While the euphoria on the plateau above them almost touched the clouds, the world felt like a slamming coffin to Vulkan and his team. The narrow basalt passage was suffocating, thick with the stench of ozone and old blood. Then came the sound.
Ssssscrrr shhh.
It was a rhythmic, sickening slide. The blind snake was drawing closer. With every pulse of its massive body, the jagged basalt walls trembled, shedding showers of sharp stone splinters.
“Don’t you dare blink,” Vulkan hissed, his jaw clenched so hard his teeth clicked. He slammed his palm flat against the vibrating rock, trying to read the tremors.
Bonk held his breath, his chest expanding like a furnace until his veins bulged and his face turned a deep, bruised purple. Beside him, Valeria’s knuckles were stark white, her twin daggers trembling violently in her grip.
“It’s right on top of us,” Valeria whispered, her breath hitching as a thick, pale tongue flicked out from the dark, just meters away. It whipped through the air with a wet snap, literally tasting the warmth of their terror. “Vulkan, we cannot fight this thing here!”
“Shut up and freeze!” Vulkan snarled back, but his own heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped beast.
The blind snake’s massive, scaled snout smashed through the upper archway. It opened its jaws, revealing rows of translucent, dagger like fangs dripping with corrosive slime. The brute force of its maw was about to swallow the entire passage whole.
Suddenly, a hand shot out from a pitch black seam in the rock, grabbing Vulkan’s shoulder with an iron grip. Before a single curse could leave his mouth, he was brutally yanked backward into a narrow, hidden niche.
“Follow me if you want your heart to keep beating,” a voice rasped. It sounded like heavy sandpaper dragging over a slab of cracked marble.
“Move! Now!” Vulkan roared, shoving Valeria and Bonk ahead of him.
One by one, the group squeezed through the suffocatingly thin crack in the basalt. A split second later a thunderous boom echoed as the snake’s rugged skull rammed into the exact spot they had been standing. The impact was deafening, sending a concussive shockwave through the gap that nearly blew their eardrums out and filled the air with blinding stone dust.
When the dust settled, they stumbled outward, and the sheer scale of the underground space stole the remaining breath from their lungs.
They were standing in a colossal sunken temple, buried deep within the forgotten foundations of the Ward. Massive pillars, thirty feet thick, stood crooked and broken, half swallowed by centuries of jagged rockfall. Yet, beneath the grime, the walls screamed with history. Faded, majestic frescoes of long forgotten gods stretched up into the gloom, their painted eyes seeming to watch the intruders. Far above, the ceiling was cracked open, and the massive, glowing roots of the upper luminous trees pierced through the stone like frozen golden lightning bolts, casting eerie, pulsing shadows across the ruins.
The guide who had dragged them from the jaws of death glided ahead. He was a hunched, eerie figure, draped in tattered rags that perfectly matched the color of the surrounding basalt. In his hand, he swung a strange lantern. It held no fire; instead, a faint, crystalline core emitted a weak, rhythmic pulse of light that throbbed in perfect synchronicity with the heavy, ancient atmosphere of the temple itself.
“Welcome to the shadow of the first builders,” the guide muttered, his voice echoing hollowly through the sunken hall. “The snake rules the outer dark, but it dares not cross this threshold. Here, the stones still remember. Here, they are still loyal to the ancient laws.”
Vulkan wiped the sweat and dust from his forehead, his eyes darting frantically across the massive architecture. “The ancient laws? What the hell is this place? We are supposed to be building a future up there, not digging up corpses.”
Valeria stepped forward, her daggers still raised, the silver blades catching the lantern’s dim pulse. “He asked you a question, old man. Who are you? And why were you waiting in the dark?”
The guide stopped dead in his tracks. He slowly turned his head over his hunched shoulder, his eyes reflecting the pale light like two polished pieces of obsidian. “I am the guardian of what remains, little girl. While your arrogant builders up on the plateau forge their new toy, their precious Titan, we down here watch over the shattered bones of the previous one.”
Zax and Nyco exchanged a look of pure, unadulterated disbelief.
“The previous one?” Nyco stammered, his voice shaking. “The blueprints up there said it was the first of its kind!”
“Blueprints lie. History does not,” the guide hissed.
He glided along the perimeter, his lantern illuminating massive stone reliefs that seemed to violently burst out of the natural rock formations. Vulkan and his group followed, their boots crunching softly in the dust of millennia.
“Look closely,” the guide commanded, sweeping the light across a panel of radiant, towering figures carved into the wall. “Once, there was harmony. The gods lived in a peace so pure it made the stars sing. But peace is nothing more than fragile glass in the hands of greed.”
The guide slid the lantern further down the wall, and the imagery changed drastically. The smooth lines of the carving became chaotic, violent, and jagged. “The Corrupted God appeared like a drop of ink in a clear pond. His filth spread like a slow, unstoppable poison, until the hearts of the mighty turned pitch black.”
They walked faster now, tracking a mural that depicted total war. The guide stopped abruptly before an image of a towering, winged lion that seemed to practically roar out of the stone, dominating a brutal battlefield.
“The Bansaday,” the guide whispered, his voice trembling with a mixture of terror and awe. “When the corruption could no longer be contained, the Great Lion made a terrible choice. With the few gods who remained untainted, he unleashed the Ragnarok. A holy, merciless destruction to burn the world clean of evil.”
He hurried them along to a row of seven deep, empty niches carved into the temple’s core, each one framed by glowing, prophetic symbols that buzzed with a faint, static energy.
“But Ragnarok is not a final curtain; it is a wheel that turns,” the guide rasped, pointing his bony finger at the empty spaces. “The legend speaks of seven reincarnations that will appear throughout the ages. Seven souls. Each given seven opportunities to complete the Ragnarok of all things or to fail utterly. The petty struggle you wage up there on the surface? It is nothing but a faint, pathetic echo of what is already written here.”
Finally, they reached the absolute heart of the temple. Valeria let out a sharp gasp, and even the massive Bonk stood completely paralyzed by the sight before them.
A colossal mural reached from the floor all the way to the vaulted ceiling. The colors here were different, they were not faded. They practically glowed, flowing over the stone like liquid, molten gemstones that fiercely banished the darkness.
In the center stood a female Moon Goddess, her robes woven from pure, shimmering silver light. Loyal at her side stood the majestic Bansaday Lion, its mane carved from what looked like solid gold. They stood at the vanguard of a breathtaking symphony of color, leading a terrifyingly grand legion of tens of thousands of glowing warriors. An army of light, launching a final, desperate charge against the deformed, dark, nightmare masses of the Corrupted Gods.
“They were the first,” the guide whispered, holding the lantern high so the golden eyes of the stone lion flashed with sudden, lifelike brilliance. “And they shall be the last. What your people are building up on the plateau is merely the forced rebirth of this very symphony. The Titan is no mere machine, boy. It is the vessel meant to carry the seventh reincarnation.”
Vulkan stared at the warrior standing beside the Moon Goddess. The claustrophobia of the tunnels was entirely gone, replaced by a heavy, crushing realization that made his stomach drop. They were not just running from a monster; they had stumbled into the epicenter of a cosmic prophecy.
But as his eyes tracked the warrior’s form, his brow furrowed deeply. The posture. The way the man held his blade. The fierce, indomitable look of a god carrying the weight of the world, yet starting as a nobody...
“Who, who does he look like?” Vulkan muttered to himself, a nagging sense of recognition gnawing violently at the edge of his mind. “I have seen this before. Where have I seen this face?”
Behind him, Snicky’s eyes went wide as saucers. His mouth popped open, and he practically choked on his own spit as the realization hit him like a freight train. He knew that face. It was the boy. The leader of the Nobodies. The one carrying the burden of a god.
Snicky drew a massive breath, ready to blurt out the name Silarias at the top of his lungs, but before a single syllable could escape, Valeria’s hand shot out.
She slapped her hand over his mouth, her iron grip sealing his lips, silencing him instantly. She glared at Snicky with fierce, warning eyes, then shot a tense glance at Vulkan’s back. She knew her brother. She knew his ego was a fragile, volatile thing, constantly living in the shadow of grander legends. If Snicky revealed right now that they were looking at a prophecy completely centered around Silarias, Vulkan would either break down in despair or fly into a blind, destructive fury. She had to protect his pride.
“Not a single word,” she hissed into Snicky’s ear, her voice a sharp needle. “Keep it inside.”
Suddenly, the shadows in the periphery of the lantern light began to warp and stretch. From the deep darkness behind the crooked pillars, dozens of figures silently emerged. They did not look like the ragged guide. They wore ancient, flowing linen robes, heavily dusted with the sands of centuries, and their eyes burned with a sharp, unnatural brightness, the terrifying spark of forbidden, stored knowledge.
“The keepers have awakened,” the guide whispered, his respectful tone instantly vanishing, replaced by a sudden, freezing determination.
The Scholars of the Sunken Temple surrounded the group, their voices joining together in a haunting, overlapping choir of whispers that made the air vibrate.
“The corruption did not just touch the flesh of gods,” the choir chanted, their footsteps making no sound in the dust. “It fractured the very fabric of time. The cycle must be protected. The secrets cannot leave these walls.”
“Wait, what are you doing?!” Vulkan shouted, drawing his sword as the circle closed in. “We just saved your lives from the snake!”
“Knowledge has a price, surface dweller,” the guide spoke coldly.
With a coordinated, lightning fast movement, the Scholars struck. The guide swung his heavy basalt staff directly at Vulkan’s skull with bone crushing speed, while a Scholar on the left unleashed a hidden dagger, throwing it with deadly, whistling precision straight for Valeria’s throat.
But before the weapons could connect, the atmosphere violently ruptured.
A blinding barrier of pure kinetic energy erupted around Vulkan with a sharp buzz. The guide’s heavy staff slammed into the air inches from Vulkan's face and shattered into a million flying stone splinters, the recoil sending the guide flying backward onto the floor. At the exact same microsecond, the thrown dagger warped in mid air, its trajectory bending unnaturally as if caught in a violent magnetic vortex, before clattering harmlessly against a nearby pillar.
It was not luck. The very stones of the ancient temple had violently risen to protect them.
In the stunned, breathless silence that followed, a sound echoed through the massive underground chamber. A sound that was absolutely impossible in a dark, forgotten tomb.
Chirp... chirp...
It was the bright, innocent, and completely untainted sound of a dove.
Vulkan, Valeria, and the trembling Scholars spun around, their eyes wide with bewilderment. There, sitting calmly on the cracked stone base of the Moon Goddess statue, was a small, golden dove. The creature did not move, but it emitted a beautiful, pulsating warmth, a golden light that throbbed in the exact, unmistakable rhythm of the holy Ether Antings.
The Scholars completely froze, the weapons slipping from their hands and clattering loudly onto the marble floor. They stared at the tiny bird with a look of pure, unadulterated mortal terror, as if they were staring directly into the eyes of death itself.
The guide scrambled backward on his hands and knees, his face completely draining of color as he looked toward the grand entrance of the temple hall, where the heavy shadows were suddenly and violently ripped away.
“Oh no... it is him,” one of the Scholars whispered, his voice cracking. “The child... Yeshua...”
From the dark archway, a blinding flash of golden light exploded, so intense and pure that everyone was forced to shield their eyes, crying out from the sheer brilliance. When the blinding glare finally dimmed to a soft, comforting aura, a young boy stood in the center of the threshold.
He looked no older than fourteen. He wore simple clothing, but his posture, his unshakeable calm, and the terrifying depth in his gaze gave him an aura that felt millions of years old. Floating perfectly above his head was a radiant, weightless halo, the Holy Halo Anting, spinning slowly, casting a serene, divine light over the bloody history carved into the walls.
In a state of pure, calm ecstasy, the boy stepped forward. His voice was soft, yet it carried with the force of a thunderclap through the cavernous space, echoing perfectly in everyone's ears.
“You shall not steal...” the boy spoke, his eyes sweeping over the disarmed Scholars. “Also, you shall remain faithful only to your fellow man.” He opened his hands wide, a gesture of universal, heartbreaking tenderness. “Brothers, I come in peace.”
As the boy walked calmly into the room, Vulkan felt every single hair on his arms stand straight up. A cold sweat broke out across his neck. “Who, who the hell is this kid?” he muttered, completely paralyzed by the overwhelming authority radiating from a fourteen year old.
One of the Scholars dropped to his knees, his entire body shaking as he stammered out an explanation to the confused outsiders. “He is only fourteen... but he has been here before. He used to come down to our temple, seeking our ancient texts for enlightenment. But the moment he opened his mouth to speak... it turned out he already knew everything. Every secret, every law. We are the great Scholars of the Ward, but in his presence, we are nothing but infants trying to learn how to speak. And he is only fourteen!”
The second Scholar fell to his knees beside his brother, bowing his head flat against the dust. “The rumors are true,” he whispered in absolute reverence. “Three kings rose from the farthest edges of the world just to witness his birth. They crossed the burning wastes and the freezing seas, each carrying a unique, priceless gift to pave his holy path.”
Vulkan stood frozen, his hand still gripping the hilt of his sword, but the urge to fight had completely withered away inside him. The terrifying brute force of the blind snake in the tunnels and the grand, technical marvel of the Titan being built on the surface suddenly felt incredibly small, fragile, and utterly insignificant compared to the divine presence of this boy and his floating halo.
The ancient prophecy carved into the stones was not just a story about the past. They were realizing, with absolute terror and awe, that this world held living saints, and one of them had just stepped into their sanctuary.