Harold’s smirk lingered like poison in the air, his voice echoing in the grand hall as though the temple itself recoiled from his words.
"Did you truly believe the gods still hold sway?" he asked, spreading his arms wide, mock reverence dripping from every syllable. "Stone idols and whispered prophecies. Nothing more than chains for the foolish."
Gasps erupted from the crowd. Apprentices—those chosen for their promise, their purity—stood behind him in ranks, faces hidden by hoods, robes once white now tainted with black cloth masks. The same youths who should have inherited the temple’s future now stood in defiance of it.
"Harold..." Elder Nimo’s voice trembled with both rage and grief. "You were one of our brightest. To fall so far... why?"
"Why?" Harold scoffed, tilting his head. "Because I opened my eyes. Because I grew tired of bowing to a silent god while you all wasted your power in kneeling prayers. We’ll build a world with our own hands—without the farce of Asmethan!"
That was all that remained of the sacred prayer hall.
Smoke curled through the shattered stained glass, carrying the stench of charred wood and scorched flesh. Flames licked greedily across the once-pristine garden floor, devouring fallen branches and overturned prayer mats. The emerald vines that had curled so peacefully around the marble pillars now withered in black ash. The statue of Asmethan loomed above it all, water still spilling endlessly from the jug clutched in its stone arms, but even that stream hissed into steam against the rising fire.
Luther stood frozen, the boy trembling in his arms. His chest heaved with ragged breaths. His heart pounded like war drums in his ears.
And then—his stomach twisted.
The air itself... it felt wrong.
The fire, the smoke, the way it clung to his skin and burned his lungs—it wasn’t natural. It was thick with something... foul.
He remembered it instantly. The same clinging miasma he had felt when the corrupted beast had lunged from the forest today at envelon, its blackened veins bulging as if writhing snakes had been trapped beneath its hide. The way the monster’s body had reeked of rotten magic, its every movement soaked in hatred and hunger.
And now... it was here.
The fire wasn’t just fire. The magic was warped. Poisoned. Corrupted.
’No...’ His mind reeled. ’Why is that here?’
Another scream ripped through the hall. The corrupted fire burst across the floor, consuming three apprentices too slow to raise shields. Their skin blistered and blackened, not just burned but rotted, eaten alive by the same venomous energy that had made the beast.
Luther’s gut turned cold. It was spreading.
The elders raised their staffs again, shouting frantic incantations, but even their voices shook. A translucent wall of light burst outward, slowing the flames, yet it wavered. Already cracks spiderwebbed through it.
"Hold the line!" Elder Haro roared, his knuckles white around his staff.
"Don’t harm them!" another elder cried, eyes burning with grief. "They are apprentices still! They can be brought back to Asmethan’s path!"
But the traitors only laughed. The white robes, now torn and blackened by soot, fluttered as they raised their hands. Fire and shadows answered them, hissing with that same corrupted hum.
"Still clinging to mercy? That weakness will see you dead."
Magic tore the temple’s sanctity apart. The elders’ barrier of light surged forward like a wave, roots sprouting from beneath the marble to bind the traitors’ legs. Apprentices countered with corrupted flames, the roots curling to ash in seconds. Shards of crystal, warped and jagged, were hurled through the air like knives. Elders deflected them with water whips, the liquid solidifying into shields with each strike.
"Your path is dead," Harold sneered, stepping forward, his robe dragging through ash. His eyes gleamed with unnatural light. "A new god rises. One who does not shackle us with prayers and empty promises."
Aithur was already in the air, his sword blazing with sapphire light. He cut through a torrent of corrupted fire, sparks scattering like falling stars. His wings of magic flared, casting his shadow over the dais.
"Traitors," he spat, his blade ringing as it clashed with their conjured weapons. "You soil this temple with your filth. I’ll carve every last one of you down."
On the ground, Liliana carved a path through chaos. Her ruby blade whistled, severing black tendrils of shadow before they could pierce into the crowd. Her crimson hair was streaked with soot, but her movements never faltered—each strike measured, precise, merciless.
"Pathetic," she hissed under her breath as she ripped through another corrupted blast. "All this noise on such a sacred day."
Luther forced his legs to move. He crouched low, clutching the boy against him. The child’s breath was shallow, his eyes glazed with pain. Luther spotted a lone survivor nearby—a young apprentice girl, her robe half-burned, her face pale with shock as she stumbled through the rubble.
"Here!" Luther barked, rushing to her side. He pressed the boy into her trembling arms. "Take him and run! Don’t look back, do you hear me? Go!"
Her eyes widened, but she nodded, clutching the boy as if her life depended on it. She staggered toward the shattered archway, disappearing into the smoke.
Relief flickered in Luther’s chest—then vanished as another blast of corrupted fire slammed into the ground beside him. Follow current novels on NoveI~Fire.net
The shockwave hurled him off his feet. He tumbled across the marble, rolling until his back slammed against something hard and cold.
When he blinked through the smoke, he realized where he had landed.
At the feet of Asmethan’s towering statue.
The god’s stone eyes stared down at him, unblinking, eternal, as water continued to pour from the jug into the lake below.
Luther’s heart pounded. His palms pressed against the cracked marble, his body trembling.
Low. Resonant. Echoing not in his ears, but in his skull, in his bones, in the very air around him.
Luther froze. His breath hitched. He whipped his head around, but no one was near.
The voice rumbled again.
"Do you see it? Do you feel the rot that stains My temple?"
Luther’s mouth went dry. His heart slammed against his ribs.
"You have touched it before. In the forest. The corruption of flesh. The corruption of soul. And now..."
The statue’s stone hand seemed to glisten. The water pouring from its jug glowed faintly gold, brighter than before.
"...now it has come for My people."
Luther staggered backward, his breath ragged. His mind screamed to deny it, to tell himself he was only imagining things in the chaos. But the voice rolled over him again, vast and unyielding.
"Rise, child. The time of silence has ended. My will calls you."
The water from the jug surged harder, spilling into the lake in a torrent. The corrupted fire hissed as golden steam rose where the streams touched it.
All around him, battle raged on. The elders shouted. The apprentices screamed. Aithur’s blade clashed with Harold’s corrupted fire, sparks raining. Liliana’s crimson blade gleamed as she cut through shadow.
But Luther heard nothing. Nothing except that single, world-shaking voice.
This couldn’t be happening.