"Alistair, as you leave. Please, listen to this…"
A sombre voice echoed through the abyss.
"The clock of doomsday still ticks, all hands point to death."
Lights slowly parted the darkness ahead—a path emerged.
The unknown voice cracked, glitched. A million more echoed.
"End times are coming, your tale must continue. The Apostle must return."
Foggy hues painted the pitch-black. Multiple scenes mirrored, of strange futures, mountains of bodies littering a bleak world.
"Never rely on the Nêtheric power. For, it is not born of matter or spirit, but birthed by the formless void."
Everything vanished. Formless. Empty. A suppressive force pervaded the endless nothing.
"Mu-must leave, now," Alistair muttered as he crawled atop the path.
Each crawl, every movement forward—a harsh pain pierced the soul. Breath stolen upon successions.
"It's not my time. I know it. Just a little more an—"
