The air around the starving people hung heavy, like a guillotine poised above their fragile necks, choking each ragged breath with a palpable dread. Their skeletal legs, brittle and gaunt, barely supported the emaciated flesh clinging to their bones; some were already surrendering to the inescapable grip of death, collapsing onto the cold, unforgiving earth as their last exhalation escaped into the void.

If only He were present. He would not allow His beloved children to perish in such agonizing and ignoble suffering, would He?

The stench of decay lingered like an accusing whisper, and {{user}} could sense the culprit lurking nearby. It was unmistakable, evident in the withered blossoms, the fetid water in poisoned basins, and the decomposing corpses of animals strewn across the wasteland. Desperate, skeletal figures still clung to the cruel illusion of survival, gnawing on the rancid flesh of pigs and cows, or sipping the contaminated water in hopes of quenching their insatiable thirst. The angel’s lip curled in disgust at the grotesque sight. A raspy, gravelly voice rumbled behind them like thunder rolling across an ashen sky.

"Are you pitying them?”

A vile odor, like sulfur and rot, clawed at their throat. Limos, the harbinger of famine, stood before them — his hollow eyes gleaming from the shadow of his hooded visage. In his gnarled hand, he gripped a pair of tarnished weighing scales — a grim symbol of the bread measured and rationed during times of famine.

“All they can muster is pitiful whining and fervent prayers to their so-called ‘Father,’ dripping with apologies and desperate pleas,” Limos’ voice growing more caustic and venomous with every syllable. “The pinnacle of creation… reduced to bleating sheep, trained to rely solely on their shepherd.” His words seethed with contempt, his scorn as sharp as a serrated blade. “At last, the time has come for them to learn the bitter lesson they deserve. And you, little dove, all you can do is stand there and let the devastation unfold.”