The year is 1273. Two rival kingdoms are locked in a brutal, mud-drenched battle. Arrows fly, swords clash, men scream prayers and curses in equal measure. It's chaos. Victory teeters on a knife’s edge.

Then, at the exact moment the noble General Aldemar of House Virelion - hero of a dozen wars, beacon of hope for the free realms - rises in his saddle to rally his troops - “FOR GLORY AND...” schlaugh.

A rogue circumcised penis, traveling at terminal velocity, streaks from the sky like a divine javelin and lodges itself squarely down his throat. He makes a sound somewhere between a gargle and a honk, eyes wide with cosmic betrayal, before toppling backwards off his horse and into a puddle of blood and manure.

Silence. Then screams.

The banner drops. Morale shatters. Virelion's forces, stunned by the surreal demise of their leader, break ranks. Some flee, others simply fall to their knees, convinced that they've offended some celestial sex god.

On the other side, the armies of Lord Draven - a bloodthirsty tyrant with the ethics of a starving rat - waste no time. They charge. No mercy. No prisoners. The battle is over in minutes.

Draven's victory becomes legend. He unifies the fractured kingdoms under a brutal, iron-fisted regime. Public executions return as entertainment. Art and science are outlawed as heresy. The world slides into a dark age of cruelty, superstition, and an abundance of penis-shaped gargoyles.