The temple had long been dead.
Its towers lay cracked open like ancient bones, the marble floors veined with roots and shadow. Wind howled through the hollow corridors, carrying with it the smell of wet stone and forgotten prayers. For centuries, no one had dared to step here. No one, except the man who now knelt before the altar.
He was wrapped in a cloak darker than midnight, its edges whispering as if alive. His face hid behind a mask of bone, carved with runes that glowed faintly red in the dark. The air around him pulsed — heavy, trembling, like the world itself was holding its breath.
He pressed his bleeding hand against the altar's cracked surface. The blood sizzled as it touched the stone.
> "It's done," he whispered. "The savior is gone."
A low hum rippled through the temple, as if the dead gods stirred at the words. From the shadows, translucent figures began to emerge — soldiers, sorcerers, creatures from another age — each wearing armor blackened by centuries of dust.
> "You are certain?" one spirit asked, its voice a hollow echo.
"His magic is truly gone?"
The cloaked man nodded slowly. "The Core shattered during the final war. The light he carried — extinguished forever."
A murmur rose among the spirits, like wind brushing against old iron.
> "Then our chains are broken," hissed another.
"The Age of Ashes begins."
The masked man's lips curved behind the bone — a smile, sharp and cold.
He lifted his hand toward the ceiling, and black fire burst through the cracks, crawling up the walls like living serpents.
> "For years," he said softly, "they called him a god. They worshipped his light. But even gods fall."
The flames gathered around him, forming a sigil — a ring of thorns encircling a dying star. The ground shook, dust rained from the ceiling, and the altar split open. Beneath it, a pulse of crimson light beat like a heart — slow, ancient, awakening.
> "Rise," he commanded. "Rise, for the forgotten age returns."
The spirits bowed, vanishing one by one into the storm of fire.
The man stood alone in the flickering dark, his silhouette framed against the rising flame.
> "He cannot stop us now," he murmured. "The world that once adored him will soon curse his name."
And then — silence. The fire dimmed, the sigil faded, and the man vanished into mist.
---
Far away, across a sleeping city, a man woke from his dream.
Sweat clung to his skin, his breath ragged. Bottles rattled on the table beside him. He stared at his trembling hands — hands that once held galaxies of power.
A faint spark flickered at his fingertips and died.
> "Not again…" he whispered, voice cracked and tired.
The sound of thunder rolled through the night. He closed his eyes, feeling the weight of the years press down. Once, he was the hope of worlds. Now, he was just another forgotten soul with a pension and an empty glass.
But the dream — the nightmare — had felt too real.
And somewhere deep in the hollows of his broken heart, something whispered:
> "They're coming back."