A sandstorm of such magnitude it could encompass an entire world—if one were to speak in metaphors—raged across the horizon. Through it, hundreds of emaciated figures marched, driven by nothing but faith. Pure, unadulterated faith. Within the hearts of these people, no other emotion stirred. Their bodies were starved, hollowed of sustenance, yet they survived, possessing a bliss far greater than those with full bellies. They waded through the tempest, ascending high slopes of shifting dunes where only sand, wind, and searing heat were their companions. They marched in a straight, unwavering line, their lips trembling with whispered pleas, lamentations, and confessions directed toward Him.
In the vast, desolate expanse of the Land of Faith.
"He is with us. Do not flee from Him. He shall remain by our side. Do not run from us... do not leave us... do not leave..." The pilgrims pressed the heels of their hands against their temples, some gripping their heads with five fingers as if to keep their thoughts from spilling into the void. Others, amidst their supplications, recited His vows, uttering the prophecies of God from ancient, sand-stained scriptures. These devout souls would always keep their fingers fanned away from their temples as they spoke.
The roar of the sand-wind and the gargantuan storm drowned out the sound of feet dragging across the earth. Beneath the unbearable heat of the sands, the Doctors—Healers, Sin-Bearers, and the Wardens of the Damned who forced the wicked to endure their penance—moved in attire resembling ancient desert wanderers, yet their robes were longer, weathered by eons. On their backs, they bore heavy, archaic armor... save for the Warden of the Damned, who carried no steel, clad only in tattered cloth.
"O Pilgrim, receive His blessing and rest here." Some pilgrims collapsed into the arms of the Doctors, their spirits exhausted, unable to carry the weight of their own devotion any longer. They were in agony, a fractured torment too great for a single heart to bear. When the dry, weathered hands of a Doctor touched a withered body—one filled with hollow faith or a desperate obsession with the hundred goddesses buried beneath—a silent exchange occurred. The devotion of the fallen was absorbed without question, like the passing of a torch from one who had perished.The sandstorm played a prelude like a hymn of ruin, sung by a demonic titan to shatter even the divine.
Each grain of sand, beyond numerical count, spiraled into towering vortices—some vast enough to swallow cities, others vanishing as greater storms consumed them.Driven by faith in the icons of a hundred goddesses buried deep within the red-orange sands, the pilgrims marched on. They would not stop until their vessels could no longer endure the fervor of their souls. Whether it was a hollow power they received or a hope born from birth, it mattered not. For all they possessed were their bodies and their faith.
"Even though I witnessed the miracle granted by your supplication at His feet three weeks ago, I still do not truly comprehend what is happening here," the Warden of the Damned spoke, his voice laced with confusion. Despite the weeks of marching through storms that felt like years in the mundane world, answers remained elusive. Beside him walked a man of massive stature, clad in tattered warrior skirts, with a rugged face like a predator, yet possessed of an unconditional, terrifying faith.
"Then why do you still not believe in God, even when this very existence tethers you to Him?" Sokrantas asked, his voice harsh and grating."Regardless, I am a man without faith. I am but a Doctor whose duty is to anchor the final spirits of the great sinners. You provide the benefit; I provide the action. Is that not enough, despite my lack of belief? I serve you, Lord Sokran. Why should it matter if I believe or not? Who would care?" Sandrago stared into the eyes of the towering man who had once brought him to his knees in the ceremonial plaza. Their gaze was not that of two predators, but of two souls bound to a task from which there was no escape.
"It would be better, Sandrago, if I chose not to understand what you just said," the giant replied gravely. As he spoke, he raised his arm to his chest, extending four fingers outward, his eyes fixed on the pilgrims as their rhythmic chanting echoed through the gale.The storm continued its assault, a tempest capable of eroding cathedrals built to last centuries, leaving only ruins for pilgrims from distant lands to venerate. They offered sacrifices to the very thing that starved them, yet their faith never wavered. At times, they would rebuild it all—from the statues of goddesses clutching scythes amidst the swirling red sands to the grim ritual of impaling a soul upon a central pillar, crushing a body of flesh and viscera into the earth.
"I have seen men die before my eyes countless times. I am one with the desert. I have restored the dead only so they may receive their sins again, and again, and again. And you still expect me to feel, to perceive, that these acts your 'He' demands of us are... right?" Sandrago brushed away the stubborn grit. His face was veiled against the wind, his silk robes singed and torn, yet he moved with a weary persistence. Ah, humanity... it was what kept them alive, what made them yearn to give life, to preserve it. For such an honorable burden, they surely needed something to anchor their hearts beyond mere duty.Sokrantas turned to look at the only Doctor who had not exchanged his shield, Sandrago. The giant with hair that trailed upon the ground did not see it as an unfair trade; he saw it as the divide, for the sins the Warden of the Last Spirit carried were far heavier."He is the one above, the one below, the one in the center, and the one beyond... The 'He' I speak of may be the Goddess, may be the Deities, may even be God.
But... sometimes, the logic of questioning, of waiting for an answer... it is not the true path. As the world shatters into pieces and begins to question Him, it becomes clearer that the rejection of faith always heralds disaster," Sokrantas spoke, a single tear escaping one eye. It was not a tear of sorrow, but of the flickering faith within—a remnant of a lineage passed down through ages. This sight moved the pilgrims, who were nearly buried alive in the sand, to rise and follow him with renewed, terrifying sincerity.They moved like a line of ants beneath the feet of a man who kicks the dirt without noticing them. They fell, and they rose again. Only one man never stumbled: the giant, faithful and true. Was it religious fervor, or a vendetta inherited from his ancestors that had become a bond upon his soul?
"I question... what these people believe in. Am I wrong for not understanding? It is a vast subject. I have smelled the stench of burning from those who men like you have scorched with the fire of God... purging their wretched, withered bodies to die in agonizing torment."
"The thing—that is meant to be God... I have faith in Him. I do not question... I do not seek as you people of the later eras do. Eras... that often question that which is already beautiful, until today, when every clarity on earth is distorted, made to be forgotten until it becomes something unrecognizable. Even if I knew, I would not wish to perceive those 'truths' of foolish, ignorant reality. Instead of following His word, you choose to overstep, breaking your vows to Him until you become something loathsome." Sokrantas clenched his fist until blood seeped through his skin. He stared at his stained hand, touching the blood lightly before kneeling. He plunged his bloodied hand into the earth. The pilgrims did not stop, but they slowed, turning to watch. The sand was coarse and dry, but when it touched his blood, it hissed and burned, turning into dust finer than any grain known to man.
In this world of ours, humanity's reverence for eternal beauty has withered to the point of vanishing. Though the name remains, the heart claims it needs no sanctuary... Some go as far as to curse that beauty like madmen, questioning that which is overflowing with grace. How pathetic. How repulsive.
Their mouths and hearts claim they are self-sufficient, needing no anchor because they have themselves. Pitiful. Some who achieve this are worthy of respect, yet so many remain mere children, wandering a vast world from within their narrow cages, questioning the inherently beautiful and turning instead to worship the disgusting. Are these the ones who question beauty? They are more wretched than a dog circled by flies in the dead of night.
"We Doctors of the Desert have always questioned Him. We only ask we do not seek to erase Him. I would not do that, for it would negate the beliefs of these people," the Doctor spoke with a chilling coldness, a sharp contrast to his usual curt tone. It was as if something within his heart had begun to crack. But the world never allows us to remember anything with certainty; this world of shattered glass will break everything, repairing it in a cycle that is far from what it ought to be.
"Is the airship close?" The fire from the dust spread slightly. The sandstorm continued to howl as if a dragon's wings flapped behind the veil, roaring and churning the atmosphere into chaos.Sandrago rushed ahead of the crowd. The pilgrims continued their chanting without pause. The fire within the giant man blazed, as if the memories of his ancestors had returned. The Doctor of the Sands, the Warden of the Final Spirit, walked with his eyes closed, his feet sinking deeper into the sand with every stride. The pilgrims ignored the strangeness, but the voice of the sands always calls for those who stay too long, until even some pilgrims stopped to witness what was unfolding.The scene drew the eyes of the withered masses like a ritual to summon the forbidden. But it mattered not. The fire in Sokrantas began to consume his form once more—a body shrouded in the flames of a lineage he remembered only in blurred visions, yet felt with a weight he refused to let go.
"Sands... swim... beneath the firmament above the ocean. Oh... praise be to the Purifier and the Upholder of Spirits," one of the Doctors assisting the pilgrims chanted with fervor. Ruins of a lost civilization began to emerge each time Sandrago's leg was swallowed by the depths, until he was nearly submerged.A harbor in the heart of the desert. A stone pier, cracked as if untouched for ten thousand years. Torches were ignited. A ramp, wider than a world-class stadium yet not high enough to traverse by foot alone, stretched forward.
The vision became clear as Sokrantas stepped up, beholding stone pillars reminiscent of the Greco-Roman era, yet denser and far more resilient. The intricate patterns of this civilization had faded, gnawed away by the sands. The storm drew near, but as it struck this place, nothing moved, nothing fell. There was no roof to block the wind or sun, only stone pillars and the ruins of statues: goddesses wielding swords, shields, and the severed heads of colossal monstrosities.
"Lord Purifier, the airship lies at the center of the plaza. Gaze upon it clearly, and everything—" Before the memory could blur and fade.It was the voice of Sandrago, who, after performing the ritual to summon the ancient thing by sacrificing something beneath his robes... a book with a page that read
"O Righteous One, we offer this spirit to move upon the heavens."
His voice was hoarse, as if the water had been sucked from his body until he was parched. The Warden of the Final Spirit followed Sokrantas, and when they reached the end of the steep incline, the pillars could no longer hide it. The airship stood majestic in the center of the sandstone harbor.
It unfurled six wings from its sides, standing with an imposing grace. Powerful gusts began to clash against the sandstorm, a war between artifice and nature. The vessel resembled a ship from the French era, yet appeared centuries older, with a massive balloon hovering above its hull. As the ship ascended, the sheer magnificence of it froze everyone in their tracks. Only Sokrantas moved, his eyes burning with fire, his fists clenched as he walked slowly toward the vessel. The Warden watched and followed. Winds of this magnitude no longer mattered to those filled with faith.
Only the giant remained, being... consumed by the ancestral memories of his entire lineage. No, not consumed—he was being restored by the truth of what he believed to be.
"I am coming for you, Chennel Chennelic!" he declared, his voice firm, before everything dissolved into the tapestry of history in the eyes of the faithful, beneath the turbulent currents of memory, under a mysterious world that defies remembrance.