Scene 1
The world—thus it is built, bitterly constructed and meticulously inscribed in divine chronicles and ancient premonitions.
Even time itself cannot stifle the ideas of humankind, ever willing to embrace every sacrifice the mind can conjure, all in the singular pursuit of knowledge.
Imagination flows relentlessly through this lowly world, and with it, a longing to shape deeper understanding, to forge better conditions for confronting Life and Death alike.
Neither dictators, nor the devout servants of God, nor even the sacred hospitality of those who gave us life—none of these will ever become insurmountable barriers to the human being, who, with unwavering conviction, seeks above all to become more conscious of himself and his pitiful existence.
Crimes, betrayals, rebellions, battles, wars, and Destruction—they care not for meaning or utility. These arise solely from emotion. Only ethics, intangible and unprovable, dares to address such realms.
The quest for meaning has lost its meaning—led astray by the fickle morals of humanity, too obsessed with the Other, when in truth, the Other is but a fragment of their existence, not its core.
These wretched philosophers lose their relevance by the day. Not even a grand revolution or earth-shaking discovery could redeem the world, for stupidity slowly submerges it—adding its grain of salt to a once-exquisite dish.
The cradle of humanity—Abyssinia Magna—not merely the birthplace of mortals, but of essence itself. A place once blessed by an inviolable Golden Age—untouchable and truly prosperous—now reduced to ignorance of what was never truly known.
And yet, what seemed more flawed than abundance or perfect harmony? Despite all, curiosity was born—a cursed tendency of beings with self-awareness to poison themselves with thirst for the unknown.
And so came reflection. None could resist it. All saw in it a hidden goldmine—the first proof of the incarnate evil: the divine and sub-divine, Man and his ilk.
After the vile omnipresence of Ruin, a few ascended—rising to the grand and glorious visions painted by my divine landscapes.
This handful of beings began to grow, at first slowly, then unstoppably and exponentially, until I could no longer perceive them. I am not invincible; I do not wield omnipotence. I cannot solve all problems at once—especially as they grow ever more violent and uncontrollable.
In these diseased times, like an incurable poison, only containment is possible. Perhaps one day, its progression will cease altogether, leaving no reason for its continued existence.
So, instead of endless combat yielding no fruit, I called upon all my essence to erupt with me. The invisible bunkers—the true strategists of this comedy—may not perish, but their instruments of persuasion and military strength will be erased. A perfect moment to sow Fear.
Then let the Sodalitas Cainita join me!
Let the greatness of barbaric impulse rise!
So that Absolute Evil may be defeated by Evil itself!
Ad me accedat Sodalitas Cainita! Accedite ad virtutem meam...
Adveniat magnitudo impulsuum barbarorum! Venite ad naturam vestram veram amplectendam...
Ut malum absolutum per ipsum malum vincatur! Conterite miseros istos ignaros...
Acta EstFabula.
The demons who had held their breath for so many years were finally unleashed. In that moment, across vast lands, the moon turned crimson, and the rain was tainted with impure blood. Beasts, once innocent, turned on prey and predator alike—attacking even their own.
Hundreds, thousands—legions of Rex Mundi soldiers—were butchered, torn into strips of flesh and bone, feasting lifelessly yet with the fiercest conviction, birthing an anguish deeper than what the mind could bear.
Seraphiel Krüger, not even the so-called supreme being of this faction, dared resist. He would never admit it—but he was terrified. Truly terrified.
For seventy-two hours, misery reigned again. Every second was laced with pure malevolence—irrevocably painful to endure, or rather, to survive. Suffering became omnipresent, inescapable, unrelenting.
Nothing occurred without the Sodalitas Cainita at its core.
Scene 2 :
Isaak dAverno—once a bastion of wisdom, once a force as unshakable as the earth beneath him—had perished. Yet within the sacred soil of Abyssinia Magna, he had been reborn.
Though he lived again, all he had achieved before, all that once defined his greatness, had been reduced to ashes in the recesses of his own mind. A name remained. A vague awareness of self. Nothing more.
He lay bare in the middle of a desolate plain. There were no structures in sight—only scattered vegetation and a small, shimmering lake in the near distance. The sky above was vast and blue, unmarred by cloud or shadow. It was silent, sacred, surreal.
His body, pale yet statuesque, rose slowly. His form, though stripped of its former beauty, retained a certain magnificent austerity. Tall—just shy of two meters—broad-shouldered, with long silver-gray hair flowing like smoke in the wind, he looked more carved than born.
His limbs moved with unfamiliar effort, yet held undeniable grace. His musculature balanced strength and poise—neither beastly nor fragile. A body suited for anything: battle, dance, dominion.
His first thought was a question, honest and heavy:"How did I arrive here?"He remembered only his name. That, and that he was a man.
He stood, the wind brushing against his skin as if trying to remind him he still existed. The world around him was eerily pristine. There were no signs of civilization, no hint of the Rex Mundi or the ever-watching Seraphiel Krüger.
But Isaak, pure as he seemed in this second birth, was not without ties. He and Seraphiel had always been two ends of the same divine polarity. One could not exist without the other—not by design, but by inevitability.
Different as day and night, they shared the same logic: Change was chaos, unless it led to divinity. Unless it returned the world to purity.
He breathed deeply and muttered to himself:"Nature is pleasant... but there is undoubtedly something missing."
Drawn toward the glimmering lake—which upon closer inspection revealed itself to be an endless river—he walked with calm steps, unbothered by the unknown.
He knelt by the water's edge, dipping his feet into the cold flow. The chill didn't faze him. He let it numb him. It was almost comforting.
"It's beautiful," he whispered. "I don't know why, but... it's beautiful."
The river moved with silent rhythm, dictated by physics—or perhaps by something far older, far greater.
He leaned back, resting fully on the riverbank, the soles of his feet still submerged. His eyes turned to the sky. It was bluer than any sky he could remember. Only the sun occupied it—no clouds, no blemishes, just a radiant silence.
"Perhaps this is Paradise," he mused aloud."The wind cradles me, the water soothes me, the warmth of the sun... makes me warm in return. Everything is perfect."
In that moment, Isaak was nothing but honest. No illusions, no pride, no hunger—just presence. He was living what many before him had called the Echo of the Golden Age.
Peace enveloped the world so completely that even Isaak, reborn though he was, felt his eyelids grow heavy. Slumber came again—not as death, but as deep rest—and this time, he didn't resist. He simply let go.
...
Time passed—how long, no one could say. The winds shifted, and with them came a voice. Carried from a distance, firm and unfamiliar.
???: "I know someone's there. Show yourself!"
Isaak stirred.
The peace was over.