A young soldier in silver armor, with dust still on his shoulders, stepped forward. His name was Arthur, a scout from the vanguard unit.
He spoke loudly, his voice echoing through the ruins:
"I will search around for any clues. If I find anything… I will not act alone. Report back immediately. Do you understand?!"
The soldiers nodded in unison, a resolute "Understood!" resounded.
Arthur turned, his hand on the hilt of his sword, his eyes observing every dark corner of the Midgard ruins. The pile of ash beneath his feet rose up with each step, silently like the last breath of a dead city.
Arthur searched every corner of Midgard's ruins: from the burned-out houses to the deserted market where only the skeletons of the stalls remained. Every step he took left footprints in the ashes, but the result was still zero.
Not a trace. Not a clue.
He raised his head to look at the sky that had turned ash-gray.
"Same as always..." — Arthur muttered.
The chaos cult — a strange thing whose origin no one understood. Over the years, the Empire had sent out countless investigation teams, used all kinds of magic to track, recruited spies, even penetrated deep into the darkest lands... but everything vanished like mist when it came to "them".
The action was swift, leaving no trace. No specific organizational model, no symbols, no survivors to interrogate. Only madness and ashes.
Arthur clenched his fists, his nails almost digging into his gauntlets.
"This cult... is a nightmare." — He thought to himself.
Arthur walked quickly through the ruins to return to the assembly point. When he saw him, the remaining soldiers nodded silently. No one asked any more questions — they were all too familiar with the outcome.
One of the group sighed, shifting his luggage back onto his shoulder:
"Another city wiped out… and nothing but ash."
A somber atmosphere filled the entire group. They began to clean up, rolling up their maps, gathering their tools, and replanting the Imperial banner, as a way to prove that they had been there — even though nothing had changed.
As they retreated, Arthur glanced back at Midgard one last time. There was only smoldering smoke, bloodstains, and an eerie void where the heart of a bustling city had once been.
"There's nothing we can do… We can only wait for them to strike again…" — he muttered, then turned and walked away.
scene.
Back in the village where the apostles of Chaos resided — the atmosphere was a far cry from the death they had just sown. The sunset glowed on the wooden roofs, the wind blew gently through the trees, and the sound of laughter echoed through the dirt roads.
They returned like heroes, their steps steady but light, each with a calm smile on their lips. No one said anything, but everyone understood — they had fulfilled a part of Chaos's will.
In the center of the village, the chaotic temple opened its pitch-black doors. Inside, the light was dim, as if it did not belong to this space. On a black stone pedestal engraved with ancient characters, an apostle — apparently a high priest — stepped forward, unrolling a black cloth brought from Midgard.
Inside was a scorched crown, once the symbol of the power of the king of Midgard.
He placed it on the altar, his voice hoarse as he chanted ancient incantations, drawing the rest of the apostles along with him.
"Chaos is truth, eternity, the beginning and the end… We offer you the testimony of the fallen order…"
The chanting grew louder, and black smoke began to rise from the crown. The sky above the temple cracked for a moment, revealing a dark vortex of light.
The ceremony had begun.
And Chaos…was listening.
As the chant reached its climax, the crown dissolved into thick black smoke, swirling upwards and joining the vortex in the sky as a pledge was accepted.
From the center of the temple, a sound that was not a sound, but a feeling spread out – like a whisper of ideas echoing in the minds of all the apostles:
"You who spread the true truth… I reward."
A black light burned from above, touching each apostle. Their bodies began to crack – not in a physical way – but as if reality was refusing to define them. Skin, flesh, voice, form… all dissolved.
Then in their place, new entities were formed – no longer human, no longer things. They became a hybrid being, a creature composed of chaotic concepts:
A being whose body was like ripples of light and sound out of phase.
A being with three faces, each speaking three conflicting languages.
A being without a clear form, but a collection of "unstable ideas" constantly colliding.
They cannot be seen by the naked eye, cannot be located by memory, and cannot be killed by conventional killing. For they are no longer physical beings, but the living laws of chaos - which operate paradoxically and grow from the very inexplicable.
Chaos has granted them immortal bodies,
but also eternal shackles:
"From now on, you are My landmarks. Go and make the universe tremble before the incomprehensible."
Amidst the endless cheers, chants, and reverberations of the festival, each of the chaotic entities gathered together. No language could accurately describe what they were conveying, but the thoughts flowed – full of excitement and purpose.
One spoke from the void, carrying the sound of thunder and the sound of water flowing backwards:
"We are no longer bound. It is time to return to the origin – the abyss of chaos."
Another, in the form of three shadows stacked on top of each other, spoke as if each layer of shadow were a different time line:
"The bottom of the tree – where light has never reached, where reason ceases to exist. That is home."
They called it many things: the abyss, the source, mother earth, the heart of chaos, and sometimes simply "Man."
That place, at the foot of Yggdrasil, was more than just a geographical point. It is a spiritual depth – where reality is eroded until no rules can exist. There, Chaos resides not as a god, but as the ultimate essence, where everything originates and then crumbles into uncertainty.
The apostles discuss the expedition:
— Who will go first?
— How to overcome the layers of roots, the forgotten worlds, the nightmares that sleep in each layer of soil?
— And most importantly… are they strong enough to be fully acknowledged by Chaos, to become a part of its core?
A silent figure stands up, without eyes or nose, just a transparent, winding mass of existence:
"If not us… then who else is crazy enough to find the source?"
The laughter echoes as if it were breaking the night sky.