In the brutal, untamed wilderness of the Southern Frontier, survival wasn't a matter of honor; it was a matter of Darwinian cunning. Deep within the shadow of the Blackspine Mountains, Michael Wilder—the man many whispered was the "Old Devil" himself—stood with a chest puffed out so far he looked like he was the one who had conquered the world. His eyes gleamed with a predatory satisfaction, the look of a man who had finally hitched his wagon to a star capable of obliterating anyone in its path.
"Listen to me, you thick-headed fools," Wilder barked, his voice echoing with a manic pride. "Follow a powerhouse like Issac Monroe, and you’d better get used to looking down on the rest of the world. From here on out, we aren't just survivors; we are the elite."
To an outsider, the sheer arrogan
