The shift from Cairus to Hanaris is growing—like an avalanche. Relentless, merciless, sweeping away the bones of old faith, crushing the oaths once spoken in trembling awe.
Crowds move silently across the scorched square of an ancient city. They are like shadows torn from the past, faces erased, names forgotten. Their footsteps whisper judgment. Their hearts no longer belong to the god they once revered.
With cold contempt—not anger, but weariness—they tear off the amulets of Cairus. High-tech pendants, once glowing with loyalty, clatter against the searing stone and vanish.
The metallic chime of falling relics sounds like the death knell of a civilization.
City squares become carpets of broken symbols and shattered vows, as if the earth itself refuses to remember.
At the edge of the square, among the rusted skeletons of ruined temples, stands Gorgoroth—creator of gods, philosopher of destruction, architect of a new faith.
The fading, blood-red sunlight rests softly on his face.
In his eyes, the flame of a different hope flickers.
He holds the amulet of Hanaris in his hand—a warm, pulsing glow, like a heart that has yet to feel pain.
"Everything will change soon," he thinks, fingers closing around the amulet.
"Life will become eternal. The people—noble. Justice—real. And no one will suffer again…"
The Edge of the World
Somewhere, in the fractures of reality, among collapsing shrines and warped light, stands the god Cairus—alone at the brink of his own oblivion.
He watches his temples crumble.
Watches the murals on their walls split and fade.
Watches his name die—first in songs, then in hearts.
He feels his strength bleeding out of him, like blood from an open wound. His thoughts dim. Flicker.
Vanish.
The world retreats. Meaning dissolves.
"Enough!" he cries into the void.
Into the silence where once the heavens of glory floated—now, only indifference.
"Why?! Why do you turn away from me?! I was your shield! Your light! Your eternity! Why do you erase my name—from stone, from memory, from flesh?!"
A flash of light.
Gorgoroth appears.
He walks heavily, as if carrying the weight of an age on his back.
There is no fury in him. Only exhaustion.
He looks at Cairus not as a god—but as a child he once made.
And now must let go.
"Forgive me," Gorgoroth whispers. His voice is a trembling sorrow.
"But your time has passed. The people no longer hear you. You've become chains. And what they need—are wings."
Cairus trembles. Inside him: betrayal, grief, fear—all at once.
He lifts his head. His voice flows like molten iron.
"You don't understand! I kept them from the abyss! Without me, they'll vanish—scatter like ash!"
Gorgoroth says nothing.
And his silence is a verdict.
"I gave them choice," he finally speaks. "They need the light of conscience. Not license without bounds."
"No!" Cairus explodes.
He raises his arm—a sword of fire bursts into being, ancient runes searing its blade.
Its flame hungers—not for protection, but revenge.
"The First Commandment!" he bellows. "All who die shall awaken in the Vault of Therma!"
"The Second!" His voice breaks. "The purpose of life is to serve me—Cairus!"
"The Third!" His eyes blaze, maddened into sanctity. "Those who renounce me—shall die forever!"
Thunder cracks the sky. Torn clouds split.
From the fracture of the world descends Hanaris.
A new god. Tall. Radiant.
The hammer in his hands strikes sparks from the very fabric of reality.
The wind howls.
The sand burns.
The void trembles.
The old clashes with the new—
And even eternity holds its breath.
The Desert
Vast. Silent.
The golden sand quivers like molten metal. The air is thick, almost viscous.
A boy sits alone in this furnace of a world.
The wind lashes his face. The sand scorches his skin, crawls into his eyes and mouth.
Inside—only emptiness and fear.
He looks at his hands—thin, unfamiliar. His whole body shivers, as if from hunger. Or shame.
"Who… am I?" he whispers.
The question is not meant for anyone.
It falls inward—into the abyss.
His memory is a burned field.
Nothing remains.
No name.
No image.
Only solitude.
"Why am I here? Why… can't I remember anything?"
A flash.
A flicker.
A whisper, like a torn scrap of dream:
"Every believer, after death, enters the Vault of Therma… and will be reborn."
The boy jolts. His eyes widen.
Something sparks inside—something alive.
Slowly, he rises.
His legs buckle. The ground sways.
But still—he stands.
"I'm alive… I'm here… I remember something…"
The thought barely holds—like a flame in the wind.
He takes a step.
Toward the heat.
Toward the unknown.
Toward himself.
The desert is still terrifying.
But it is no longer hopeless.
Because the heart still beats.
And where there is a heartbeat—there is a way.