The Fall of the Ox King
A man was sitting in a chair, sharpening his sword.
The scraping sound of whetstone against steel echoed through the dim chamber, slow and steady—like the breathing of a beast at rest.
He was massive.
Muscles layered upon muscles stretched beneath rough leather armor. Veins coiled across his forearms like knotted ropes. His mana was scarce—barely a flicker compared to true fighters—but what he lacked in mystical energy, he compensated with monstrous physical power. With raw strength alone, he could crush boulders into powder.
This man was Eon.
Known throughout Fantom City's southern district as The Ox King.
The southern district was filth incarnate. Mud-clogged alleys. Rotting refuse. The stench of cheap liquor and desperation. Thieves, slave traders, beggars—they all nested here like rats beneath the polished floors of noble estates.
Yet irony ruled the world.
For when nobles desired something done without witnesses—without honor—they came here.
