ERASED FROM HISTORY

  The night was alive with whispers of nature. Crickets chirped in relentless harmony, a lone owl hooted from its perch, and wolves howled at the distant moon. Yet amid the symphony of the wilderness, Isaac stumbled forward, his boots crunching against the forest floor.

  Blood matted his fur coat, the once-pristine white now a grotesque crimson. His hands trembled as he fell to his knees, breath labored, his spirit nearly extinguished.

  Above, the sky hung like a velvet shroud, blotting out the stars. Towering oak trees loomed over him, their gnarled branches twisting like skeletal fingers. Isaac’s hollow eyes stared ahead—searching for meaning, searching for hope.

  The forest fell silent.

  Crickets ceased their song. The owl held its breath. Even the wind stilled. An eerie weight pressed against the air, as if the world itself awaited judgment.

  Before Isaac, the earth quaked.

  Colossal oak trees shuddered, their roots tearing free with groaning protests. One by one, the mighty trunks were wrenched upward into the void above, vanishing into the pitch-black sky. In their place, a barren clearing emerged, raw and desolate.

  From the heavens, a beam of radiant white light pierced the night, striking the earth with divine fury. The impact roared like a celestial hammer, sending shockwaves through the ground.

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  Isaac shielded his face, pressing against the soil as dirt and debris erupted around him.

  When the light receded, the clearing lay smoldering.

  At its heart, the Holy Scroll rested in a shallow crater. Its surface glimmered, engraved with a pulsating glyphic symbol. The holy artifact radiated power, illuminating the dark forest like the dawn of creation.

  A voice thundered from the heavens—commanding and absolute.

  “Build a temple on this holy ground in remembrance of Me.”

  Isaac’s heart pounded. Slowly, he raised his bloodied face to the heavens. Tears streaked through the grime on his cheeks.

  “Yes, Lord,” he whispered. “On this rock, I will build Your temple. The gates of Hell shall not prevail against it.”

  The air thrummed with finality, as though the divine decree had been etched into the fabric of existence.

  Isaac forced himself to his feet, his battered body trembling beneath the weight of his task. He gazed down at the Holy Scroll, the symbol glowing with an ethereal rhythm—like the heartbeat of the universe itself.

  Smoke coiled upward from scorched earth, mingling with the chill night air. An invisible force pulled the displaced soil inward, sealing the crater completely.

  The earth’s finality mirrored Isaac’s exhaustion.

  Still, he moved on.

  The night air was sharp, carrying whispers of the past. Every sound—the rustle of leaves, the distant cry of a nocturnal bird—made Isaac’s heart race as he entered the dense, forbidding woods. The journey was fraught with obstacles. Branches clawed at his coat as he fought through the undergrowth.

  He emerged into a clearing filled with the dead.

  Bodies lay piled where the battle had raged. Vultures circled overhead. Isaac searched among the fallen until he found a carpenter’s tool bag.

  Nearby, a dead woman lay draped over a blank wooden sign.

  With meticulous care, Isaac carved into the wood, his exhaustion evident in every movement. Each stroke was an attempt to impose meaning upon the chaos.

  With his last strength, Isaac planted the sign into the ground.

  Greenmount Cemetery.

  The first rays of sunlight broke through the clouds.

  Isaac walked into the dawn, his silhouette fading into the light.