City of Light, headquarters of the God of Light Church.
The Pope had returned to headquarters and now lay in bed, his face as white as paper.
Yet there was not a single injury visible on his body. Clearly, he was bedridden not because he was wounded, but because he had lost all hope.
Two Archbishops stood beside his bed. One was old, as expected, while the other was unusually young-far too young.
At that moment, however, the young Archbishop stood with his head bowed and his teeth clenched, his hands trembling with what seemed to be anger or fear.
The elderly Archbishop beside him wore a numb expression, his heart reduced to ashes.
Another chief god had appeared among the elves, and had even killed the God of Light. The world was about to change.
To the south, at the Storm Temple.
The temple stood atop a mountain, surrounded by cliffs.
The wind howled here, making it impossible for ordinary people to stay for even a moment.
An old man in blue robes stood at the temple entrance, looking north.
Behind him stood a young man holding a flickering crystal ball.
"High Priest," the young man said, "the God of Storms has sent an oracle. The God of Light has fallen. We are to send people north to investigate."
"Understood. Go, and take Wind with you."
The young man nodded, turned, and entered the temple.
The old man remained at the entrance, looking north as the mountain wind whipped his robes.
After a long while, he sighed.
It was not just the Storm Temple.
Similar scenes unfolded at the Earth Temple in the east, the Ocean Temple in the west, the Ice and Snow Temple in the north, and other temples, much like what had happened at Storm Temple.