Without Khala, What Do We Have Left?

"By Adun."

At that moment, Artanis thought he was hallucinating. He had actually seen the holy sages of history, as if every Executor from every generation were watching him. The eras in which they had lived spanned three thousand years.

All around him stood towering warriors clad in white armor, dazzling light spilling from the Solar Matrix across their armor like deities emerging from golden flames.

Among humans, each of them would have been a great figure worthy of a place in the Hall of Fame, with books written and statues raised in their honor. Yet now, they seemed to have crossed time itself, crossed the insurmountable divide between life and death, and stood before Artanis once more.

Artanis even had the illusion that his soul had returned to the Khala, where he had met the immortal spirits of the Executors from generations past.

What an honor.

That shock instead cleared his mind somewhat, allowing him to recover a sliver of his own reason from Amon's mad ravings.

"Great Korolariang, what should I do?" Artanis looked in Korolariang's direction, yet it seemed as though he could not see him at all. He continued to mutter to himself, "These whispers of extinguished voices... salvation... destruction."

At that moment, the blazing blue psionic flames in Artanis's eyes had turned blood-red, like the Void warped by Amon's endless hatred.

"Amon has corrupted the Khala and taken control of the Firstborn." Korolariang merely watched Artanis, as if to see whether he could break free from Amon's control through his own will. "The nerve cords once tightly linked the Firstborn's emotions and consciousness, but now they have become tools binding your wills firmly to the corrupted Khala."

"I..." Artanis rose while enduring the madness within the Khala and the tearing pain in his mind. He