The priest knelt before the ruined altar, his body trembling as the icy night wind howled through the shattered church. Blood pooled beneath him, soaking into the cracked marble floor. The sacred book before him—once the foundation of his faith—was stained red, its pages curling as if recoiling from the corruption that tainted them.

His breaths came shallow and ragged, each inhale sending a sharp stab of pain through his fractured ribs. His vision blurred, dark spots creeping into the edges of his sight, but he refused to collapse. Not yet.

The Church of Saint Ilario had once been a beacon of hope. A sanctuary where the lost could find solace, where prayers had once risen toward the heavens like smoke from the burning incense. Now, it was nothing more than a husk—its pillars cracked, its vaulted ceiling caved in, leaving gaping holes that exposed the skeletal remains of the city beyond.

Through the shattered stained glass, the skyline stretched like a graveyard of steel and concrete. The collapsed skyscraper of Cebu lay in the distance, its mangled structure half-buried beneath the ruins of a dead metropolis. The streets below were choked with wreckage—abandoned cars, shattered storefronts, and the remnants of a world that had once known order.

Fires burned in the distance, painting the night in flickering hues of orange and crimson. Somewhere beyond the church walls, a siren howled, its dying wail lost in the wind. The distant pop of gunfire echoed through the city—a final act of defiance from those who still clung to life.

But within these ruined walls, there was only silence.

And then—footsteps.

Slow. Measured. Unhurried.

The priest did not need to turn. He already knew who had come for him.

A shadow stretched across the floor, elongated by the dim candlelight. The flickering flames trembled as if recoiling from the presence that had entered the sacred space.

The figure stepped through the shattered doorway, moving with an effortless grace that sent a chill down the priest's spine. He was draped in black, the long coat flowing behind him like the trailing remnants of a nightmare. His hair—dark as the abyss—fell over his shoulders in silken strands, framing a face both cruel and beautiful.

A cloth obscured the lower half of his face, from his right eye downward, concealing whatever lay beneath. But his eyes... his eyes were what sent true terror through the priest's fading heart.

Deep, endless voids. Hollow, but not empty.

They did not reflect the flickering candlelight, nor the ruined city beyond.

They reflected nothing.

A slow, shuddering breath escaped the priest's lips. He wanted to turn away, to lower his gaze, but some invisible force held him captive.

"You..." The word was barely a whisper. A broken gasp, laced with something between fear and bitter understanding. "You have doomed us all."

The figure did not answer at first.

He simply stepped forward, the sound of his boots crushing broken glass beneath him. The candles trembled harder. The shadows stretched longer.

Then, in a voice as smooth as silk but colder than death, he spoke.

"I did nothing." A pause. Then, almost amused, he added, "They doomed themselves."

The priest let out a weak, broken laugh—more a gasp than anything. His body shook, wracked by the weight of everything he had tried to prevent. Everything he had failed to stop.

His fingers curled weakly around the bloodstained scripture. The ink was beginning to smear beneath his trembling grip, but he did not need to read the words to remember them.

When the sky fractures, when faith is forsaken, a shadow shall rise.

How many times had he read those words? How many nights had he lain awake, whispering prayers that they would never come true?

And yet, here he was.

Kneeling before the very thing the prophecy had spoken of.

Not a king.

Not a savior.

A monster.

The last of his strength was fading, his body giving in to the inevitable. But he would not die a coward.

With great effort, he raised his head and met those abyss-dark eyes one final time.

"The gods will not forgive you," he whispered.

The figure did not blink. Instead, he let out a quiet chuckle—a sound so soft, so unnervingly calm, that it sent ice through the priest's veins.

"I am not asking for their forgiveness."

The priest did not see the strike that ended his life.

He only felt the cold embrace of death.

Only silence.

And then, nothing.