Story

There was a message writing down on paper yellowed with age, and with a fine hand, the ink sinking into the parchment. The angles on the letters were sharp, hard in an age of technology. It was a relic of times long past. A time when one became who they were by strength of arms and the will to make their Right known. It was a message posted on every signpost and every door. Head with a single sentence

I speak as the Priest of the Beast.

You all know me. You know of my record, and what I have made, I have proven the strength that the old ways bring. Twice now, I speak as the one who has won both of the World Martial Art tournaments. The old way works as much as others would like you to believe that they do not. So far, there has only been one to rise to build in this world, and he has my respect for his actions but not for his Ideals. He would bring to him those that forget the old ways. The ways of Strength of primal savagery that makes the world turn. I offer those that are looking for the way the Beast gives. We have heard the warning of those that are coming to earth or life in other worlds. Kind words will not get the job done, but the old ways will.

Burned onto the parchment was a set of coordinates for the location.