: The night the God fell silent :

The torches bled blue fire.

Smoke curled upward, carrying the scent of iron and ash as the last of the priests gathered around the altar. The temple was quiet - too quiet for a night meant to save the world.

The walls were carved with symbols that no one alive understood anymore, only copied - line by trembling line, hoping repetition would keep the gods from noticing how much had been forgotten.

The high priest’s voice broke the silence.

“The Chronicle Key must be sealed before the dawn. If the sun rises on a world that remembers too much…”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.

Outside, thunder clawed at the horizon. A storm unlike any seen in centuries ripped across the desert, swallowing the stars whole.

Beneath the altar, the ground quaked. The stone began to bleed — black, shimmering liquid that reflected a thousand faces none of them recognized.

One of the acolytes stepped back.

“It’s awake,” she whispered.

Her eyes were wide, the whites already darkening into ink.

“It remembers us.”

The priest struck her down before she could speak another word. But it was too late.

The tablet on the altar had begun to change — symbols rearranging themselves like living veins, spelling a sentence no one dared read aloud.

One by one, the torches died, devoured by the darkness that seeped from the floor.

“We were never meant to write history,” the high priest said.

“Only to repeat it.”

And then the world screamed.

A sound like shattering glass echoed through the heavens as time itself folded — swallowing temples, oceans, kingdoms, and names.

When the silence returned, the storm was gone. The temple had turned to dust.

Only the tablet remained — untouched, whispering softly in a language no one remembered.

“It begins again.”