Chapter 7: The Ruin
Igaris walked along the unfamiliar path, following the footprints left behind by countless travelers before him.
After being crippled for years, walking freely on his own feet once again made Igaris feel truly alive, just like in his healthy days.
Truly, there was nothing more comforting than the simple act of walking without relying on anyone else.
He glanced around, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings.
Though his home had felt isolated, it was clear now that they were not alone.
On both side of the road, makeshift huts and crude houses stretched out, signs of life scattered across the Forsaken Land.
This was a land without order, without rulers.
A place abandoned by the Perfect Society. Here, people survived in scattered settlements, using whatever resources they could scavenge from the barren desert. Patches of vegetation occasionally dotted the landscape, but beyond that, the land was dry, harsh, and unforgiving.
Ahead of him, he spotted a few rugged men walking in the same direction. Their bodies were hardened by survival, their faces etched with experience. They carried hunting equipments like old rusted swords, stone axes, slung over their shoulders as they strode forward, seemingly unaffected by the relentless heat of the burning sun.
By comparison, Igaris had only one weapon. A thick wooden stick, roughly the size of a baseball bat.
It was heavy, solid, capable of dealing real damage if swung with enough force. But strangely, despite its weight, wielding it felt natural, effortless, as if his body already knew its grip, its balance, its purpose.