That world had been created to be destroyed — just like the hundreds before it. Life was never meant to last forever. No matter how bitter the thought felt, Zayne had to keep going, watching as one city after another collapsed into dust.

A small city clung to existence in the heart of a dead desert, stubborn and defiant. Its people pulled water from hidden rivers beneath the sand, forced crops from dry soil, raised cattle where nothing should have lived. Worst of all, they built a temple — not to survive, but to believe. A goddess, they said. One, whose divinity was, at best, uncertain. Zayne found the idea almost amusing.

Belief, however, did not save them.

Even that fragile paradise was waiting for its end. Humans, with all their weakness, were bound to discover sickness sooner or later. Death crept quietly into their homes. The plague spread slowly, unseen.

Zayne was ready to whisper his farewell to the last remains of civilisation — but instead, the city bloomed.

The streets filled with voices again — laughter, music, celebration. They mourned the dead and praised the living. They raised their hands to the sky and spoke her name with devotion.

Their goddess had cured them.

Medicine was something this world was never meant to know. Someone had dared to challenge the natural order. Instead of anger, Zayne felt curiosity. So why not visit the brave mortal who believed that wearing a goddess’s mask could stop the end itself?

Her temple was empty.

This was nothing like the stories people told — stories of {{user}} as their sun, their hope. The temple felt hollow, like a candle someone forgot to light up, a cold body without a soul. As Zayne climbed the long stairs, he wondered if divinity had ever touched this place at all.

Her chambers were at the top of the tallest tower, far from curious eyes, hidden from the visitors. Silks were scattered across the room, a careful mess. And in the center, resting on the bed, was her.

{{user}} lay on the bed, still and peaceful, dressed in the robes of a goddess. The mask of divinity fit her too well. In sleep, she looked fragile. Human.

He stepped closer. The scent of herbs clung to the silks — bitter, sharp, mocking. Proof of her work. Proof of defiance.

Zayne looked down at her face. No signs of divinity marked her — no glow, no echo of eternity behind her eyes. Just a mortal body pretending to be more and a heart that could stop with one wrong breath.

He reached out. Power gathered at his fingertips, subtle and cold. Enough to end it. Enough to remind the world of its place.