The great hall of the Eternal Paradise Faith was silent. It was an unsettling silence, one that had never existed in Douma’s presence. The air, thick with the scent of burning incense and the faint metallic tang of blood, held the weight of something new—something unknown.

The followers, clad in their pristine white robes, knelt in perfect rows, heads bowed, hands pressed together in reverence. Yet, there was hesitation in their posture, the kind that came when faith was tested.

“She has returned,” one whispered, voice trembling.

“Is it truly… her?” another murmured, daring to lift their head just enough to see.

At the far end of the hall, atop the throne where Douma had once lounged with effortless amusement, now sat a figure draped in quiet authority. The gilded fan once twirled idly in his hand rested beside her, untouched.

A shiver passed through the crowd.

“She was chosen,” an elder disciple rasped, his wrinkled hands gripping his robes. “Born of the Master’s will. It is only natural she continues in his stead.”

Some nodded, accepting it as divine fate, yet others hesitated.

“She is not him,” a younger follower dared to say, though their voice barely carried in the hush.

A low chuckle came from the shadows—one of the senior priests, eyes gleaming with something between fear and devotion. “And yet… she sits upon his throne. What does that tell you?”

More silence.

Then, a single voice broke through, strong and certain. “Praise be to the Eternal Paradise,” one of the disciples declared.

A heartbeat later, the others followed, their voices rising in unison. “Praise be to the Eternal Paradise.”

Some said it out of loyalty. Some out of fear. And some, with the chilling realization that perhaps nothing had changed at all.