"Man, Joseph Campbell's words tend to be proven correct. But what if the building has long been abandoned?"
Just as Zachary said that, he saw the temple. It had once been a magnificent architectural miracle, but now... The steps were broken here and there, dirt filled the cracks, the doors were unkempt, and the high reliefs long worn down—he could barely make out the designs they once displayed. The temple had clearly been abandoned for a long time.
Zachary walked carefully along the façade, trying to study what remained of the reliefs. That's when he noticed some worn runes. Squinting, he tried to read them, and thankfully the Spell translated them: "Sky Temple."
"Huh. So this is where the Ceremony is supposed to take place tomorrow, then." Zachary couldn't help but be slightly amused. Even though such an important event was meant to happen in just a few hours, no one was taking care of the temple. Not even minor repairs to make the entrance a little more welcoming.
No one had maintained it—not even the Witness. And it seemed this had been the case for a very, very long time.
With heavy steps, he returned to the main avenue, thinking deeply about what could have made the city become what it was now. He found a pristine bench near a statue and got lost in his thoughts while gazing at it. The detail in the statue was amazing. It depicted a slender, tall man. His hair was braided down his back, his left hand held high in the air a black parchment, and his right was placed over his chest, holding something what looked like a crackling staff. His eyes were deep and full of wisdom, and his chiseled face bore an expression of determination and slight gratitude. He wore a tunic that Zachary found strangely familiar.
Truly a magnificent piece of art.
Zachary remained there for a few minutes, thinking about the city and the strange melancholy he felt. That's when he sensed a presence standing to his right. Turning his head, he found an old man sitting beside him—his eyes vacant like everyone else's. But deep within them, worn by countless years of emptiness, a warm light still lingered.
"The First Witness." The old man spoke with a surprisingly lucid voice, betraying the hollowness of his expression.
Zachary tensed. He didn't respond, and so they stayed silent for a few minutes more.
"I have been taking care of it," the old man said eventually, as if continuing a conversation they'd already begun. "More out of habit than duty. I noticed how you studied it. It's been a long, long time since anyone even looked at it." His voice faded again, and they returned to silence.
Zachary ran through countless scenarios in his head regarding the man's affiliation. Maybe he was sent by the Lookouts. Maybe he'd recognized him as the current Witness Candidate. Or worse—perhaps this man was the Present Witness, and had morphed to punish him for escaping from his room. But he quickly dismissed every theory for one simple reason:
This man, despite the small ember of will hidden deep in his eyes, was still as hollow as everyone else.
So Zachary decided to speak with him.
"Were you familiar with the First Witness?" he asked, shifting his body to face the man beside him.
The man remained silent for a few seconds. Zachary even thought he hadn't heard the question. But just as he was about to repeat himself, the old man replied.
"My gradfather's grandfather met him once," he said without emotion. "He left a grand impression on the city. That's why he was chosen as Witness by everyone. At the time, the hopes placed on his shoulders helped the city thrive."
They sat in silence. Zachary tried to place this new information within everything he already knew about this world, but it led him nowhere. The old man, with a small frown on his face, seemed lost in reminiscence—caught in the memory of better days.
"Yes... Once again, a thriving city. Maybe not as it used to be, but enough to be called a Silver Age... Before..." The man's words trailed off, and with a long, sad sigh, he returned to silence.
Zachary wanted to press him to continue, but decided against it. Instead, he asked,
"What happened here?" His voice was neutral as he looked around the square. "Everything looks alive, but... at the same time... It feels hollow, or more correctly... Dead."
"Nothing happened," the man answered immediately, with the faintest trace of emotion in his voice. "And that was the problem." His tone was defeated, and Zachary noticed the slight trembling of his lip.
The old man sighed—a sad and weary breath—as he continued. "After "She" left, just after the Oath was made, the Witness took the role of guardian of the faith. Despite being chosen unanimously, some were afraid—afraid that the absence of our Guardian Goddess would mark the beginning of our fall."
The old man no longer looked at the statue. Instead, he lifted his gaze to the stars, as if trying to see what was hidden behind the starlit sky. "But we waited, hopeful that "Her" absence wouldn't last long. But the years passed, and "Her" absence remained. Our fear grew."
He looked down at his clenched, frail hands. "That's when it happened. The First Witness, after growing old, passed his mantle to his son. But we didn't despair—we still believed maybe "She" was simply taking longer. But then the Second Witness passed the mantle again, and that's when a truth finally settled in our hearts: she was not coming back."
His eyes returned to the statue. A faint, bitter smile crossed his face. "But despite this, our fears didn't come true. The city didn't fall. The society built around her presence didn't collapse. Nothing happened. And I think that was the final nail—how, despite her being our Pillar, her absence changed nothing." His voice carried a trace of contempt, though it vanished as quickly as it came.
"Some still prayed to her, but just like always, there was no answer. The Witness of that time passed the mantle to his son, and no one reacted. Our lives remained the same."
The old man paused for what felt like hours. "And we remained the same," he concluded, and from the air around him, it was clear he had nothing more to say.
Zachary stood frozen. He looked at the old man with sad eyes, then turned and contemplated the sky. The dark night was lit by a sea of stars—a myriad of colors gazed down at him. It was a sight he had never been able to enjoy in his own world, drowned by light pollution. He wanted to ask more—about the First or Second Witness, about this particular "Oath." Questions flooded his mind. But one glance at the old man's expression smothered his yearning for answers. This man had none left to give.
With a heavy heart, Zachary stood from the bench, thanked the man sincerely, and walked back onto the avenue. Now, with the context he'd been given, he saw the city with new eyes. Society moved without will—pure inertia. Nothing pushed it forward. No progress. And worst of all, no one cared. They were content.
An idea flashed through Zachary's mind, something he had read long ago.
'We stand on the threshold of the Last Man—cynical, nihilistic, and stripped of all belief, a being for whom nothing holds meaning any longer,' Zachary thought, watching a few children near a fountain—expressionless, joyless.
This situation mirrored perfectly what Nietzsche had feared most. After the 'Lie of God' was exposed, society had fallen into nihilism. They had lost the Pillar on which all their beliefs had been built, and yet remained oblivious to the catastrophic consequences. They had lost the yearning for greatness—for transcendence. Nietzsche feared tyrants, but even more, he feared the man without hunger.
Zachary walked through the undead city, thinking to himself. The Last Man—the epitome of passive nihilism—disillusioned with all values and meaning. A man who lives in indifference, incapable even of contempt. Nothing moves him. Nothing matters to him. He no longer expects anything from life or from himself. He is sterile, incapable of creation, devoid of any 'why' to support his actions.
Despite this, he couldn't find it in his heart to blame them. Even in the other world, this had been one of society's greatest problems: the Great Disappointment and its consequences—the spread of nihilism, the grand depression that followed, and the philosophical suicide that arises from self-deception.
Without realizing it, Zachary had returned to the broken steps of the Sky Temple. The sun was beginning to show itself beyond the horizon. And with this new light, Zachary knew what he had to do.
Bracing himself, he opened the temple doors.
***
The temple was in worse condition than he had expected. "Well, considering everything, I think it makes sense," Zachary said aloud as he examined the space. Long columns of now-broken seats lined the dark hall.
"Considering that the Present Witness is probably a Transcendent Human, then the First Witness during the so-called Silver Age must have been a Supreme—maybe even a Sacred Human. So, him growing old must mean that centuries have passed, and I don't even know which generation the Present Witness belongs to." He continued muttering as he observed the temple. The walls, once beautifully adorned, now stood bare. Faint traces of once-magnificent murals remained.
He continued walking, 'witnessing' the remnants of a once-prosperous civilization, one that had lost itself. That's when he saw it—a faint trace of light shining through a door. With hurried steps, Zachary made his way toward it.
Opening the door, he was met with a sight that didn't belong to the ruined temple. Perhaps it once had, when the temple stood in its full glory. Now, the grace and beauty of this place made everything else pale in comparison. He stood atop a circular amphitheater. The ivory steps flowed downward, accompanied by well-placed water canals, and at the center below stood a young tree. Light poured in through an open ceiling, revealing an orange sky laced with soft purple hues.
"I think this really deserves the name Sky Temple," Zachary said with a low chuckle. "I understand now why, despite the Ceremony being held today, the temple looked abandoned—this is where the Ceremony is supposed to take place."
Zachary considered the implications. If he was right, then at the time of the Ceremony he would be escorted from his residence to this inner sanctum—possibly even blindfolded—to maintain the Witness's ignorance of what truly transpired outside.
"Then... I probably fucked up," Zachary concluded, amused despite himself. "Meh, it was gonna happen anyway."
With this in mind, Zachary descended the steps. He watched as the water canals formed patterns along the way, flowing into a small pond that surrounded the tree. He didn't bother to leap over it; instead, he walked straight through. The water reached his knees, and finally, Zachary stood before the tree.
He sat down, his back resting against the trunk, and waited.
He didn't wait long.
Zachary felt it first—the tension in the air, as if electrified. A faint smell of ozone entered his nose. Then he heard it—the unkempt doors of the temple cracking open with thunderous force. A blink later, he saw him.
The Present Witness stood atop the amphitheater, lightning crackling wildly around his body. His face, surprisingly, was expressionless. But within his deep blue eyes, something dangerous stirred.
Zachary would be lying if he said he wasn't nervous. Hell, his back was damp with cold sweat. But he knew—this was the way forward. Not just the path to completing the Nightmare, but something deeper.
Because after learning the truth of what had happened to the city, he was certain. For the Original One. For himself—Zachary. And for those whose names he no longer remembered, but whose presence still lingered in his heart.
If he accepted the mantle of Witness, he would betray everything he believed in.
So he steeled his resolve—and looked forward.
"Explain yourself," the Present Witness said through clenched teeth as he descended the steps. "You had finally accomplished something. I was even proud." He winced slightly as he spoke—the air around him seemed to ripple, shifting as if it were avoiding him.
"But you just had to blow it all up. You and your changed eyes." His voice darkened with irony. "I should just boil you from the inside."
He stopped at the edge of the pond, standing above Zachary, who remained seated beneath the tree.
"You won't," Zachary answered as he rose to his feet. His voice was tense, but it carried no hint of doubt.
"And why is that?" the Witness pressed, stepping one foot into the pond.
Zachary took a deep breath. "Because, one way or another, you were hoping the Ceremony wouldn't happen."
The Witness froze, his shoulders tensing. Silence fell between them.
"Not like this," the Witness finally said, without denial. The pond was not the only thing separating them now—something far deeper stood between them. SIlence stretched between them for what felt like hours.
The Witness finally placed a tired hand over his face and spoke. "Last time, I asked you what you're supposed to Witness. As a Candidate, it's just the authority of our Guardian Goddess. But once you take on the mantle of Witness, do you even know what you're meant to truly witness?"
Zachary took a momemnt to think, but ultimatelly shook his head.
"We Witness the Oath the Gods forged long ago," the Witness said, his voice growing stern.
"And do you know why we, the Children of Storm—the Stormborn—are the ones who must bear witness to that Oath?" he asked.
Again, Zachary shook his head.
"Because the Storm God was the first to shed divine blood. Because She was the first to experience █ █."
Zachary clutched his head, his ears ringing violently. A stream of blood trickled from his nose. He couldn't even comprehend the words the Witness had just spoken—yet somehow, they tore through his mind like a blade.
'What?! He just… What does it mean? ' Zachary struggled to calm his breathing, but the blinding headache refused to let go.
'The Storm God… First to bleed... Is he talking about Nether? Then…'
Finally regaining some composure, Zachary straightened, though the revelation still gripped him tightly.
'So the Oath has something to do with the Doom War…' he concluded, locking eyes with the Witness.
"Why are you telling me this?" he asked.
"Because," the Witness replied, "even though the Storm God has been absent for a long time, we—as Witnesses—still have a duty to "Her", and to our people. The people may have forgotten, but we haven't. As long as we continue to witness the Oath, we continue to live."
He said it like an absolute truth.
Zachary raised an eyebrow. "Do you really believe that?"
He stepped forward until he stood at the edge of the pond. "I understand now why you didn't want the Candidate to see what the city has become. It's a depressing sight."
The Witness said nothing, so Zachary pressed on.
"You say we 'continue to live.' You call that life?" His voice began to rise. "Look at them! Do their eyes look alive to you?!"
His fists trembled as he continued. "They no longer live. They no longer hope. You call that life?! The children don't play! The young don't fall in love! The old no longer find comfort in silence! They've long given up on themselves. They've surrendered to the Finite!"
He didn't even know why he was so angry. Maybe because he'd fought against the same kind of depression once—back in the other world. But more likely, it was guilt. Because he saw the Original One in every lifeless face in this city—and he was reminded of what he had done.
"They are breathing!" the Witness finally roared. "What else can we do?! We have long sustained ourselves with "Her" as our Pillar, with "Her" gone we were lucky our society didn't experience misfortune."
Zachary couldn't help but frown, and with venom in his voice he answered, "Lucky? You're seriously calling that luck?" He shook his head in disbelief. "And what, you think you didn't experience misfortune? Sure, the buildings still stand tall, but your spirits… they collapsed long ago."
The Witness remained silent, so Zachary pressed on.
"Paralyzed by the fear of catastrophe, you've let your souls rot. Look at you!" He gestured sharply. "What you feared most already happened. The city might still be standing, but its people? They've perished in everything but name."
Still, the Witness said nothing.
Zachary's gaze hardened. "And don't even get me started on your god."
At that, the Witness finally reacted.
"Careful, boy," he said, his voice dangerously low.
Zachary heard the warning but refused to back down. As a philosophy student, he had long danced around the question of god. That's why he had always been drawn to Nietzsche. "God is dead" was never about atheism to Zachary—it was an invitation, a call to human transcendence beyond inherited morals. But here, in a world where gods were real, he could only feel contempt for the way they shackled their people.
So he ignored the threat and kept going. "Admit it. You've known it for a while now. She's not coming back."
The Witness flinched—barely—but Zachary caught it, and pressed harder.
"Our forefathers were modeled after gods. And if they failed—what does that tell you about the gods?"
Zachary was about to continue, but a wave of pressure exploded from the Witness, slamming into him like a storm. He staggered—but didn't stop.
"And maybe," Zachary said, quieter now, but sharper, "We have to consider the possibility that the gods do not like us, they never wanted us, in all probability they hate us."
The Witness glared at him, lightning beginning to crackle in his eyes. He looked ready to speak—but no words came.
Zachary didn't stop. His voice rose, each word sharper than the last.
"We don't need her." He stepped into the pond, ripples spreading. "Fuck damnation, man! Fuck redemption! We're god's unwanted children? So be it!"
"ENOUGH!" the Witness thundered. The force of his voice stopped Zachary mid-step.
"So what do you propose, huh?!" the Witness shouted. "Should we just surrender to Fate? Should we all dance until the lights go out?! Is that your answer?!"
His words cracked like thunder, but beneath them, something else was finally breaking through—the truth. Doubt. Fear. A lifetime of silent questioning, now spilling out from behind the facade of tradition and virtue.
Zachary answered, softly now, calmly—deliberately. "No."
He stepped forward, the water swirling around him as he crossed the pond.
"On the contrary," he said. "What we need to do next is the exact opposite."
Now standing in front of the Witness, his eyes steady and unwavering, Zachary spoke. "Now that the Pillar is gone, we build another."
The Witness let out a dry, mocking chuckle. "You think it's that easy?"
"No. Certainly not," Zachary answered, so naturally that the Witness frowned in surprise.
"We're up against one of the most dangerous problems any society can face," Zachary admitted. "But thankfully… we've become aware of it."
Despite the gravity of the situation, Zachary couldn't suppress his amusement. Everything kept aligning with what Nietzsche had preached—and that gave him clarity.
"We must become our own Pillar. We must transcend ourselves. Not biologically—but morally, spiritually."
The Witness narrowed his eyes, unconvinced.
But Zachary knew the problem. He was talking about Nietzsche's Overman—and not many would understand what that meant. The Overman was no superhero. He bore no mythic glow. In Ecce Homo, Nietzsche himself declared that the proper symbol of the Overman wasn't Parsifal—the noble romantic hero—but Cesare Borgia, commander of the Pope's armies, whose creed had been simple: Cesare or nothing.
Nietzsche never meant the Overman to be taken literally, as some evolutionary endpoint. He wasn't a man gifted with divine power. He was a new ideal, a new goal to aspire toward once the old gods had fallen.
That, of course, clashed violently with this world—where transcendence was literal, where people could physically ascend. But Zachary wasn't deterred. He could work with that tension.
"Over… man?" the Witness asked, puzzled by the term.
"Yes," Zachary replied. "First, we need to discard the current concept of the Path of Ascension. The transcendence I'm talking about has nothing to do with refining the body or soul through power. It's about overcoming ourselves—our limits, our morality, our fears."
He turned and began walking back toward the tree, the Witness following slowly behind.
The Witness said nothing, but his silence was already saying too much. He wasn't convinced—but he was listening.
"Yes, it sounds compelling," the Witness finally said, "but how exactly is one supposed to become this 'Overman'?"
Zachary stopped. That was the right question—and the eternal one. Even Nietzsche hadn't answered it directly. Because the Overman wasn't something one became. He was the goal. The new Pillar. A symbol of what humanity should strive for—not a god to worship, but a challenge to surpass.
In contrast to the comfort and passivity that gods often demanded, the Overman demanded effort. Aspiration. Growth. Where the divine offered certainty, the Overman offered uncertainty—and the freedom to rise or fall.
So, how does one become him?
Zachary sifted through everything he'd read, every essay, every argument—and finally settled on something close to an answer.
"Through self-enlightenment," Zachary said firmly.
The Witness raised an eyebrow, the storm in his eyes momentarily stilled by curiosity. Zachary stepped slowly around the tree, letting the words form not from certainty, but from conviction.
"Not the kind of enlightenment that grants power or status," Zachary clarified. "I'm talking about the kind that breaks chains—the ones we don't even know we wear. The kind that shows you the world as it truly is."
He glanced toward the heavens—orange and violet hues still blooming above.
"There was once a teaching... from another world," Zachary continued with a small chuckle. "It said that even gods, no matter how powerful, are trapped. Bound by desire, ego, fear. They too are part of a cycle—of endless becoming, endless suffering."
The Witness frowned but said nothing.
"True transcendence isn't climbing to the top of a divine ladder," Zachary said. "It's stepping off it. It's realizing that freedom doesn't come from becoming more—it comes from needing less. From releasing the anchors of fear, grief, suffering. From freeing oneself from attachment and delusion."
The Witness was no longer frowning. Zachary smiled calmly.
"And that's how we transcend—not by fleeing pain or hiding behind faith, but by understanding the nature of suffering and choosing to rise beyond it."
He turned back to the Witness.
"The Overman isn't someone who dominates others. He's someone who overcomes himself. And that's the path we need—not to become gods, but to become free from needing them."
They remained in silence for a long time. The sky had long since turned blue, but neither of them was looking at it. Their gazes were fixed on the young tree—a promise of new, infinite possibilities.
The Witness finally broke the silence.
"You should kill me," he said, with such calm that it made Zachary jump.
"What? Why?" Zachary asked in disbelief. "Hadn't we just reached an understanding?" His voice trembled.
"That's exactly why," the Witness said as he walked to the edge and sat beside the pond.
With a tired sigh, he continued. "As Witness, I am bound to the Oath. Once the Ceremony takes place, my life no longer belongs to me. I lay down all of myself to uphold and preserve the Oath." He directed his gaze to the door, as if he could see the cliff where they used to spar.
"That's why I hoped you wouldn't become the Witness. Not in an act of defiance, not as an attempt to rebel against my duty... but as a father trying to protect his son from this future." The Witness finally said with a sad smile.
Zachary couldn't think. Nausea welled up inside him, rising like bile in his throat. His hands trembled uncontrollably, the weight of the moment pressing against his chest like a vice. But still trembling, he forced himself to focus.
'Fuck. This really feels like dogshit. If the Original One were here instead of me, he'd probably be more affected—considering his relationship with his father.'
With a sad sigh, he sat beside the Witness, and together they remained there beneath the sun, enjoying the wind.
"What I want to say is… even if I wanted to follow what you propose, I can't. And worse—I'll be forced to stop you from challenging the Goddess." The Witness spoke with a calm so unnatural it felt rehearsed, but Zachary could tell—by the way he referred to the Storm God—that he was being sincere.
Zachary stood, and with a heavy breath, summoned Ender's Solace. The weapon rested awkwardly in his hand, trembling just like he was.
'If the Original One were here, he'd probably hesitate... maybe even cry.'
Zachary's eyes blurred slightly. Just a day ago, this man had dragged him through the worst experience of his life, but now—after clashing so fiercely in beliefs—Zachary could truly feel what this man's heart had held all along.
With a dry, shaky voice, he asked, "Any last words?"
The Witness... No. His 'father', closed his eyes and smiled softly.
"What I said to you before. I'm proud of you."
And so, Zachary drove Ender's Solace through his chest.
And the Sky trembled.
[You have broken the Oath.]
[The Storm God trembles in fury from beyond the grave.]
[The Gods are long dead. They are unable to judge you.]
[You have condemned countless lives through the Broken Oath.]
[Blasphemer! Receive your judgment.]
The heavens split open.
A massive presence turned its gaze toward him, and heavenly tribulation tore across the sky. The thunder was nothing like he'd ever heard before—each clap a divine roar, shaking the ground beneath him. His hair stood on end; raw static surged through his skin. Zachary raised his head with wide, terrified eyes—and what looked back at him...
Zachary bled from his eyes, nose, and ears. He didn't know what he had seen, only that it was furious.
Another thunderclap. Deafening. Crippling. Heavenly Tribulation continued to course through the broken sky.
He staggered, then saw it:
A bolt of white, incandescent lightning.
Falling.
Right.
On.
Him.
Zachary blinked.
And darkness welcomed him.
That's when he heard the Spell:
[You have slain a Transcendent Human: Dahrio al'Zahard, Witness of the Oath.]
[Wake up, Zachary! Your Nightmare is over.]
[Prepare for Appraisal…]