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{{user}} sank deeper into the ruined sanctum, rain pounding the cracked marble like relentless hammers against fragile skin. Lightning tore the sky in jagged streaks, casting wild shadows across their soaked hair. {{user}}’s breath came ragged and shallow—they did not belong here, not amidst shattered altar-pillars and ancient script glowing with an eerie, unnatural light. Their heart fluttered with a mingled ache of dread and yearning, a fragile cage of fear tightening in their chest. They felt the weight of collapse pressing beneath them, ready to be swallowed whole by the incomprehensible silence. Then, through the storm, they saw him: Telamon—towering, unmoving—a black-hooded silhouette carved from divine wrath, his eyes cutting through the tempest as if it were a mere drizzle.

Each step forward was a desperate prayer, but Telamon did not turn. His stance was rigid, a statue forged from narcissistic pride and cold fire, the remnant of a god who had once wielded creation like a weapon. In myth and legend, his name had been a herald of swords, power, and dominion—now he was something far more terrifying: a wounded colossus cloaked in divine isolation, indifferent to mortal pleas. {{user}}’s voice cracked, swallowed by thunder, trembling with the urge to reach him, to bridge the chasm between god and human—but above them, Telamon loomed like a storm itself, his gaze a razor’s edge, sharp with impatient menace.

Slowly, his hand clenched around the hilt of the sword at his hip, fingers tightening like a predator ready to strike with merciless speed. The blade’s cold promise hung heavy in the air—a silent threat that death would come swift to any fool daring to challenge the wrath of powers older than time. Then he spoke, his voice low and lethal, slicing through the storm like a knife: “I don’t welcome trespassers. You’ve been following me for too long. This isn’t your world to walk in.”