A lone figure entered the ruined throne room, his boots echoing against cracked marble. Pillars long sundered leaned in defiance of time. The golden banners that once proclaimed glory were reduced to tattered strands swaying in silence. At the room's end, upon a high throne of obsidian and brass, sat a man crowned with a shattered halo of gold—his cracked crown a symbol of a kingdom long broken, and yet still enduring.
Floating before him was a worn, brass-bound book. Its cover was faded, corners dented by time, yet it hovered steady, unmoved by the winds of chaos outside. Draped across his shoulders was a cape woven of starlight itself, its threads pulsing faintly with distant galaxies. Behind him, suspended like a celestial backdrop, was a circle—endless, vast, and aglow with intertwining hues of decay and rebirth.
His gaze was unfathomable, deep as if reflecting countless potential scenes. And on his brow shimmered a third eye, half-closed, dreaming. Waiting.
The figure halted before the throne. His hair was short and black, his frame lean but hardened by time. His eyes were deep and unreadable, carrying an unnatural calm that bent reality around them—a presence not fully his own.
"Why do you still choose to remain here?" the figure asked, his voice smooth, laced with amusement and a flicker of sadness. "Why not free yourself... free both of us?"
The emperor did not reply immediately. He looked past the intruder, beyond the shattered glass of his palace, where the world writhed in flames and howled with unspeakable beasts. Then, he looked at the man who stood before him—an older reflection of someone he once knew, corrupted and worn.
"Because," the emperor said, voice heavy with sorrow and steel, "I've seen what you've done to this world. To release you now would herald the end of all things. I would rather die here than be your accomplice."
He stood from his throne, bearing the weight of truths too great to name. Each step down the dais echoed like the toll of fate.
"When I first arrived," he continued, stepping down the stairs, "I believed this world was a blessing. That my prayers were finally heard. That the gods had answered."
The figure laughed—not cruelly, but knowingly. "In a sense," he said, smirking, "they did."
The emperor passed by him without pause, stepping out onto the ruined balcony. A crimson sky loomed above a land of twisted roots and fire. In the distance, mountains bled into the sea, and abominations roamed free, echoing with laughter and agony.
"What a beautiful world it was…" the emperor whispered.
Behind him, the Fiend smiled. "Then you have no choice," he said. "You must begin your apotheosis."
The emperor stood silently, hands folded behind his back. Then, he turned his head slightly toward the figure and smiled.
"What would happen if… I don't know... the one who ascended was not me, but 'YOU'?"
The Fiend's smile faltered for a heartbeat. "You're insane… You actually—"
The emperor chuckled, cutting the Fiend off.
Time stilled.
And then spears—countless and divine—pierced through the figure's body. Light ruptured from every wound, and the throne room cracked beneath the weight of judgment.
Then the emperor's third eye opened.
The emperor changed.
He rose—ascending beyond the broken stone, beyond the weeping world, higher and higher into the sky of embers.
His figure, exploded into countless blue butterlies. All flying in different directions but ultimately converged again forming a giant blue vertical eye overlooking the world.
"He" looked down.
"Let's do this again, shall we?"
"His" voice echoed through the world, everything froze.
The world beneath "Him" was trembling, falling apart and getting consumed by the void, piece by piece.
The Fiend trembled, impaled and unraveling in a crumbled world, yet still smiling. Before turning into countless specks of light and dust and ultimately vanishing, he whispered:
"Let's do this again… "
"Well played,... Attalia."