The sun had long since vanished beneath the horizon, and the town of Santa Candelaria sat in eerie silence. The streets were cracked and broken, lined with blackened husks of once-standing homes. Rooftops sagged under rot and water damage. Stray birds no longer perched on power lines — they had learned to stay away.
In the heart of the ruined town stood the Crimson Cathedral— once a Spanish-built church, now a monument to madness. Its stained-glass windows were shattered, replaced by iron bars and blood-stained banners. In place of the cross stood a crude metal sun, jagged and sharp, its rays dripping red like fresh wounds. Fires burned from iron drums scattered across the courtyard, casting orange light against the worn stone walls.
Tonight was a sacred night.
