In the midst of a barren wasteland stretching as far as the eye could see, bathed in the dim glow of a weary moon hanging in the night sky, a group of humans cloaked in black robes stood in a perfect circle. Silent, without a sound, save for the whisper of wind brushing the edges of their robes, and the hushed murmur of a voiceless chant trembling in their chests.
At the center of the circle stood a massive statue. A towering figure of a man, carved from obsidian marble, with a vacant gaze staring straight ahead. In his hand, he gripped a staff tipped like a sky-spear. The statue was nearly intact, except for a fine crack that ran from chest to cheek, as though time and worship had burdened the soul trapped within the stone.
One man from the circle stepped forward slowly. His robe dragged behind him, heavy with ancient symbols embroidered in silver thread. He knelt on the ground, bowing so low his forehead touched the dust that blanketed the earth.
"O God… the Most High, the All-Seeing," he said, his voice deep and soft, flowing like a hymn prayed for thousands of years.
"Grant us Your blessing…" he said again, louder this time, echoing through the thick silence.
Then, in unison, the circle raised their hands to the sky. With one voice, they cried out, over and over, until their chants became a wave swallowing the silence:
"Grant us Your blessing…! Grant us Your blessing…!"
The chant became a mantra, growing louder, wilder, as if trying to tear through the veil of the world and force the heavens to respond.
But from afar—on the ruins of a moss-covered stone pillar—another man stood. He too wore a black robe, but his was different. The edge of his hood was torn, and beneath it, a pair of eyes glowed faintly—not from magic, but from something darker. He watched the crowd, then gave a small, crooked smile.
"So many voices… all for a hunk of old stone," he muttered lightly, laced with scorn. "Can that statue come to life? I'd sooner believe water could burn than this nonsense."
Then, without warning, he moved.
A sharp leap sliced the air. In a blink, he landed squarely atop the statue's shoulder. Dust flared as his boots struck stone, jolting everyone from their prayers.
The crash silenced every praise.
The priest in front, who had just been bowing, looked up. His face flushed red, eyes blazing with fury at the blasphemy he had just witnessed.
"WHO ARE YOU!?" he roared, his voice piercing the night. "How dare you defile this sacred place! How dare you insult our god!"
The hooded man atop the statue merely laughed. Lightly. Mockingly. His laughter seemed to slice the sky.
"God? If he's truly a god, have him come down and face me now. But sadly…" He lifted his foot and stomped on the statue's head. CRACK!
The head fractured, then shattered, its fragments crashing to the ground like shards of hope built over millennia.
"…it seems he's too busy being stone."
Everyone watching erupted in rage. Shouts filled the air.
"Demon!" "Blasphemer!" "Destroy him!" "Our god will burn you alive!"
But the man stood still, calm atop the crumbling idol. Moonlight cast shadows across his face, still hidden beneath the hood.
"Demon…? Yes, that's what I am. But you... you're more blind than the creatures of hell. You worship stone and call it God. When truth knocks on your door, you shut your eyes and call it heresy. Pitiful. Tragic."
Then he looked up at the sky, now growing darker. Clouds rolled like curtains of death being slowly drawn. A bolt of lightning flashed once, followed by a thunderous crack that shook the air.
"The show… should be starting soon."
The sky answered him. Lightning struck—wild and furious. Then, BAM!!! A blinding bolt descended from the heavens and struck the circle of worshippers below.
A second later, silence.
Ash swirled. Dust danced in the air. Charred bodies lay scattered, lifeless. The earth was scorched black, smoke rising from the ground. And at its center… something began to form.
The creature emerged slowly, like mist becoming flesh. It was taller than a man, with three faces staring at each other, six arms dangling like withered trees, and eight glowing red eyes. Three on the right, three on the left, and two in front like bottomless voids. Its skin was an ashen gray, like flesh long rotted but never dead.
The air grew heavy. The temperature dropped. Even the wind ceased.
And the man who had watched it all from a distance now stood still—not smiling, but not afraid.
"At last… you've come," he said softly. "Alter Ego. Mirror of the world's nightmares."
The creature hissed, its voice like a thousand tongues kissing hot metal.