The desert winds were not kind as they neared the temple.
For three days and nights, the storm chased them—howling like a wounded god, turning the sky to ash and sand. They traveled by instinct, by Elric's runes, and Ael's unnatural sense of direction—one not taught, but remembered.
At dawn on the fourth day, the sandstorm broke.
And the Crimson Temple revealed itself.
It was no ruin, no crumbling monument of the past—it was alive.
A blood-red structure carved into the jagged cliffs, the temple bled magic into the air. Its walls pulsed like veins. Obsidian obelisks surrounded it like teeth. Runes danced across its surface in a sickening rhythm. Torches lit themselves as if welcoming them.
"Looks more like a wound than a place of worship," Lyra muttered.
"That's because it is," Elric said. "It's built atop a Void fissure. The mana here's been corrupted for centuries."
Ael narrowed his eyes.
"They're calling something," he said.
Arienne stepped beside him. "Or someone."
Ael's grip on his sword tightened.
They descended toward the temple. No guards waited at the gates. No sentries. Only silence.
Too silent.
—
The main hall was a cathedral of red stone, draped in banners showing the eclipsed sun—the mark of the Crimson Faith. Pillars rose like giant ribs, and the floor was covered in glyphs—most written in blood.
At the center of the chamber stood an altar.
Upon it, a corpse.
A boy.
Young. Innocent. Eyes wide open, as if the terror had never left him.
Lyra cursed and turned away.
"They're sacrificing again," Arienne said darkly. "The Executioner feeds on pain, memory, identity. Innocence is his greatest fuel."
Ael stepped forward and placed a hand on the boy's forehead. It was still warm.
"He died less than an hour ago."
Elric's face went pale. "We're not alone."
The air shifted.
Footsteps echoed behind the altar.
A man emerged, clothed in dark red robes lined with silver chain. His face was hidden beneath a porcelain mask—half sun, half skull.
But Ael recognized the aura immediately.
It was familiar. Wrongly familiar.
"...Varen," he said.
The man removed his mask.
And Ael felt the weight of his past slam into him.
Varen had once been his knight.
His swordmaster.
His friend.
"Hello, my king," Varen said, voice calm, unshaken by time. "You've found your way back to life, it seems. But too late, as always."
Ael stared.
"You… died. I saw your corpse."
"I was dead. Then the Crimson Faith found me. Gave me purpose. Truth. A world beyond thrones and lies." He smiled. "You should be grateful. You were a shell once. Now you are full."
"I am still a shell," Ael said, voice low. "But now I remember why I hate monsters."
Varen stepped aside.
The altar cracked.
From beneath, a seal of void mana pulsed to life. Symbols rose from it—unspoken names, languages long dead. The temple trembled.
"We are opening the gateway," Varen said. "The Executioner walks. Soon, he will have form again."
Elric raised his staff. "Then we stop it here."
But Varen raised a hand—and shadows burst from the corners of the room.
Crimson Acolytes appeared in silence. Dozens. Perhaps more. They didn't chant, didn't scream. Just attacked, blades glowing with blood-forged runes.
"Scatter!" Arienne roared, blades drawn.
Battle erupted.
Arienne carved through enemies with swift, holy strikes. Lyra vanished into the shadows, her knives singing as they found vulnerable flesh. Elric burned entire rows of cultists with runes of fire and light.
And Ael?
He went for Varen.
Their swords clashed in the middle of the chaos, memory colliding with present.
"You were my brother once," Ael growled.
"And you were my king," Varen spat, striking low. "But the world you built deserved to burn."
They traded blows, faster and harder than human eyes could follow. Varen fought like a revenant—void-empowered, fueled by hatred and belief. But Ael was not the same man he once was.
He fought not with vengeance.
But with purpose.
And when Varen hesitated—just for a breath, just long enough—Ael buried his blade through his side.
Varen gasped.
"It still hurts," Ael whispered, "to see you like this."
Varen coughed blood. "Then you've changed… after all."
The knight fell.
And the seal beneath the altar cracked.
A burst of black flame surged upward—screaming, howling—and Ael turned in time to see something rise from the void.
Not a body.
Not a creature.
But a presence.
Huge.
Cold.
Watching.
A single eye opened within the smoke.
No iris. No pupil. Just judgment.
The Executioner was listening.
Ael stood tall.
"We're not done yet," he said.
He raised his sword.
"Let's close the gate."