The first two eras are gone. And the third is already moving toward its apogee. Ancient legends and myths rise from the graves. Lords mired in intrigues are ready to play their own game. A dreadful infection is spreading across the lands of the living. And you’re just a splinter—one gear of a wheel that still, by inertia, keeps rolling forward...
— Hm? So you’re the killer of the “rested”? Did you cool off? Yesterday, the old man— the werewolves— stole my goat… Maybe you’ll return it?
— The old man leaned forward naively and scratched his balding spot. I looked at his eyes skeptically: “Are you serious?”