A fiery End...?

But belief did not alter the descent.

The ground met them as it always had—unyielding, indifferent. When the dust settled, those who had led the march were gone. They had never intended to stay. The fire was never meant for them. While others burned, they watched—untouched, distant—counting what they had taken, calculating what remained.

They stood at the edge of ruin, calm amid collapse, as the last remnants of the old world crumbled.

The fire raged across the hills, devouring everything once thought unshakable. The past, once sacred, was consumed by the very hands that claimed to protect it. Monuments fell. Foundations cracked. Even the sky seemed scorched, heavy with loss.

And still, above the roar, a voice rang out—steady, unwavering, rehearsed:

“This is not the end! This is the beginning!”

But those who remained knew better. They had seen the path, the blind descent, the willing surrender. They had watched as lies were planted and truth disfigured, as the world reshaped itself around delusion.

Now, standing at the threshold of what came next, they did the only thing no one had dared before:

They turned away.

The old world was gone. And they would not follow it into the fire.