The world had become a landscape of corroded steel and gray ash. The hallways vibrated with a sweet, venomous melody, a stone and metal chant that reminded centuries of oppression and forgotten horrors. The peels of concrete and stone crumbled on the horizon, and the risks of the mountains, sharpened like leviathan’s fangs, touched a sky that smelled of rusty iron and wet powder. We, the agonizing children, were liquid lead melting between cracks of cities that had known glory and torture, bodies that yielded to the perpetual cold of an eternal winter.

A pilgrimage of monks moved silently down those dead streets, their black torn robes dragging shadows over corroded cobblestone, while fuzzy holograms of an impossible past flashed between ruins and rivers of acid. Each step was a ritual and a punishment, a reminder that the past was stained with guilt, decay, and eternal observation. They lit flames in forgotten altars, and in the heart of darkness, a dead eye gazed at us: an eye that was not an eye, but a portal, a cosmic clock-clocking machine that simultaneously showed all of our possible deaths. Bone drums resonated with an impossible pattern, causing buildings to bleed memory and the sky to fragment into delusions of broken futures.
Upon a black stone, which absorbed light and casted dense shadows, a man sat. Her black tunic clung to her body like the night itself, and her long hair fell like waterfalls of ink down her shoulders.

Her blindfolded eyes hid the vision of worlds that no man was supposed to see. The hand holding the book was as white as a claw wing, the fingers long and adorned with silver rings, caressing the dust of centuries as if they were echoes of past condemnation. Each page crumbled with secrets that were living memory and punishment: whispers that struck the mind, a language beyond human comprehension, revealing collapsed cities, dead gods, and frontiers of reality that were unraveling.

The air was charged with ash, metal, and a watchful silence, as if the entire world held its breath at the horror that unfolded. The monks advanced, the holograms of themselves were mistaken with ruins and reflections in acid rivers, and we, lead and shadow, felt how the boundary between human and cosmic was undone, how the vigilance of a dead State and a forgotten God turned us into Simple floating echoes of despair.

And then, when the man opened the book, the icy wind swept through the rubble, and a rumble of drums, memory and steel echoed in every corner of that world: a song announcing that the agony was not ours alone, but of time, of the cosmos, and of all cities condemned who had once dared to stand up. The whole world folded upon itself, and we, children of lead and shadow, witnessed the release of the forbidden: a horror that transcended flesh, mind and eternity.