The gods mock me still. Weeks have passed since my defeat in that cursed Contract, yet the sting remains fresh. My axe feels heavier in my hands, its weight a reminder of failure, not triumph. A warrior’s life is one of honor, yet mine now feels tainted. Betrayed by those who called themselves allies, I was left to die as a dog might—cornered and outnumbered. Ashen, Hearin... their names burn like brands.  

In shame, I returned to the one place where thought comes clearer—the pink desert. It is there I met the Interloper once more, a strange man out of his time, as I am out of mine. He stood in his worn cowboy garb, chewing a blade of grass, looking at me with eyes that saw too much. I told him of my shame, of betrayal, and of death.  

“The game’s different here, Viking,” he said, though not in words so simple. “Here, men betray not from weakness, but from design. You saw it as dishonor. Did you see it at all?”  

“What riddles are these?” I demanded. But he only grinned, his voice cryptic as ever. “Not every battle is fought with steel. You lost, but why? A sword breaks if swung too soon, but patience turns loss to gain. Learn that, old warrior.”  

I left the desert with no clearer answers, but his words linger. If strategy is the battle here, then I must learn its dance. My axe alone will not suffice. I will train until failure no longer haunts me. Until I stand, not just as a warrior, but as a master of this strange, dishonorable realm.