PESTILENCE

The first Horseman does not arrive with thunder or fire. It comes quietly.

As the morning mist settles over the marsh, the air grows heavy and the water refuses to rest. The fairways narrow beneath creeping vines, the insects gather without mercy, and every careless throw is slowly consumed by the swamp. There is no rushing through these grounds. Impatience is punished, and hesitation is just as costly.

Pestilence spreads one mistake at a time. A drive that fades inches too far. A skipped putt that finds the reeds. A footing lost in the mud. Before long, confidence gives way to doubt, and the course begins to feel alive—as if it has chosen its next victim.

Those who survive understand the truth: Pestilence is not defeated by power. It is overcome with discipline, precision, and respect for the land.

The Apocalypse begins here.