On a gloomy, rainy day, sitting alone on the muddy ground in a desolate, forested landscape, a solitary figure emerges from the shadows. The rain falls relentlessly, creating a steady, heavy murmur, soaking the earth and forming puddles that reflect the bleak, gray light filtering through the bare trees. Broken branches and fallen trunks seem to whisper in the cold wind, as if the forest itself mourns an ancient tragedy. In the figure's hands, a great sword lies on the ground, its blade gleaming despite the mud that coats it. The sword, massive and powerful, seems to be soaked in eternal suffering. Stained with dried blood, the blade reflects the violence it has witnessed. Its thick, ancient hilt bears the scars of countless battles, while the edge, sharp yet worn from relentless use, rests on the earth like a silent declaration of defeat. The figure, hooded, gazes at the sword with a mixture of weariness and regret. With a cigarette between their fingers, the thin smoke rises in spirals, blending with the cold rain that falls endlessly. In their eyes, there’s a story of hopelessness, as if the world itself no longer matters. Around them, the forest stretches endlessly, vast and empty, every tree withered, and every shadow reflecting palpable loneliness. The silence, broken only by the steady patter of rain, amplifies the feeling of abandonment. War, death, and defeat have become inseparable companions in this forgotten place. The landscape, in its sorrowful desolation, feels like a distant echo of better times, now consumed by mist and storm.