القصة

There was once an age when light reigned supreme. Its radiance spread across the heavens, burning so brightly that shadows fled and people forgot that they had ever existed. People called this state of affairs “peace”. However, peace born of blindness is merely silence before the storm. For in the shadows where light did not dare to venture, darkness stirred; not as evil, but as memory. The forgotten pulse of creation itself waited and watched, whispering to the void that the world had lost its symmetry. When the first shadow rose again, the sky trembled not in fear, but in recognition. Unable to destroy what they did not understand, the gods forged a prison to contain the core of this rebalance: a temple, a monument carved at the edge of eternity. At its heart, they bound a black hole, a wound between realities; a heart that devours and gives in the same breath. They left it to those who would guard it. The Guardians arrived. One after another. Each was born of balance and consumed by it. They all swore to preserve the equilibrium between light and dark, believing themselves to be saviours. But every torch that burns for long enough begins to cast its own shadow. Some believed that light could be perfected. Others believed that the shadow could be purified. And they all fell. Not because they failed in their duty, but because they succeeded all too well. The longer the balance endures, the more fragile it becomes. The Forgotten Torchbearer was one of them. Once, he stood where you now stand: at the centre of eternity, holding the flame that consumes both brilliance and abyss. He kept the world whole until the flame turned on him; until balance itself demanded his sacrifice. Now, he waits; neither living nor dead, an echo bound to the temple’s pulse, guarding the world from the truth that broke him. Even equilibrium is a lie. Every age, no matter how divine, will tilt again. Even the purest flame will eventually burn its bearer. And so, the torch is passed to you; not to save the world, but to delay its inevitable collapse. You have not been chosen. You are simply next in line. When your time comes and the torch falters in your hands, the temple will remember your name in the same way that it remembers his: not as a saviour, but as a repetition of the past. For the world does not end in fire or shadow. It ends in silence, when the light of the torch fades and only the memory of those who once tried to maintain balance remains.