In the shadows of history, beyond the reach of mortal eyes, the Immortals have waged their secret wars, bound by the sacred code: *There can be only one*. "Eternal Duel: Untold Chronicles of the Immortals" brings to light the hitherto unseen sagas o...
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The village burned.
Alaric stood at the edge of the forest, his legs trembling beneath him as he watched flames devour everything he had ever known. The screams of his people carried on the winter wind, mixing with the thunder of hooves and the cruel laughter of raiders from the East. His fingers tightened around the shaft of his spear, knuckles white with rage and desperation.
"Freya!" he shouted, scanning the chaos for any sign of his wife. "Freya!"
Through the smoke and dancing shadows, he caught glimpses of the raiders – fierce warriors on horseback, their armor adorned with bones and pelts, their weapons already slick with the blood of his kinsmen. But one figure stood out among them all, a giant of a man who towered over his followers, wielding a massive sword that seemed to drink in the firelight.
The Kurgan.
Even from this distance, Alaric could feel the warrior's presence like a physical weight, an aura of ancient malevolence that made his skin crawl. Stories of The Kurgan had traveled west for years – tales of an immortal warlord who left only death in his wake, who collected the heads of his victims like trophies and grew stronger with each life he took.
Alaric had dismissed them as campfire tales meant to frighten children. Now, watching The Kurgan cut down three of his best warriors with casual ease, he realized how wrong he had been.
"Run, you fool," came a harsh whisper beside him. It was Erik, his oldest friend, blood streaming from a gash above his eye. "There's nothing left here but death."
"Freya's still in there," Alaric growled, already moving forward. "I won't leave her."
Erik grabbed his arm. "She's gone, brother. I saw them take her. The Kurgan himself—"
Alaric shoved him away with a roar of anguish, charging toward the burning village with his spear leveled. He heard Erik calling after him, but the words were lost in the crackling of flames and the pounding of blood in his ears.
He cut down two raiders before they even saw him coming, his spear finding gaps in their leather armor with deadly precision. A third managed to raise his sword, but Alaric was faster, driving the point through the man's throat. Each kill felt hollow, meaningless – these weren't the one he wanted.
Through the smoke and chaos, he caught sight of a familiar blue dress, now stained red. Freya lay crumpled near the great hall, her golden hair spread around her like a halo, her eyes staring sightlessly at the star-filled sky above.
