Date: August 1, 541 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored.
Kazai's horse stepped softly, its hooves barely making a sound as they sank into the viscous, moisture-oozing soil of the swamps. Behind them lay the silence of Rotten Bog—a silence Kazai had created himself. He didn't look back. In his world, the past was merely worked-over material, upon which the edifice of the future was built. If laying a solid foundation required shedding the blood of his tribesmen, Kazai shed it, his face unchanged.
His thoughts were as ordered and cold as the obsidian pieces in his travel set. He felt neither remorse nor hatred for the slain. To him, the inhabitants of Rotten Bog were merely faulty components in the vast mechanism of the Cursed Tribe he sought to restart. If a component couldn't be repaired—it was replaced. If it resisted the common movement—it was discarded. It was pure, emotionless mathematics of national survival.
"The world is sick," Kazai thought, looking at the gray sky, shrouded in the eternal haze of defilement. "But my tribe is sicker than all. We have turned our curse into an excuse for cowardice. We hide in these lands, calling it 'loyalty to our roots,' while the great houses look at us as an annoying obstacle that will one day simply be burned out. We are a herd willingly going to the slaughter, hoping not to be noticed."
His "Better World" wasn't a dream of universal peace. For Kazai, it was a utopia of Dignity. He dreamed of the day when no Cursed would feel shame for their nature. Of a world where their power would be acknowledged as indisputable, and their will as sacred. But to build such a world, the Tribe had to cease being scattered settlements of "cripples." It had to become a monolith, a single blade in the hand of one master. And if the Tribe was too blind to see this willingly, Kazai would become the force that opened their eyes—even if it meant cutting through living flesh.
The inner essence within his Vessel vibrated with a deep, steady tone. Being at the Pillar level, Kazai possessed a density and quality of energy that surpassed all warriors of the same level. His power wasn't chaotic—it was disciplined by years of training and the awareness of his own exceptionalism.
The three attendants followed the prince at a respectful distance. They were his "Black Court"—shadows whose loyalty was absolute, and whose will was but a reflection of their master's will. In their silence, Kazai found the space he needed for reflection.
"Prince," one of the servants, possessing the power of a Warrior, drew level with Kazai and bowed his head. "The Dead Swamp has received news of Rotten Bog. Our people report that their patriarch is convening a council of seven. They are preparing for defense."
"That is to be expected," Kazai replied curtly. His impassive face reflected not a shadow of concern. "Fear is a poor advisor, but a good teacher. The people of the Dead Swamp are one of the links in uniting the central lands. They have over ten Pillars and vast reserves of resources hidden under the water. If they accept my truth, my tribe will take a huge step towards revival. If not... they will simply join the list of those unworthy of seeing tomorrow."
Kazai knew his path to uniting the Cursed Tribe would be bloody. He harbored no illusions: no one gives up power and independence willingly. But he was ready to walk this path to the end. His spirit—Pride—was his indisputable argument. This being, woven from the very darkness of his ambitions, knew no bounds. For now, Pride was the only force of such magnitude at his disposal, but it was enough to suppress any resistance.
Kazai intuitively felt that beyond his domains, other forces were awakening, seeking their own "Better World." "Let them build their castles of sand and steel. My foundation will be stronger, for it is mixed with the blood of my own people. I am not a tyrant. I am a surgeon, cutting away the gangrene to save the whole body. And if the body curses me for the pain—so be it. The main thing is that in the end, it can stand tall."
When the sun finally disappeared below the horizon, painting the swamps the color of dried blood, Kazai ordered camp to be made. He sat by a small fire and took out his checkerboard again. Setting up the pieces, he played against himself, calculating hundreds of scenarios for capturing the next settlement.
In this game, there were no white pieces on the board. Only black ones—the warriors of his future empire. Kazai moved one to the center, symbolically capturing the Dead Swamp. He would go to any lengths for his goal. His dream demanded sacrifices, and he would make as many as necessary for the Cursed Tribe to forget the taste of humiliation forever.
He would greet the next dawn already on the approaches to the Dead Swamp. And this dawn would either be the beginning of their greatness, or the end of their history. Kazai allowed no third option.