The darkness was absolute, thick as frozen mud, pressing down on Tivosh’s eyelids. A low, droning chant, like a thousand insects buzzing in a tomb, vibrated through the dense material beneath him. What was this, a new patch? The full immersion felt a little *too* good. He tried to force his eyes open, but the lids felt heavy, glued shut. “Ugh, seriously?” Tivosh grumbled, his voice a muffled complaint against the polished wood above him. “Can’t I skip this intro? I’ve got achievements to grind.” He pushed, not with any real effort, but with the casual impatience of someone shooing away a fly. A sharp crack echoed, followed by a series of groans and splintering sounds that sounded suspiciously like expensive, antique wood giving way. Dust rained down, stinging his eyes. With a final, exasperated heave, Tivosh burst through the coffin lid. The world above was a monochrome blur of grey and white. A chill, biting wind, sharp as shattered glass, tore at his thin, threadbare tunic. His eyes, still adjusting, blinked at the scene. He was in a stone crypt, or what remained of one. Monolithic, jagged slabs of obsidian-dark rock lay scattered like discarded toys. The air, thick with the scent of damp earth and something acrid, almost metallic, seemed to hum with residual energy. Beyond the shattered walls, a landscape of endless twilight stretched into the distance: skeletal, frost-laden trees clawed at a bruised, leaden sky. Around him, robed figures, faces gaunt and grey, knelt in what looked like an impromptu funeral procession. Their chanting ceased, replaced by ragged, shuddering gasps as they stared at the raw crater where the crypt once stood. “The Gloom of Vorlag… gone?” whispered a woman’s voice, sharp and disbelieving. Vranja, her high inquisitor's robes pulled tight against the biting wind, stood among the stunned mourners. Her pale face, usually a mask of severe conviction, was etched with a raw, unsettling awe. For a century, the magical storm had blanketed the Sepulchre of Hrekh, a shroud woven by the Gospodar Vlesk himself to imprison the very evil they now mourned. And this… *thing*… had just sneezed it away. “Okay, okay, I get it,” Tivosh said, ignoring the gaping chasm and the distraught acolytes. He clapped his hands together, brushing off residual splinters. “Dramatic entrance, very cool. Now, where’s the quest giver? Is there a tutorial zone, or am I just dumped right into the grind?” He scanned the bewildered faces. One particularly flustered man, bald and portly, with rings of heavy gold on every finger, stumbled backward. This was Elder Krov, head of the local Vlesk cult, and the deceased’s closest aide. His face, usually puffed with self-importance, was now the colour of spoiled milk. “By the… the Unnamed Abominations…” Krov stammered, pointing a trembling finger at Tivosh. “It lives! It lives and… it yawns!” Tivosh, oblivious, let out a thunderous sneeze that rattled the remaining crypt stones. It was a reflexive action, an irritation from the dust, nothing more. But in its wake, a concussive force exploded outwards, not just from his mouth, but from his very being. [WORLD ANCHOR: STRUCTURAL INTEGRITY LOSS – 0.0003%] the system notification flashed, a frantic, crimson overlay that Tivosh cheerfully misinterpreted. “Woah, bonus damage!” he exclaimed, grinning. “Did I just crit the scenery? Nice. What’s the multiplier on that?” The ‘scenery’ outside buckled. The jagged, obsidian wall that had formed the crypt's outer shell, a barrier imbued with protective runes for millennia, simply disintegrated. Dust, not stone, filled the empty air where it once stood. The Perpetual Gloom, the century-long magical storm that had been the funeral’s backdrop, dissipated into nothingness, revealing a terrifyingly clear, starless sky. The biting wind died, replaced by a still, frigid calm. “The… the Perpetual Gloom… just *vanished*,” Vranja breathed, her eyes darting from the empty sky to the grinning man. This wasn’t the slow, agonizing awakening of an ancient evil. This was… something else. Something far more chaotic. She had expected a calculated, insidious malice. The silence that followed was broken by a guttural snarl, deep and bone-chilling. From the newly cleared, frigid wasteland beyond the crypt, a hulking form materialized. It was a Gelid Stalker, a creature of frozen sinew and razor-sharp icicles, its eyes burning with malevolent, cerulean light. It moved with unnatural speed, a blur of white against the grey, its curved talons extended towards the nearest mourner – a trembling acolyte who collapsed into the snow. “Oh, a trash mob,” Tivosh muttered, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. “Seriously? A level-one enemy in the starting zone? Devs really need to balance this out. Talk about a boring grind.” The beast lunged, its frosted claws aiming for Tivosh's chest. The mourners screamed, a cacophony of terror. Vranja, despite her shock, instinctively reached for the hilt of her ceremonial blade. But Tivosh didn’t flinch. He didn’t even bother to dodge. He simply walked forward, directly into the creature's charge. [ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED: ‘IMMUNE TO SCRATCHES’ – DEFY CONVENTIONAL HARM (0.000001% of all known threats)] His movement was casual, almost dismissive. The creature, mid-lunge, seemed to shudder. Where its claws should have rended flesh, they met… nothing. Its form, solid moments before, began to unravel. The ice crystals that made up its monstrous body shimmered, then dissolved into a fine mist, carried away by a non-existent breeze. A soft *hiss* was all that remained. Tivosh emerged from the dissipating mist, entirely unharmed, brushing a speck of residual frost from his tunic. “See? Utterly pointless. No XP, no loot, just… *poof*.” He looked around, a frown creasing his brow. “This game’s economy is going to be terrible if this is all the drops I get.” “It… it just… became mist,” Krov whispered, his knees wobbling on the frost. “The frost-demon of the Blighted Vale… the terror of a dozen homesteads… gone.” Vranja's throat locked. This wasn’t just powerful. This was… anomalous. The sheer, unthinking destruction of it all. Her mission, to uncover the ancient evil stirring in the Sepulchre, suddenly felt entirely inadequate. [SERVER EXPANSION COUNTDOWN: 99.999% – WORLD ANCHOR: 7/7 ACTIVE] The sky above, recently cleared by Tivosh’s sneeze, suddenly tore open. Not a crack, but a literal ripping of the fabric of reality. A rent of impossible purple and black energy pulsed, widening with a sound like grinding mountains. And through it, a colossal shadow descended. It towered over the frost-laden pines, easily three times the height of the shattered crypt, its form coalescing from pure darkness and raw, untamed power. Its eyes, twin points of malevolent crimson, fixed on Tivosh. The ground shuddered. The air grew impossibly cold. “Foolish mortal,” a voice boomed, echoing from the tearing sky, a sound that vibrated in Tivosh’s very bones. “You have defiled my slumber. You have awakened… Morzak, the World-Ender.”

The Unskippable Cutscene