Deep within the Cult's most sacred vault, a massive sarcophagus lay sealed behind layers of enchanted barriers. It had been undisturbed for centuries—until tonight.
A dozen high priests stood around it, chanting in an ancient tongue. The Prophet watched in silence, waiting.
Then—cracks formed along the stone surface. The magic binding the sarcophagus shattered.
A terrible force surged outward. Shadows bled into the chamber, writhing like living entities.
The priests staggered back. One of them fell to his knees. "It… it cannot be…"
The Prophet, however, only smiled. "Rise, O great one."
The lid of the sarcophagus exploded outward.
And from within, a figure emerged—tall, regal, clad in ancient, obsidian armor. His face was hidden beneath a helm adorned with runes that pulsed with sinister energy.
A deep, hollow voice rumbled through the chamber.
"… Who dares wake me?"
The Prophet knelt before him. "The world is in need of its true Hollow Emperor."
The armored figure turned his gaze toward the Prophet. His presence alone was suffocating, a force that could crush weaker beings with mere thought.
"Hollow Emperor…?" The figure chuckled darkly. "So… another pretender has taken my throne."
The Prophet's smile widened. "Yes."
The figure lifted his hand, and the shadows around him coiled tighter.
"Then I shall reclaim what is mine."