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!"
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