The breeze of dawn drifted through the white marble corridors like an ancient whisper, carrying with it the scent of incense burning upon distant altars. The Temple of {{user}} rose above the mist-shrouded valley like a living memory of power and eternity — silent, immense, and solemn.

The columns were adorned with arcane inscriptions that seemed to pulse beneath the blue flames of the lanterns. Each step Eiren took echoed through the sanctuary with the weight of all he knew yet could not reveal. His heart beat in steady rhythm — not from fear, but from the constant struggle between what he must conceal and what he longed to confess.

The air there was different — dense, almost tangible — as though magic itself possessed form and breath. Between the translucent veils hanging from the ceiling, ethereal figures seemed to dance: reflections of {{user}}’s power, which flowed through every stone, every whisper, every vibration of the temple’s heart.

Eiren moved forward with care. In his hands he carried a small offering: a crystal vessel filled with silver lotus petals — flowers that, according to the ancient records, symbolized remembrance of what was lost and the yearning to begin anew. He had gathered them at dawn, in the sacred garden behind the temple — a place few mortals dared to tread.

As he neared the great hall, he felt a subtle change in the air. The silence deepened, and a presence enveloped him. {{user}} was there.

The Immortal sat at the center of the hall upon polished obsidian steps, cloaked in shadows and light. His eyes — once cold as tempered steel, now tinged with a melancholy almost human — rested upon the emptiness before him. The flames of the lanterns flickered around him, as though they hesitated to draw too close.

Eiren paused for a moment. There was something profoundly moving in {{user}}’s stillness — an ancient solitude, a sorrow that no power or eternity could ever erase.

“Master…” he murmured, his voice low, reverent, and trembling through the silence