement. Here, beyond the walls of black stone, the white wasteland began, but a darker one, with sparse bushes of grey grass. Namida led him confidently, without looking at her feet. She seemed to feel the path.
"Where are we going?" Datuk asked.
"To the Dead Crater," Namida answered. "It's not far from our settlement. You wanted to see something interesting. This is the most interesting thing we have."
---
They walked for about an hour. The white wasteland gave way to grey cliffs, the cliffs to black, cracked earth. The air grew colder, heavier, and a smell appeared—acrid, metallic, like after a lightning strike.
And then Datuk saw it.
The crater was enormous. It descended as far as the eye could see, its bottom invisible. Only darkness—thick, dense, swirling at the bottom of this giant chasm—and from below rose a cold, damp wind.
"This is the Dead Crater," Namida said, stopping at the edge. "No one knows how it appeared. It has always been here. Our ancestors said it was the mark of a falling star. Or a god's strike. Or a gateway to another world."
"And no one has ever descended?" Datuk asked, peering into the darkness.
"They have," Namida shook her head. "But no one has ever returned. They say only a true warrior can pass this trial. But our best fighters jumped down and…" she trailed off.
"And?"
"And we never saw them again."
Datuk stared into the crater. His eyes, green, bright, burned. Inside him, where his Berserker Spirit lived, a familiar, forgotten feeling ignited. Excitement. Thirst for battle. The desire to test himself.
"I'll jump," he said.
Namida turned to him. Her blind eye sockets seemed to widen.
"You don't understand," she said. "This is death. No one has ever returned. No one."
"Then I'll be the first," Datuk replied.
"You are a strong warrior," Namida shook her head. "But this place is stronger. It doesn't kill the body—it kills the spirit. It takes what makes you alive."
"I have nothing that can be taken," Datuk smirked. "Except my axe."
He took the axe from his shoulder, checked the straps. Namida stood beside him, her hands—with eyes on the palms—lowered.
"If you jump," she said, "we won't be able to help you. We won't even know if you're alive or dead."
"You don't need to," Datuk replied. "If I survive, I'll return. If not—then it wasn't meant to be."
He approached the edge of the crater. Below was darkness. So dark that even his dwarven vision couldn't see the bottom. The wind blew from below, cold, damp, smelling not of ozone, but of something else, ancient, nameless.
"Good luck," Namida said. "Return as a true warrior who has passed the trial."
Datuk didn't answer.
He stepped into the void.
The wind whistled in his ears, and the black darkness swallowed him. The crater accepted its victim.
Namida stood at the edge, listening to the sound of the fall fade. Then she turned and walked back to the settlement. She didn't know if this strange, bearded warrior would survive. She didn't know if she would ever see him again.
But something in her chest, where her heart beat, whispered: *He will return.*
And Datuk fell, his heart beating steadily, calmly. He wasn't afraid. He was ready.
The crater waited.