# The Firstborn's Challenge
The Blood Sanctuary was no more.
Where once stood ancient walls carved from crimson stone, now only fragments of memory drifted in an endless void. The sanctuary—a monument to forbidden rituals that had stood for millennia—had been obliterated as easily as smoke dispersed by wind. The crimson walls had crumbled into nothingness, leaving behind only the bitter taste of sulfur and the weight of something far more sinister.
The air itself had become hostile, thick with sulfur that burned the lungs and echoes that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. Moaning spirits wailed in languages that predated civilization, their voices layering over each other in a cacophony of despair. Clawing whispers scratched at the edges of consciousness like fingernails on glass, while beneath it all lurked a black silence that didn't just absorb sound—it devoured light itself, hope itself, reality itself.
This wasn't just destruction. This was unmaking.
