The Last Prophet

The world thousands of years ago was unconquered.

Here, the earth trembled beneath a tide of horrors. An army of Spider-Wizards swarmed over the battlefield like a living plague, their limbs blotting out the moon, their chittering voices whispering curses that curdled the blood. Even the mightiest defenders faltered beneath their numbers.

Deacons, Elders, even the Overseers themselves were being pushed back, their ranks collapsing beneath the endless dark, completely consuming the grassy green.

Then, from the largest command tent, a figure emerged.

He stepped into the chaos draped in robes of light – not that the fabric was bright, but rather the silk was not made out of silk.

Constructed from ethereal energies.

He held tight a simple warhorn in his grip, his staff in one hand to keep his balance steady on this crumbling rocky terrain. And his eyes…

Burned of a white radiance.

The man knelt. He prayed.

Once he was done, he stood, trembling from age. But his grip was tight on the horn. His mouth was dry, but no more words needed to be spoken. Only the sound of judgment.

The earth split open beneath the Spider-Wizards, a canyon yawning wide enough to swallow armies whole. But this was no ordinary quake. The rift did not stop, for the music of the horn could not be stopped. It will be harmonized, and no demon could stop it. It will be sounded, and no monster could bear it. It will be commanded, and no shadow could swallow it. The sound carved its way through mountains and seas, split clouds, shredded the very firmament. The sky cracked open, revealing endless stars beyond, and the fracture continued, carving a wound across galaxies.

And it kept going.

And going…

And going…

Further out to clusters the size of a thousand stars, a million stars, a billion, a trillion…

It would not stop – nor could it be stopped.

Back in the Naikaia… Haruki blinked, his sweat dripping down his forehead as well as the back of his neck.

The Scripture sat on that table, opening unbelievable history for Haruki to read. Oric stood there to the side, staying silent.

Haruki could question the validity of the absurdity he was reading. But he didn’t… somehow, the golden ink shimmering like starlight here – carried with it words that could be understood even by farmers. But Haruki felt tinier than even a humble farmer. For a farmer was a good man of the earth, but what exactly was he? Who was he to even witness these holy words?

If this was what a Prophet could do…

There was a chamber deeper into the city that remained a secret to most outsiders. It was lit only by the glow of torches and a massive circular fireplace in the center, its flames dancing against the polished stone walls. Thirty figures sat around a colossal round table carved from a single slab of obsidian, their faces shifting between shadow and firelight.

Elders in elegant golden robes whispered among themselves, while the Overseers sat like statues, arms folded, their expressions grave.

Elder Oric stood, resting his palms on the table. His voice was calm, but it carried to every corner of the chamber.

“You have all read Deacon Loto’s report. This young man, Haruki of Earth, has eaten rotten flesh. And from this – he gained the ability to return from death.”

A ripple of unease spread through the circle. One Elder hissed through his teeth.

“That reeks of Wizardry.”

“Have you tested this? Surely such claim of immortality is exaggerated.”

“I concur. How many false reports do we get daily from conmen trying to make a name for themselves?”

“The report comes from a member of the Naikaia,” Oric intercepted, “so I trust the validity of a brother.”

“So what are you saying then? That this man is truly a Wizard? Then what are we waiting for? He must be exterminated immediately.”

“But what of the Echo Rite? The Echo Rite cannot lie. Nor can it even work on a Wizard. Must I remind you that the Wizards have no inner calling? They are creatures opposed to the Voice. They, by definition, cannot be called.”

“Be cautious, my brother. I do not think we should venture into the assumption that a man from on high has once more come down and is currently walking among us.”

“What do we even know of this – Earth? For all we know this could be a test from Heaven. For all we know, this young man could be hiding more than he lets on. I know this is a possibility none of us would dare consider.”

“Of course. Why would we? The suggestion implies new revelation, and new revelation implies new authority. Who is this young man that we are to bow down to?”

“The man has no Echo. He has no power. No skill. What right does he have to even be here, walking on Sunpeak soil? Should we not attempt to send him back to where he came from?”

Oric raised his hand:

“This matter cannot be kept here in this local council for long. My friends, we all know that this is something we must present to the ears of the General Assembly.”

“But the Assembly will take months to even take this case, much less be organized. What shall we do then, brothers?”

The council turned as one toward the far wall, where twelve stands rose in solemn reverence. Draped upon them were not armors, but cloaks – cloaks faded with age, threads lined with silver, gold, royal, silk, mail, leather, glass, coal, and even wood, radiance, and grass. These all belonged to the ones who came before, numbered twelve, always, never more, never less. Chosen from on high just like the Prophets, untouched for centuries. The flames flickered over the garments, making them seem almost alive, as if listening.

No one spoke for a long moment. The weight of memory filled the air.

One Elder whispered, almost to himself:

“My Lords, Apostles of ages gone… where art ye now?”

The lingering of the incense flickered on about, as if ancient spirits were answering. But the silence continued to cover the chamber, letting the council sit in silence, their eyes fixed upon the relics.