The Next Day
The ruins of the Obsidian Temple had, for the most part, been cleared. The dusty floor, still stained with dried blood, bore silent witness to what had transpired. The remnants of the black marble pillars that once upheld the grand structure were now little more than fleeting memories—jagged spikes looming just feet above the wreckage.
Elios stood alone before multiple graves, each one belonging to the children and elderly he had once sheltered and protected within the sacred walls of his temple.
He had found some bandages and managed to cover the wound he had sustained. Yet his expression remained hollow, devoid of emotion. His radiant golden eyes shone with sorrow, but his body did not move to reflect it.
Kneeling, he bowed his head and uttered a quiet, sincere prayer—one filled with guilt, regret, and helplessness.
"I'm sorry. I promised I would protect you, that I would keep you safe under my wing. Your lives were a burden I carried with pride, but no matter how much I tried, I could not bear that weight. I failed you all. No matter where you are—be it with the gods or lost in an empty void—I hope you find it in your hearts to forgive me. Rest in peace, my children."
Rising from his kneeling position, Elios turned to the wreckage of the Obsidian Temple. His gaze wandered across the ruins, his eyes brimming with emotion.
Even though he wished to forget, even though he longed to erase it all, he could not.
His eyes lingered where the garden had once been—a place where he had taught the children to read, where they had played and laughed.
To the right, he saw the remnants of the mess hall, where he had once shared meals with the elderly, engaging in games of poker for fun, always losing but never minding.
As he walked through the prayer room, his gaze fell upon what had once been a grand altar, where he had spoken the gospels of the gods each morning. Closing his eyes, he vividly imagined the children running through the halls, their laughter echoing as they clutched their toys.
The thought alone nearly broke him.
But as he reached the altar, his eyes landed on an open book—a book he recognized instantly.
Bound in red leather and outlined in gold, its soft black string lay loosely to the side.
It belonged to his best friend—his former best friend. It was her diary.
Yet, inexplicably, it remained untouched, pristine, as if it had not been scarred by the ruins or corrupted by the abominations.
On the open page, written in beautiful, flawless cursive—a style only he and she had known—were three simple words:
"Don't give up."
—Ashley Walker
Clutching the book like a lifeline, Elios shed tears once more. Silent and unyielding, they fell for hours—perhaps days—until finally, no more would come.
Holding the book close, he tucked it gently into a hidden compartment within his priestly gown.
"I won't give up. I can't—not for myself, not for them, not for you, Ashley. If I give up now, I'll be no different than trash."
A flicker of emotion finally appeared on his face. Steeling his heart, he looked to the one remaining wall of the Obsidian Temple—the only part that had not crumbled.
At its center lay a passageway, outlined by pristine wood of the highest quality.
If one looked closely, one could see the faint outline of stairs leading downward, though they were swallowed in shadow—veiling their mysteries, perhaps their horrors.
It had been decreed by the gods that no priest should enter.
But now?
The gods were gone. They had abandoned them all to rot.
So why should I care for their rules?
With an act of defiance, Elios strode into the abyss of the deep stairway, heading toward the unknown.
Placing his hands upon the walls of the spiral staircase, he could feel the remnants of paintings from times long past.
Inscribed upon the surface were words in ancient languages—languages he could not decipher, no matter how hard he tried.
In the suffocating darkness, there was no light.
Yet there, painted upon the walls, a mural stood clearly visible.
A black dragon, reminiscent of those from Western mythology, its blood-red eyes glowing ominously in the void.
The beast roared—its fury directed at a ghostly figure veiled in mist.
Wary of the mural, Elios felt something sinister slither from it—an essence curling around his soul. Clenching his jaw, he pressed forward, though his confidence began to waver.
As he continued downward, the eerie feeling grew stronger.
At first, it had been only one dragon.
Then, more appeared.
And alongside them, ghostly apparitions—spectral entities lurking within the battle scenes.
The murals depicted a great war.
Two golden dragons soared through the sky, raining fire upon their enemies. The black dragon remained locked in a brutal struggle against the first ghostly figure.
Four more dragons clawed, bit, and spewed elemental flames toward these shadowed creatures.
Yet the ghost-like beings did not falter.
They pressed forward, launching attacks formed of darkness and an eerie white light.
Corpses littered the battlefield—both dragons and specters fallen in the chaos.
Finally, as Elios reached the last step, a dreadful sensation overtook him.
The black dragon's piercing, blood-red eyes settled upon him—watching.
Peering into his very soul.
At long last, he stood at the bottom of the staircase.
Nothing greeted him.
Just an empty room—dark and devoid of life.
Centuries of stillness had left a thick coat of dust upon its surface.
Yet the eerie presence that had followed him through his descent was stronger than ever.
For a fleeting moment, it felt as though his body was not his own.
As though someone else controlled it.
And in the back of his mind—whispers.
Instructions murmured in the dark.
A voice—malevolent yet sweet—filled with **fake joy and kindness.
"Come closer, child. Closer… closer… closer…"
The voice was hypnotic.
And before Elios realized it—before he even knew what he was doing—his body obeyed.
In the depths of the long, empty spiral staircase, the first mural—the one of the black dragon—shifted.
It grinned.