Silence. Muteness. Stillness.
This is the haunting aura enveloping the ruins of an ancient temple, nestled deep within the desolation of a barren desert, where the Sons of Silence meditate in total emptiness. The temple, once a magnificent testament to a forgotten era, now lies abandoned, its moss-covered walls somberly embracing the whispers of time. Glimmering black stones shimmer subtly under the dim moonlight, while the towering architecture, adorned with sharp, terrifying shapes, seems to claw at the darkened sky above, challenging the very essence of night. These are not mere priests—they are guardians of the void, devout worshipers of the unheard sound. Yet on this fateful night, a voice emerged—an otherworldly sound, transcending the silence, a voice from another Voidwright, not Fitran.
From a crack in the fabric of reality, Vorrak materialized, his form ablaze with an unnameable black energy that devoured the light around him, casting eerie shadows across the temple's forgotten floor. His eyes, two voids of foreboding, locked on the sect leader—Akaroz, The Mouthless Prophet. The prophet's face was a hollow mask, revealing no emotion, only the chilling promise of impenetrable darkness within his gaze.
As Vorrak's presence surged through the secluded temple, a palpable wave of fear enveloped the sect's followers like a suffocating fog, creeping nearer with every heartbeat. The sound of their breaths morphed into a tumultuous roar of terror, each gasp constricted within their chests, akin to fragile hopes drifting far beyond their grasp. Paralyzed in place, they felt their hearts beat like war drums, a thunderous warning echoing that something malevolent was drawing near.
"Silence is not the answer," Vorrak declared, his voice echoing ominously like distant thunder that reverberated through their very bones. "You have chosen to worship the void that Fitran has created... a mere shadow of existence. I am here to eradicate the source of your delusion."
In the oppressive stillness, Akaroz and his followers felt an insidious fear mounting, like dark waters swirling ominously before an impending storm. In this psychological drama, every heartbeat became a grotesque mockery of time—each second intensifying into a cacophony of dread, as if they were ensnared within an emotional black hole where the flicker of hope had long since extinguished. Akaroz's normally impassive face appeared to fracture under the weight of horror, revealing a visceral panic that clawed at his insides, as the spiritual realm he had so carefully constructed began to crumble like ancient stone. His body quaked, the gnawing energy from the void seeping into him like shadowy tendrils, wrapping him in a chilling embrace, dismantling the fragile tranquility he had desperately tried to hold onto.
Akaroz opened his cloak, unveiling the hollow void where his heart should have been. From that emptiness emanated a haunting white mist—soft yet chilling, as if it had been dissected from the very fabric of sorrow and loss. Each swirling wisp quivered in silence, drawing in the ethereal moonlight, which danced upon it like fragile ribbons caught in a gentle breeze. However, a wave of terror washed over the faces of the sect's followers; they sensed their own beating hearts entwining with the tendrils of mist, seeping into their souls and casting ominous shadows over a chilling reality. Paralyzed by the weight of their fear, they stood in utter stillness, as if their bodies were ensnared by an invisible bond forged from that suffocating darkness.
"We are silence," whispered the voice that surged through Vorrak's mind. "We are the will that does not require a tongue. Fitran brings the promise of the world's undoing, and we—" In this stifling tension, the voice reverberated within them, shattering the stillness into fragments of fear that intertwined and echoed in their hearts. A profound sense of alienation gripped them, as if cold snow had enveloped their souls, lying in wait to thaw under the weight of their daunting reality.
Vorrak raised his hand, and from it emerged a pulsating Void symbol—an enigmatic sigil that served not to create nor to erase, but to deny existence. In an instant, the cacophony of the world vanished, leaving behind a profound silence that loomed like an empty expanse under the starlit sky of midnight. Akaroz and all of the Sons of Silence faded into a spectral haze, disintegrating into ash—not burned, nor vanished… but never having existed, as if their very essence had been an illusion, swept away by a whisper of the wind. There were no screams, no desperate cries—only an oppressive stillness, a biting silence that echoed as if their souls were being drawn back into the unfathomable depths of darkness, leaving only haunting traces of inexplicable trauma in their wake. Each one felt the overwhelming chasm between body and soul, as if their physical forms were locked in a cage of unfathomable agony, enduring a torment that awaited the final moment when every breath would dissipate into an endless void of silence.
Several days later, within the crumbling remnants of the obsidian-domed castle that had been devoured by the relentless sea, the air was thick with an oppressive stillness. Waves shimmered like dark shadows of the night, their hypnotic undulations a stark contrast to the chaotic chants of the Order of Nihilum, who gathered in ritualistic fervor. These devoted figures stood amidst cracked walls, their surfaces draped in slimy dark moss and festering patches of seawater, suffusing the atmosphere with a damp heaviness that clung to their skin. Adorned in golden robes emblazoned with the symbol of three inverted circles—a haunting emblem of their devotion to the "Entity of Nullification"—they glowed faintly in the dim light, reminiscent of phantoms emerging from the depths of darkness. Cold sweat traced trails down their temples, a visceral reminder of the uncertainty gnawing at their hearts; each incantation surged forth like a tempest, threatening to shatter the fragile souls gathered there.
Yet, amidst the fervor, Vorrak was already present. Perched upon an altar crafted from jet-black stone, he seemed an integral part of the decay that surrounded him. The air was heavy with the scent of briny sea salt mingling with the musty odor of rotting wood, creating an atmosphere both rigid and foreboding. A sense of fixation enveloped the loyal followers, as if they were burning candles struggling against an unyielding wind. When their eyes fell upon Vorrak's figure, terror tightened around their spines like a vise, sending ripples of dread coursing through their consciousness—an unbearable tremor that refused to be hidden.
"Fitran needs no worshipers. It is a system that functions on its own, and you are merely parasites in its path."
A towering figure loomed in the dim light—a high priest known as Cardinal Vask, his presence exaggerated by his immense stature, twice that of an ordinary man. Runes, ancient and glowing faintly, were etched into his skull, accentuating the sharp contours of his strained face and casting eerie shadows that danced around him. In that moment, Vask felt a crushing palpitation in his chest, as if the very rhythm of his life was compelled to conspire with the darkness that surrounded him. Despite his efforts to summon courage, trepidation enveloped his heart, all-consuming and grasping at a soul already marred by turmoil.
"We are the architects of a future that has been erased. You have no right—"
With a deliberate gesture, Vorrak pointed to the ground, and the altar transformed before their eyes, reverting to its former shape—the one it had held before its creation. The jagged stones aged backward, their surfaces becoming rough and porous, preserving the horrific traces of time's relentless passage. The earth lost its memory, fissures cracking open like collapsing skyscrapers, swallowing the remnants of what once stood proud. Prayers were silenced before they could ever escape the lips of the faithful, their voices extinguished in the unnerving stillness. Among the followers witnessing this nightmarish metamorphosis, fear gripped their hearts with the ferocity of a beast's claws, rendering them almost breathless. Their eyes widened in horror, bodies trembling helplessly, as if the ghastly shadows of their own past began to pull them into an abyss of eternal darkness.
"Now you have never even betrayed this world."
In the blink of an eye, the once-mighty Order of Nihilum faded into a mere whisper of legend, the remnants swallowed by the relentless tides of dark and hazy memories. The moment seemed to stretch infinitely, each second packed with a suffocating sense of burning anxiety. The trembling coursing through their bodies stemmed not only from the frigid air permeating the cave but also from the gnawing uncertainty of a future that loomed bleak and hopeless.
Finally, Vorrak stepped into the ominous depths of this world—the underground cave known as The Negatorium, the fortified stronghold of the Cult of Nullification. This last sect, fervently sworn in the name of Fitran, dedicated itself to erasing all meaning and direction from life itself. The cave walls rose high, hewn from dense black stone, their surface glistening faintly in the weak light that struggled to penetrate the darkness, evoking a profound sense of sorrow. Phantoms of shadow wove and danced across the walls, crafting an illusion of movement amidst the oppressive emptiness. The damp air wrapped around Vorrak's skin, heavy with the musty scent of wet earth and the unmistakable tang of decaying coral, a testament to the fact that this forsaken place had never felt the warmth of sunlight. The followers, trembling at the edge of this all-consuming darkness, felt a terrifying vibration coursing through them, akin to a relentless wave of energy crashing against their souls, shattering the pillars of belief they had fought so hard to uphold. Echoes of unspoken laments coiled like serpents within their minds, instilling a biting doubt that eroded their hope with the relentless persistence of water slowly wearing away at stone.
Its leader, High Nullifier Serephos, wore a crown crafted from the bones of ancient gods, each piece a testament to those felled by the unforgiving concept of nullification. The darkly shimmering crown captured the fleeting essence of stars consumed by the endless void, a haunting reminder of what had been lost. As he smiled at Vorrak, his fiery yet hollow eyes seemed to bore into the very fabric of the soul, hinting at depths of understanding far beyond a mere cordial greeting. Within that eerie smile lurked more than just the warmth of welcome; it harbored a latent fear, a palpable awareness of the dire consequences this meeting could unleash. Each heartbeat of his followers resonated with a growing panic, a creeping dread that hung in the air like a thunderstorm ready to erupt. They felt as if they were teetering at the edge of a chasm, their collective consciousness silently screaming about the unknown horrors that awaited with the return of the Voidwright.
"At last, you have come, the lost Voidwright. You will merge with us once more," he declared, his voice a mixture of anticipation and trepidation.
Vorrak regarded him with a steady gaze, his mind a fortress of resolve. "Fitran is an anomaly that embraces nullification to recreate. But you all... only desire to die. So, I shall assist." As those chilling words escaped his lips, a profound stillness descended over the room, wrapping around them like a shroud. The very air seemed to freeze, and his followers' faces drained of color, each one appearing ensnared in a tempest of dread. In that moment, it felt as though the shadows of deep sorrow coiled around their hopes, dragging them into an abyss of darkness.
He opened his hands wide, and from within them flowed not magic or energy, but rather the denial of existence itself. In that moment, everything in the room—the walls that had witnessed countless rituals, the spells that hummed with latent power, the memories woven into the very fabric of the air, and even the chilling essence of the "Cult of Cancellation"—did not merely vanish; they underwent a profound transformation into something that had never graced the annals of history. Un-thought. As an oppressive silence enveloped the space, a thin, unearthly voice echoed softly, as if the universe itself held its breath in solemn anticipation of something unspoken. The followers, gripped by a visceral tremor in their souls, felt the suffocating presence of dark fingers tightening around their hearts, evoking a dread that transcended mere sight and seeped into every pore of their skin. They became unwitting witnesses to a profound emptiness that bypassed the limits of imagination, ensnared in a paralyzing powerlessness as their familiar reality twisted into a nightmarish landscape more terrifying than their darkest fears.
As Vorrak emerged from the mouth of the cave, the wild wind that tousled his hair carried with it the first hints of a world that felt slightly calmer—a world blissfully ignorant of the madness from which he had just been rescued, a madness more terrifying than death itself. The gentle breeze seemed to whisper secrets from the countless souls imprisoned in darkness, brushing against him with a chilling caress that seeped deeply into his bones. The yawning cave before him blended a tumult of hope and fear, igniting a haunting dilemma: would a brighter dawn await him, or would he be once again swallowed by a suffocating despair? In that fleeting moment, an overwhelming terror gripped Vorrak's heart, shadowing him like a persistent specter. Each agonizing step felt akin to treading on shards of glass, with jagged edges slicing through his fragile hope and wounding his conscience. The air around him reverberated with the inaudible wails of tormented souls, as if thousands cried out in unison, beckoning him to return and liberate them from their unending suffering.
In the distance, cloaked in shadows, the cult followers congregated, their faces ashen and etched with fear. Eyes tightly shut, they clung to the hope of evading the grim reality inching closer, yet each labored gasp filled the air with a palpable sense of dread and uncertainty. They were ensnared in a suffocating web of darkness, isolation wrapping around them like a shroud, clouding their thoughts and dulling their senses. In that fraught moment, an unexpected wave of panic erupted among them; beads of cold sweat trickled down foreheads, hands quivered uncontrollably, and shallow breaths became desperate as they fought to steady their racing hearts.
The first step was complete.
And Vorrak knew... Fitran would soon realize that the world was starting to reject him once again.