In the heart of Olungwe's once-resplendent courtyard, a man of regal bearing yet worn by time sits cross-legged on the parched, cracked earth. In his late 50s, his visage is marked with both the dignity of a king and the exhaustion of a weary soul. Tears streak his gaunt cheeks, reflecting a lifetime of battles fought both on the field and within. His head is freshly shaven, revealing a jagged scar—a silent testament to a warrior's past. Draped in robes of deep, tattered gray, he embodies the very essence of mourning, the fabric whispering tales of despair. Encircling him, the kingdom's fields, once a tapestry of vibrant gold, now stand faded and forlorn, their stalks bowing beneath an oppressive gray sky. In the distance, villagers gather in muted hues, their expressions a mix of fear and reverence. A gentle wind stirs, lifting the dust around the king, carrying with it faint whispers of lost hopes and lingering sorrow.