Chapter 1: A Cultist’s Masterpiece

The night sky rumbled with thunder, casting brief flashes of light upon a grisly scene. Beneath the roaring heavens, a lone figure sat atop a mountain of corpses. 

The bodies, pale and shriveled, looked as if something had hollowed them out from the inside. Their faces were frozen in expressions of terror, their final moments immortalized by the storm’s intermittent glow. 

 At the peak of this grotesque monument sat a man clad in a simple dark hoodie, jeans, and worn sneakers. 

His hoodie was down, allowing the wind to carry his long black hair, streaked with strands of silver, in wild arcs through the storm. 

A single white mask concealed his face, save for the sharp red line slashing across the right eye hole. 

A lone horn protruded from the mask’s forehead, an eerie silhouette against the night. Azar exhaled slowly, adjusting the black gloves on his hands as he stared at the sea of lifeless bodies beneath him. 

 "Hah… finally, it’s finished," he murmured, stretching his arms. 

"This took a lot longer than expected. 

Not that I mind, but I was hoping to be done before the storm hit." 

 The wind howled in response, rain beginning to drizzle down in uneven, scattered drops. Azar clicked his tongue. 

 "Seriously? Right when I’m at the good part?" 

He shook his head before raising his right hand. 

"Well, whatever. Let's wrap this up.

" With a casual flick of his wrist, a blue aura rose from the corpses, swirling upward like mist drawn toward an unseen force. 

It gathered, coalescing above him into a luminous sphere of pure energy. The glow illuminated his mask, casting a ghostly sheen over its surface. 

 Azar leaned back slightly, watching the energy shift and condense, molding itself into something tangible. 

Slowly, threads of deep blue fabric unraveled from the sphere, intertwining with golden embroidery as they wove themselves into the shape of a luxurious robe. 

The golden accents shimmered even beneath the dark clouds, and a faint purple aura pulsed around the garment, as if breathing. 

 Azar's eyes gleamed behind his mask. 

"Now that… that is beautiful." 

 He reached forward, letting his fingers brush against the newly formed fabric. 

The moment he touched it, a rush of energy surged through his body, sending a pleasant shiver down his spine. 

 "Ahh, I was right to go all out on this one. You can feel it, can’t you? The sheer weight of everything poured into you... the suffering, the prayers, the despair." 

His voice was laced with admiration, almost reverence. 

"This isn’t just any robe. It’s judgment itself, stitched together by the remnants of those who couldn’t escape fate. And it’s mine." 

 He exhaled, standing up and shaking the rain from his hair before slipping the robe over his shoulders. 

The fabric settled around him like it had always belonged there. Azar rolled his shoulders, adjusting to the weight of his creation. 

"Fits perfectly. Not too heavy, not too light. Just right." 

 He looked down at the mountain of empty husks beneath him and tilted his head. 

 "Still, I should probably clean up. Wouldn’t want to be rude and leave a mess behind." 

 He lifted his hand again, fingers shifting in a smooth, practiced motion. 

The bodies, as if responding to an unspoken command, crumbled into dust, carried away by the wind. Within moments, the battlefield was empty, save for Azar himself. 

 The storm raged on, but Azar simply turned, walking away into the darkness. Tonight had been a good night.