In a world devoured by famine and hollowed by fear, where war coils like smoke on the horizon and hope flickers like a dying flame, you walk—not as king, not as warrior—but as a prophet, barefoot on scorched earth, burdened with a whisper only you could hear: “It will end in fifty years.” Armed with nothing but words and visions, you pass through shattered nations and weary hearts, each land a broken verse in a poem still unfinished. Some will listen, some will curse your name, others will draw blades where you offer peace. Yet still, you speak. For every sentence is a seed cast into dying soil, every silence a grave waiting to be filled. You must survive fire, doubt, and betrayal—fifteen turns in each of five realms, each step shadowed by local trials, every fifth breath shaken by a storm, and every fifteenth by the judgment of the world itself. Stir too much fear, and you’ll be struck down as a heretic; fail to move the rulers, and treason will claim your blood. But should your voice endure—should your words outlive the silence—you may yet carry mankind, thread by trembling thread, into the stillness beyond the storm, and kindle the dawn that was promised.