PROLOGUE
The scarred figure stumbled through the old hideout as the desert wind howled behind him.
Finally, a place to rest.
Not long after he sat on a piece of scrap metal did his old friends emerge from the shadows.
They pleaded, begged him to rejoin them. They could go back to the old days, the days without rules and the days of taking what they wanted. Surely he hadn't forgotten their mercenary ways.
"Please, come back boss…"
His brow furrowed and the jewel on his chest weakly pulsed. A faint blood red lit the room.
The jewel channeled his anger, and with a gesture of his hand a red wave rushed towards the bandits.
They were gone, not even ashes to leave evidence of them.
"What trash," the figure muttered.
And as he slept, the red jewel would faintly pulse during the night.