The sky lay suffocated beneath a blanket of iron dust.

  Arthuria looked up, her voice barely a whisper, “Not rain. It never rains anymore.”

  But saying those words did nothing to relieve the heaviness in the air. The crimson spores danced and filled her lungs, coating her tongue with a metallic taste that wouldn’t go away.

  A rust-colored horizon stretched out before her, reaching into an endless expanse.

  “Just decay,” she murmured, her voice low and shaky. “Even the skies are rotting.”

  Her metal boots clanged against the ground, each step echoing with the sound of grinding steel on earth. The chainmail rattled behind her like a serpent of iron, relentlessly trailing in her wake.

  She caught a glimpse of the broken sword in her hand—its edges jagged and chipped. Once seen as sacred. Once blessed by priests and lifted in reverent song. Now, just a bloodied shard of steel.

  Blood—ancient, pitch-black, flaking, mingled with fresh warmth—layered on the blade, a witness to her fury.

  With every step, she cursed the land. The soil rusted beneath her tread, and grass twisted into metallic strands, wilting under the weight of despair.

  No god lingered by her side.

  She had quashed them—some by her own doing, others through the crushing weight of her despair.

  “With the death of the gods, the prayers faded, and soon after, so did the people.”

  She tried to laugh at the absurdity of it all, but it came out as a painful, jagged cough.

  The wind howled across the desolate plains, a mournful sound echoing like the centuries of prayers that had gone unanswered.

  Prayer towers lay in ruins, shattered like broken bones of some great beast.

  Church bells—once vibrant heralds of hope—now lay scattered, torn apart like the cracked skulls of the forsaken.

  Monasteries stood solemnly, silent tombs holding mummified monks, their lips forever frozen in a hymn long since silenced.

  “Heaven was supposed to listen!” Arthuria spat, her voice sharp with rage. “Heaven promised to uphold its vows!”

  Yet, the sky above was a grim tapestry of black and red, as if some dead god had stitched it together with rusted iron, blocking the true light from their sight.

  Still, she marched onward. Toward a gate that defied reason, one that should not even exist.

  The Rusted Gate.

  The last remnant of a world once divine.

  “Beyond it,” she murmured, a flicker of hope kindling in her heart, “are the answers we seek. Perhaps lies. Perhaps nothing at all.”

  But vengeance—vengeance was certain, as sure as the darkness that enveloped her.

  “For the children who go hungry,” she breathed fiercely, her voice shaking with determination.

  “For the cities that lie in ruins.”

  “For the prayers—those anguished cries—that were silenced too soon.”

  And for the small hand that had once clasped her armor tightly—the boy whose eyes had rotted away, maggots spilling forth as he begged:

  “If heaven has forgotten us… please… let it remember our names…”

  That haunting plea still tore at her insides, a desperate echo.

  “I’m fighting for you,” Arthuria whispered, her words a fragile promise. “Even now.”

  But the sky remained a tapestry of rust.

  Silence hung heavy in the air, thick and suffocating.

  Soon, strange iron crucifixes appeared—thousands of them—towering like a grim forest of despair.

  From them, bodies dangled. Corpses could find peace in death. These souls were trapped in a torment that would never end.

  Their skin bubbled, peeling and raw, yet never yielding to decay. Their tongues, swollen and cracked, still whispered their desperate pleas:

  “Water… please… we seek water…”

  Arthuria stopped beside one. Its lips trembled, as if struggling against an unbearable weight.

  “K-kill… me… please…” it begged, a whisper barely escaping the tortured confines of its throat.

  Another voice rasped through the pain, “There is no god… no… god…”

  The words slithered into Arthuria’s armor, crawling beneath her skin as if they meant to nestle deep within her very soul.

  “I know,” she replied, her tone flat and devoid of emotion. “I know.”

  Yet, she pressed on, her steps determined against the bleak scene all around her.

  As the crucified shifted, their voices twisted and deepened, as if stolen from some unimaginable place:

  “RETURN.”

  “SUBMIT.”

  “TURN BACK.”

  One broken figure, its eyes hollow and weeping rust, hissed with unsettling fervor:

  “You cannot kill heaven, knight.”

  Arthuria didn’t waver. “I already have.”

  With a swift motion, her sword flashed—one decisive swing. Not aimed at the man, but at the very voice that had ensnared him. The stolen divine sound was extinguished in an instant, leaving only the empty shell, still trembling. A soul that had long been devoured.

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  “The gods took the souls,” she muttered bitterly. “Left the flesh. Left the agony. Salvation? That’s for cowards.”

  Dusk fell—a mockery of twilight, for there was no real distinction anymore. The sky darkened to a coppery shade, heavy and forbidding.

  She reached the Valley of Iron Haloes. Now, turned into a place of slaughter.

  Angels lay in ruins. Metallic feathers littered the ground like blades, sharp and merciless. Halos, once symbols of divinity, twisted into grotesque traps of warped steel.

  Some angels had melted eyes. Some were completely featureless. Yet, they all remained oddly alive, enough to endure their torment.

  Arthuria knelt beside one. Its blank silver mask pulsed, its jaw flickering open and shut, as if it were trying to form a word.

  “You don’t remember the words, do you?” she murmured, her voice trembling like a ghostly whisper. “You once inspired nations to rise. You became symbols of purity and hope.”

  A faint metallic twitch ran through the angel's form.

  Still alive. Still aware.

  “They told us to revere you,” she whispered, her heart heavy with truth. “And we did, with every fiber of our being.”

  The angel convulsed, its metal wings scraping against the ground with a haunting, anguished sound.

  Arthuria stood tall, her resolve unshaken. “You never died. They refuse to let you go.”

  She pressed forward, her footsteps breaking the eerie silence.

  Night—or something pretending to be it—fell upon the land.

  The Rusted Gate loomed forebodingly atop a mountain of bones, a massive structure made of corroded steel and dark marble. Chains hung like wraiths overhead, with bells crafted from the remnants of human bones and angelic silver.

  Not a single bell dared to ring. The silence was deep enough to strangle her lungs, turning each breath into a struggle.

  Inside her mind, a distant memory flickered:

  “Arthuria Pendragon II, Knight of the Sanctified Star,” it whispered, resonating with a lost grandeur.

  “The Sword of Heaven’s Will.”

  “Chosen of the Celestial Throne.”

  She clenched her teeth, a fierce determination igniting within her. “Lies. All of it.”

  With resolve, she marched through the gate.

  Immediately—movement.

  Bodies blended into the stone, their shapes grotesquely fused. Men, women, children—melted into the archway like living wax. Their eyes bulged and their teeth dripped molten despair.

  “Why have you come…” their layered voices questioned, a chorus of grief.

  “You brought darkness…”

  “You extinguished the sun…”

  Arthuria’s jaw tightened, defiance darkening her gaze. “No.”

  “You marched when you should have knelt.”

  “You drew your blade when you should have prayed.”

  “You are the reason heaven fell.”

  Arthuria drove her sword into the stone, the echo of metal striking rock ringing in the silence.

  Black blood oozed—a thick darkness pooling around her feet.

  Screams rippled through the air, sharp and panicked, yet the bodies—they lived. They always lived, trapped in endless torment.

  With a desperate heave, she pulled the blade from the ground. “If you want to blame someone, let it fall on the gods. They devoured you, leaving nothing but this.” Her voice quavered, heavy with bitterness.

  Pressing on, she ventured deeper into the abyss.

  Inside Rusted Heaven, there was no sanctuary, no blissful refuge.

  It resembled a grim factory instead.

  Colossal gears hung there, frozen in their unyielding chase. Chains crisscrossed the air, like dark shadows tightening around her heart. Iron pillars dripped with molten rust, staining the ground as a reminder of decay.

  And souls—thousands of them—swayed from cruel hooks. Children, soldiers, priests, innocents—each face a mirror of despair.

  Their dim light flickered like dying embers.

  Arthuria’s voice broke under the weight of realization. “You fed on them… to survive.” A shiver ran through her as she stepped closer, each word heavy with sorrow.

  She staggered toward the glowing hooks, their eerie glow pulling her in. “This was heaven. A slaughterhouse pretending to be salvation.”

  Her gauntlet shook, showing the weakness hidden beneath her warrior's exterior.

  “I believed in you,” she whispered, the words slipping out like a prayer. “We all did.” Her eyes sparkled with unspoken sorrow.

  A throne made of rusted swords shifted, creaking under the burden of time.

  From its dark depths, something malevolent emerged.

  Wings like shattered blades spread wide. A halo fell apart, turning into a vicious ring of spikes that drove into its skull. Its face was gone—only a gaping void remained.

  A god that had abandoned purity for the raw instinct to survive.

  It spoke with a voice that echoed like the sounds of forgotten graves:

  “Arthuria Pendragon. Knight of the Sanctified Star. Your name lingers in our memory.”

  With determination, she lifted her sword high. “You promised salvation.”

  “And we delivered it,” the god replied, its voice cold and empty.

  “You vowed to protect us,” she insisted, her grip tightening.

  “We took them before suffering could claim them,” the god stated, its lifeless gaze steady.

  “You promised us paradise.”

  “We preserved paradise. You should show some gratitude.”

  Arthuria shook, yet her voice remained steady, refusing to yield.

  “They sought mercy in their final moments. In return, you destroyed their hope.”

  The god tilted its hollow head, disdain evident in its voice. “Mercy is an illusion. The universe knows no mercy. We simply adapted.”

  “Then I will adapt as well,” Arthuria declared fiercely. “By putting an end to you.”

  In a burst of motion, she charged.

  Hooks snapped free, lashing out with vicious speed.

  She rolled, cutting through chains, her screams echoing through a symphony of blood and metal.

  Souls tumbled to the ground, their flickering lights offering a silent farewell before fading into the abyss.

  “You cannot obliterate the eternal,” the god hissed, a hint of disbelief creeping into its voice.

  “You are not eternal. You are merely a wretched creature, starving.”

  Her blade sank into its torso,

  rust gushing from the wound like rotting flesh.

  Bladed wings lashed at her chest—her armor cracked, and her ribs screamed in agony.

  Yet, she did not waver.

  She drove deeper, fueled by a fire that refused to be snuffed out.

  The god wailed—a terrible sound made up of thousands of voices, each one taken from the countless prayers of the forgotten.

  Souls twisted on cruel hooks. Chains broke apart with a loud crash. The cavern shook violently.

  “Do you really think this saves them?” the god gasped, desperation thick in their voice. “Do you think this is justice?”

  Arthuria leaned forward, her breath hot with resolve, blood seeping down her arm.

  “I think this is the only shred of hope I have left.”

  With fierce determination, she drove the sword down,

  splitting the god in half.

  A flood of black light erupted—not divine, but an all-consuming void. It swallowed all sound, leaving just a haunting silence.

  The god's last whisper crawled into her mind:

  “You think this is victory…”

  Then came the silence.

  The throne shattered into pieces. The ceiling cracked and moaned. Gears clattered like blades above.

  Heaven itself fell apart.

  Souls burst forth in a rain of despair.

  Arthuria stood frozen, her shoulders quaking. She looked at the world she had once admired, watching it die.

  “Did I save anyone?” she murmured softly. “Did I get revenge for them?”

  No answer came.

  And in that moment, she understood the truth:

  The gods hadn’t abandoned humanity.

  They had exhausted their last breath long ago.

  Humanity had prayed to lifeless echoes.

  Her sword fell to the ground, the sound sharp and cold.

  She sank to her knees, feeling the warm pool of blood collect under her damaged armor.

  The Rusted Heaven turned to ash. Everything collapsed in on itself. Light, sound, prayer—all snuffed out.

  Arthuria bowed her head.

  “For the first time,” she whispered, “I will close my eyes. Not to pray... but to find peace.”

  The sky above was a tapestry of rust. The universe provided no comfort. A knight knelt in deep silence.

  Nothing mourned, as if the very essence of sorrow had left this forsaken place.

  Nothing waited; time itself seemed to tire, slipping like dust through open fingers.

  Nothing answered; the silence was deafening, a void echoing in the hollow chambers of despair.

  Just rust, the hue of hopelessness clung to every surface, a mark of decay and dissolution.

  Just ruin, the remnants of what once existed lay scattered like lost dreams, shadows of a forgotten age.