Saussar, a battle-hardened mercenary, sits cross-legged on a cold marble slab, recounting the saga of the Trojan War to his companion. Across from him, Hensard Jean Deric, his sharp-eyed female friend, listens intently, her arms wrapped around her knees for warmth. The chamber is littered with relics—splintered shields, bent spears, and tattered banners that once bore the pride of ancient warriors. "It all began with Paris and that cursed apple, you know. He stole away the wife of a Greek king—Helen, they called her. Bad luck seemed to follow that woman, and Troy paid the price," Saussar explains, his voice echoing off stone. "Was it true that Troy could have held forever, if not for Hector's fall?" asks Hensard, curiosity burning in her gaze.

Saussar and Hensard pick their way through the devastation, stepping over fragments of pottery and bones bleached by the sun. Shattered statues loom like ghosts, reminders of a civilization brought low by pride and betrayal. The land is scarred, bloodstains darkening the stones where Midgardians fell and Tetrarians conquered. "After Hector's death, hope drained from the defenders. Odysseus—cunning as a fox—built that damned wooden horse. The Trojans thought it a gift, but it was a grave," Saussar continues, voice heavy with regret. "And you—where were you in all this?" Hensard probes quietly.

Saussar describes his role during the grim reforms, collecting the detritus of a civilization sent into oblivion. Piles of torn clothing—women’s undergarments fluttering in the cold breeze—are heaped next to mounds of brittle bones. Labels nailed to crude stakes mark what remains: men’s clothes, women’s clothes, relics, and ornaments beyond repair. "I was made to destroy what little dignity the dead had left. We tossed their memories into holes, hoping fire would erase them. But nothing can destroy evidence when blood stains the soil this deep," Saussar mutters, knuckles whitening around a sword hilt. "Did you ever see the Midgardians resist?" "Many became pirates, hunting the Tetrarians with a fury born of loss. The land itself became a graveyard, and vengeance, their only prayer,"

Xena Chase, the legendary elven general, now rules as a hardened warlord. Her once-gentle features are sharpened by years of battle—long green hair whips in the breeze, and her eyes glint with dangerous resolve. Saussar approaches, feeling the weight of defeat in her presence. Xena turns, her gaze appraising, a silent challenge. "You survived, Saussar. But survival is not the same as living," she says, a trace of old pain in her voice. "You became stronger. I... I only became a witness to tragedy,"

The world has changed—humans from a collapsed Earth now serve as slaves to mythical overlords. The Imagus, once Americans and others, have risen to power, but their rule is uneasy, haunted by memories of war and betrayal. Saussar moves through the city’s shadowy alleys, narrowly avoiding patrols. News of the Tetrar Empire’s collapse spreads like wildfire, and the streets teem with rumors of freedom and vengeance. "Victory is never clean. The museum where I threw the past away is closed—sealed, as if history itself must be hidden. Yet the bones of Troy still whisper beneath our feet,"

Saussar is arrested on suspicion of conspiracy, thrust into a cell where hope is as thin as the soup. His release is brief—outside, a predatory gang waits, eager to profit from his misfortune. "They say bad luck follows those who walk among graves. I just wish I could forget the smell of blood and ash," he whispers to himself, eyes haunted by what he has witnessed. Hensard finds him at last, pulling him from the jaws of another tragedy. Together, they look out over a city built from ruins, wondering what hope might rise from the bones of the past.