In a shattered world beneath a blood-red sky, a young man with weak silver hair, soft features, and radiant golden eyes runs through a ruined black temple, its architecture reminiscent of ancient Greece.
His simple priestly gown, once pristine white and outlined in gold, is now stained with his own blood.
His delicate features are filled with worry and panic, yet as the ground trembles and the great pillars that once upheld the Obsidian Temple collapse, he presses forward.
Finally, he reaches the temple's entrance, but as his gaze lifts to the sky, his knees buckle. Dust rises into the air as the temple crumbles completely, its once-glorious obsidian reduced to nothing but scattered fragments.
"Damn you! Damn you, gods!
What did we do? We worshipped you! We revered you! And now... you cast us aside?"
The young man clutches his heart as though in physical pain, a wail of anguish escaping his lips—pent-up sorrow unleashed in mere minutes of despair.
His name is Elios, the head priest of the Obsidian Temple, devoted to the God of Life and Death.
The gods have abandoned them. At first, their silence was unsettling in a world where their presence had been constant, their voices ever-present.
Some whispered theories—suggesting the gods had perished or forsaken their people. Few believed such things. Yet when silence turned to fractures in reality, doubt gave way to grim certainty.
It has been a month since the gods fell silent, and the world lies in ruin. The last sacred structures—the ancient holy temples that had stood for millennia—have now crumbled.
Humanity's remnants struggle to gather, but none were prepared for the extinction event that befell this world. More than five billion people have perished.
Families were crushed beneath collapsing buildings. Once-crowded cities—like Tokyo—are now nothing but rust, worse even than the aftermath of nuclear war.
Parents, children, elders—so many are dead. Barely a quarter of humanity remains.
Yet the true harbinger of destruction was not chaos alone, but the sinful abominations—monstrous horrors.
At first, governments fought back. And at first, they succeeded. But as time passed, the creatures grew stronger—until victory became impossible.
Humanity fled to the remains of China, using its vast territory as a final refuge.
Many priests and priestesses, like Elios, remained behind in their temples, offering sanctuary. But even that did not last.
The Obsidian Temple, once shielded by divine remnants, has fallen. Attacked by a horde of abominations, all perished. No—everyone perished.
Only Elios remains. His once-pristine gown is soaked with his own blood, earned while fleeing the horrors that tore his temple apart.
Silently, Elios stands. His face—stained with dirt, dried tears, and blood—lifts toward the shattered sky. A crimson moon rises on the horizon, yet he does not react.
Broken, he turns to face what was once his temple. The grand Obsidian Temple, sacred to life and death, is now nothing but a ruin—a sea of fractured black marble.
Like a walking corpse, he moves toward the rubble, his steps unsteady, his expression hollow.
His eyes, once radiant, are now vacant—devoid of life.
He wanders, empty.
A single, bloodstained tear slips down his cheek, falling to the dust where a child lies crushed beneath the wreckage.
Kneeling, Elios places trembling hands against the stone. He pushes, straining to move the massive slab of marble from the child's small frame.
But deep down, he knows—it is futile.
The child is gone. So many of the little ones he personally cared for—gone.
At last, after a minute of effort, the rock shifts.
Only half remains. Only the child's upper torso is left—their light brown hair matted with blood, their fragile hand outstretched, as if in a final plea for salvation.
Elios gathers what remains, cradling the body in his arms. His hands—already stained with blood—become saturated anew.
And he weeps.
Silent tears—not for himself, but for his failures.