The forest burned in silence.
Its trees were blackened spires, their limbs brittle and reaching. The soil was scorched and brittle underfoot, and the ash floated like old snow. Aeon moved without hurry, his cloak drawing little sound, his eyes scanning the ruined horizon. The land here whispered warnings, but none dared approach.
Except one.
He felt it first — not a threat, but a gaze. Not hunger. Not hatred.
Reverence.
The figure emerged slowly from the treeline, cloaked in rags soaked in dried blood and dark oils. Beneath the hood, only a glint of gold and the glisten of pale flesh could be seen. The creature's footsteps were careful, deliberate — not stalking a prey, but approaching a shrine.
Aeon stopped. The distance between them narrowed to ten paces.
And then the figure knelt.
"My lord," the Apostle rasped, bowing so low his head touched the dirt. "I have awaited your second coming."
Aeon didn't speak. The wind stirred.
"I kept the fires," the Apostle continued. "I carried your name in the marrow of the kings I slaughtered. Their screams were your scripture. Their ash—your altar."
The creature raised something wrapped in cloth.
Aeon remained still.
The cloth fell away.
Inside: a pile of skulls, marked with crowns, helms, sigils. Burned. Bleached. Smeared in ash.
"I offer these to you, Scourge of Heaven. Do not deny your disciple."
Aeon stepped forward, slowly, his eyes fixed on the pile.
Each one had been a man. A tyrant perhaps — but a life nonetheless.
He spoke only once.
"I am not your god."
The Apostle trembled, but smiled.
"You burned the heavens when they betrayed the weak. You cast down the false lights. You cleansed the world of its lies. If you are not god, what is?"
"I judged," Aeon said, voice low. "And I lost myself."
The Apostle stood slowly, reverence undiminished. His form shifted now, ever so slightly — flesh folding back into monstrous sinew. Talons twitched beneath the robes. Eyes opened where they should not.
"But we remember you," he whispered. "Even when the God Hand came. Even when the Flame dimmed. We remembered the true judgment."
Aeon's grip tightened.
"You remember wrath," he said. "Not justice."
The Apostle stepped forward, emboldened. "Then be wrath again. The world is broken. The kings rise. The Apostles devour. And you—you—can end it all once more."
The forest seemed to shiver.
And behind the Apostle's words, Aeon heard another voice.
Not spoken.
Whispered.
"They still worship what you were.
You could become it again.
You would not need to feel."
Aeon closed his eyes for a moment.
Then he opened them.
"No."
With one step, he crossed the space between them.
His hand did not glow.
His eyes did not blaze.
He simply raised a palm.
And placed it against the Apostle's chest.
The creature convulsed.
Not in fire.
But in memory.
It screamed — not from pain, but from seeing its past. Faces. Towns. A brother. A mother. Regret buried in filth. Sorrow beneath teeth.
And then it crumbled, falling backward, gasping. The skulls fell to the ground.
The forest stilled.
"I do not destroy for devotion," Aeon said. "And I do not grant forgiveness to flattery."
The Apostle lay in the dirt, unmoving — not dead, but undone.
Aeon turned and walked on.
Far ahead, just beyond the mountain pass, a sword swung wildly, cleaving through a beast's neck. A man in black stood, muscles tensed, his single eye burning with hate.
The Brand of Sacrifice glowed on his neck.
Aeon's path was about to cross with Guts.
And the world would feel it.