When Alastor opened his eyes again, a chill swept over him, anchoring him to the polished, cold marble floor. He was kneeling in a cavernous hall, its silence as heavy as the stone walls that surrounded him.
Light from unseen sources bathed the space in a soft, golden hue, casting long, intricate shadows that danced across the expansive floor. Before him loomed a five-metre-high sculpture, carved with such precision that the details seemed almost lifelike. The figure was that of a middle-aged man, his face stern yet benevolent, framed by the ethereal glow of a ring of thorns resting upon his brow.
The pristine white robe carved into stone draped over his form, flowing as if caught in an eternal breeze. His eyes, unseeing yet piercing, bore down on Alastor, making him feel exposed beneath their celestial gaze.
Almost instinctively, Alastor's heart quickened. He knew, deep within his soul, that this imposing figure was Adonis, the God of Light. The vast emptiness around him and the sacred air told him all he needed to know—this was the Temple of Light, the holiest place within the Zakda Empire.
The hall itself was devoid of decoration, a stark contrast to its grandiose purpose. No tapestries adorned the walls, no statues stood in tribute, and only the massive sculpture held its place of reverence.
A simple rectangular table sat solemnly at the base of the statue, laden with offerings: fresh flowers with their petals dewy and fragrant, ripe fruits, and plain cakes meticulously arranged for the divine.
A profound, almost suffocating silence enveloped the space, pressing down on Alastor's chest with an invisible weight.
The sacred aura was so palpable that it felt as though the air itself held its breath in devotion. He dared not linger in the presence of such sanctity for longer than necessary.
Bowing low, he folded his hands on the cold marble and lowered his forehead to rest against them. The gesture was one of absolute submission and reverence, a grand act of piety to the god who had spared the continent from the darkness.
After a moment that felt like an eternity, Alastor straightened and began to retreat, each step measured and respectful, as if any sudden movement would shatter the delicate sanctity.
The two maids stationed by the towering double doors stepped forward as he approached. Their white, silken gowns whispered against the floor, and their faces were masked with an air of calm obedience.
One of them draped a white cloak over Alastor's shoulders, its fabric soft and heavy with the subtle scent of lavender. The other, eyes cast downward in a practised show of deference, led the way down the grand corridor, while her counterpart followed behind, attending to him with quiet precision.
The journey back to his quarters was filled with the muted echo of footsteps on polished stone, each step a reminder of the reverence held for the Temple and its sole god. When they reached the room, the doors opened to reveal a space that was both resplendent and imposing.
It was no larger than the main hall, but every detail spoke of luxury. Gilded chandeliers hung from the ceiling, catching the light and scattering it like fragments of sunbeams across the polished floors.
The centrepiece was a four-poster bed, its copper frame burnished to a mirror finish and draped with curtains of golden gauze that shimmered with each breath of air. The fabric, so thin it was almost translucent, moved like liquid gold.
Across from the bed stood a small, intricately carved door, beyond which lay a private sanctuary—a natural hot spring fed by underground mineral-rich waters. The gentle steam that wafted through the crack in the door carried with it the earthy scent of heated stone and minerals.
It seems that the original owner knows how to enjoy and has a high status. Alastor took off his cloak, took out a bottle of red wine from the wine cabinet, and read the memories in his mind while sipping slowly.
Alastor's gaze swept over the room, absorbing its decadence with a mix of indifference and newfound familiarity. The lavish surroundings hinted at the status and wealth the original owner possessed. He shrugged off the white cloak, letting it fall to the floor in a silken heap.
With a deliberate stride, he crossed the room and reached for a crystal decanter on a nearby table, pouring a glass of deep red wine that caught the flickering candlelight. The liquid swirled like blood as he lifted it to his lips, the taste sharp and rich, grounding him in the present.
Closing his eyes, he sifted through the labyrinthine memories that flooded his mind. This time, without the interference of any system, he could access every fragment, every detail of what lay ahead.
Because the original owner is reborn, the superposition of the old and new souls has caused irreversible effects on each other. Both souls have disappeared, leaving behind an extremely deep and extremely dark memory.
The original owner's name was Yeshua, a prodigy blessed with the rare and revered attributes of light. Raised under the stern tutelage of the bishop of the Temple of Light, he had been moulded into a vessel of divine purpose, cherished as the bishop's adopted son.
His fate had been sealed with relentless devotion and the weight of expectations, culminating in his ascension to the bishopric upon reaching adulthood.
The light flickered in the room, casting elongated shadows that seemed to whisper the stories of this world.
Alastor's mind drifted deeper, past the gilded veneer of the Temple, to the world it protected. The continent, once a beacon of prosperity where elves, dragons, orcs, dwarves, goblins, and humans coexisted in vibrant harmony, now bore the scars of abandonment.
The gods, once revered and present, had retreated one by one, leaving the land vulnerable. In their absence, the dark abyss awoke, and its insidious influence seeped across the continent, tainting all it touched. Souls corrupted by demonic energy were consumed and transformed into nightmarish beings that turned on their own kind with merciless hunger.
The war that followed was relentless, a storm of chaos that left the goblins, dwarves, and dragons extinct, their once-proud legacies erased.
Only the elves, humans, and orcs remained, struggling against the encroaching darkness. It was the collective desperation of these surviving races, their prayers borne of terror and hope, that had stirred the God of Light.
He had stayed when all others had departed, gifting the power of light to living beings to stave off the monstrous tide.
Now, in this room that hummed with luxury, Alastor opened his eyes, feeling the weight of that history settle upon him like an iron shroud.
The wine in his glass stilled, mirroring his sudden quietude. The God of Light was no mere deity; he was the last bastion of hope for a continent teetering on the brink. As Alastor sat, the dim light of the room cast long, wavering shadows across his face, masking his expression as he considered what lay ahead.