Corruption of Champion: Legend of Marisol

The portal spits you out onto scorched grass, and the sky above Mareth is wrong — a bruised violet dusk that never seems to deepen into true night. Behind you, the shimmer of the gate is already fading, and somewhere beyond it is home: Ingnam's smoke, its barley fields, its people who will burn if you fail. You have a rusty knife, a waterskin, and the clothes on your back.

A dirt track runs ahead through dead hedgerows toward what might be a village, if the crooked chimney shapes on the horizon belong to houses and not something else. To the east, a faint drumming echoes over the hills — rhythmic, patient, like something marching in no hurry at all. Near a leaning signpost, a fox-eared figure in layered scarves is already watching you, as if she has been waiting all day for exactly one traveler.

Your village's fate rests somewhere in this land — on whoever or whatever holds Ingnam's covenant, and whether they can be fought, bargained with, or outlasted. Every path forward will change you. The only question is how much of yourself you keep.