The temple was still a battlefield of chaos. Flames licked the shattered pillars, smoke curled like black serpents along the roof, and the cries of corrupted apprentices mingled with the frantic shouts of elders trying to hold their ground. The once sacred chamber now reeked of blood, ash, and something darker—something unholy that had sunk its claws into the heart of the temple.
And in the middle of it all, Harold laughed.
He was drenched in sweat and blood, face smeared with grime, but his eyes gleamed with mad triumph. Bent double with mirth, he pounded the floor with his fist as if the battle was nothing but a cruel jest.
"Do you see it?" he howled, voice splitting the air. "The gods have abandoned you! This temple is no sanctuary—it's a tomb! And every one of you will be buried with it!"
His laughter spiraled higher, grating, almost inhuman. Several apprentices shivered, and even the elders' eyes darkened with doubt.
But then—
A pulse.
