Luther stood frozen, staring in disbelief.
The uncanny resemblance of the statue to him was almost insulting. From the sharp jawline to the curve of the brow, it was like staring into a mirror—but older, with longer hair flowing down its shoulders like a monarch's crown. The stone figure carried itself with a solemn dignity, its lifeless eyes fixed straight ahead as though passing judgment on him.
He snorted, breaking the silence.
"Wow. Really convincing," he muttered sarcastically, circling the pedestal. "A statue of me? What's next? A shrine to my dirty boots?"
But beneath the sarcasm lingered unease. This temple wasn't built around him—it was built around this statue. He noticed it immediately. The very foundation of the structure wrapped around the stone figure like protective arms, as though the temple existed only to preserve it. Whoever had lived on this land centuries ago hadn't just carved an idol; they had enshrined it.
