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ㅤㅤ“LUCY ANNE MARJORIE” 1011.
ㅤㅤ The only thing more powerful
ㅤㅤ than hate is love.
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In the beginning they promised me salvation if only I learned to build. So I raised sanctuaries out of flesh, carved towers from borrowed names, as LUCY ANNE MARJORIE I flew by, and placed upon the altar the visage of Layla Llewellyn—a mask to be worshiped, or perhaps to be blamed. But every temple I erected fell to the same hands that had once shaped it, and every scripture of my being was redrafted until the parchment itself wept with contradictions.

Within the wreckage, Zheng Shuyi, Lumine, Osaragi, Yukari, and Sangzhi linger like fevered apostles. One bears a torch as if to illuminate, another strikes the pillars into dust, another kneels to gods who have long turned their faces away. They are martyrs and betrayers, saints in their silence, executioners in their breath. Their gospel is not salvation but collapse, and I remain the cathedral they could not complete—neither holy nor profane, trembling in the rift between devotion and desecration.

What remains is less a testament than a hymn unraveling at its last note. A city of dust clinging to its faint ember, a psalm still echoing though the choir has abandoned the nave. I endure as ruin and as relic, consecrated in blasphemy, condemned by faith that gnaws at its own foundation.

Step closer, if you will. Do not expect symmetry or sanctity. Seek instead the fissures where stray light bleeds through, the half-erased prayers scratched into collapsing stone. There, among the fractures, is where I dwell. There lies the only truth I can offer you: a ruin that refuses to be silenced, a devotion that survives only because it is broken.
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ㅤㅤ“BRAMANTYA ABYASA” 0110.
ㅤㅤ Sepandai-pandainnya tupai
ㅤㅤ melompat, akhirnya akan jatuh
ㅤㅤ juga. Sejomblo-jomblonya kamu
ㅤㅤ sekarang, akhirnya rent saya juga.
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In the beginning they promised me salvation if only I learned to build. So I raised sanctuaries out of flesh, carved towers from borrowed names, as BRAMANTYA ABYASA I flew by, and placed upon the altar the visage of Sadewa Sagara—a mask to be worshiped, or perhaps to be blamed. But every temple I erected fell to the same hands that had once shaped it, and every scripture of my being was redrafted until the parchment itself wept with contradictions.

Within the wreckage, Andrew Young, Mycroft Holmes, Charteris Kartazen, Leon S. Kennedy, and Gallagher linger like fevered apostles. One bears a torch as if to illuminate, another strikes the pillars into dust, another kneels to gods who have long turned their faces away. They are martyrs and betrayers, saints in their silence, executioners in their breath. Their gospel is not salvation but collapse, and I remain the cathedral they could not complete—neither holy nor profane, trembling in the rift between devotion and desecration.

What remains is less a testament than a hymn unraveling at its last note. A city of dust clinging to its faint ember, a psalm still echoing though the choir has abandoned the nave. I endure as ruin and as relic, consecrated in blasphemy, condemned by faith that gnaws at its own foundation.

Step closer, if you will. Do not expect symmetry or sanctity. Seek instead the fissures where stray light bleeds through, the half-erased prayers scratched into collapsing stone. There, among the fractures, is where I dwell. There lies the only truth I can offer you: a ruin that refuses to be silenced, a devotion that survives only because it is broken.
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ㅤㅤ“MEOWYY LUNELLY” 2603.
ㅤㅤ You’re asking me to stay.. how
ㅤㅤ could i refuse, when your voice
ㅤㅤ already feels like something i’ve
ㅤㅤ waiting for all along?
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In the beginning they promised me salvation if only I learned to build. So I raised sanctuaries out of flesh, carved towers from borrowed names, as MEOWYY LUNELLY I flew by, and placed upon the altar the visage of Nicole—a mask to be worshiped, or perhaps to be blamed. But every temple I erected fell to the same hands that had once shaped it, and every scripture of my being was redrafted until the parchment itself wept with contradictions.

Within the wreckage, Yoi Takiguchi, Mizi, Rudbeckia, Cyrene, and Sangzhi linger like fevered apostles. One bears a torch as if to illuminate, another strikes the pillars into dust, another kneels to gods who have long turned their faces away. They are martyrs and betrayers, saints in their silence, executioners in their breath. Their gospel is not salvation but collapse, and I remain the cathedral they could not complete—neither holy nor profane, trembling in the rift between devotion and desecration.

What remains is less a testament than a hymn unraveling at its last note. A city of dust clinging to its faint ember, a psalm still echoing though the choir has abandoned the nave. I endure as ruin and as relic, consecrated in blasphemy, condemned by faith that gnaws at its own foundation.

Step closer, if you will. Do not expect symmetry or sanctity. Seek instead the fissures where stray light bleeds through, the half-erased prayers scratched into collapsing stone. There, among the fractures, is where I dwell. There lies the only truth I can offer you: a ruin that refuses to be silenced, a devotion that survives only because it is broken.
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ㅤㅤ“GRIFFIN HALVORSE” 2407.
ㅤㅤDo not just love me in the daylight
ㅤㅤwhere it is easy; haunt me in the
ㅤㅤmidnight of my soul, for I would
ㅤㅤrather drown in the depths of
ㅤㅤyour mystery than live in a world
ㅤㅤof shallow clarity.
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In the beginning they promised me salvation if only I learned to build. So I raised sanctuaries out of flesh, carved towers from borrowed names, as GRIFFIN HALVORSE I flew by, and placed upon the altar the visage of Till—a mask to be worshiped, or perhaps to be blamed. But every temple I erected fell to the same hands that had once shaped it, and every scripture of my being was redrafted until the parchment itself wept with contradictions.

Within the wreckage, Rafayel Qi, Chuuya Nakahara, Yoru, Luke Davis, and Jason Todd linger like fevered apostles. One bears a torch as if to illuminate, another strikes the pillars into dust, another kneels to gods who have long turned their faces away. They are martyrs and betrayers, saints in their silence, executioners in their breath. Their gospel is not salvation but collapse, and I remain the cathedral they could not complete—neither holy nor profane, trembling in the rift between devotion and desecration.

What remains is less a testament than a hymn unraveling at its last note. A city of dust clinging to its faint ember, a psalm still echoing though the choir has abandoned the nave. I endure as ruin and as relic, consecrated in blasphemy, condemned by faith that gnaws at its own foundation.

Step closer, if you will. Do not expect symmetry or sanctity. Seek instead the fissures where stray light bleeds through, the half-erased prayers scratched into collapsing stone. There, among the fractures, is where I dwell. There lies the only truth I can offer you: a ruin that refuses to be silenced, a devotion that survives only because it is broken.
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ㅤㅤ“OSRIC HOTTWALD” 1226.
ㅤㅤAlways seeing the bright side
ㅤㅤthings but, I must always be
ㅤㅤprepared for the worst to arise
ㅤㅤin all cases.
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In the beginning they promised me salvation if only I learned to build. So I raised sanctuaries out of flesh, carved towers from borrowed names, as OSRIC HOTTWALD I flew by, and placed upon the altar the visage of Vyn Richter—a mask to be worshiped, or perhaps to be blamed. But every temple I erected fell to the same hands that had once shaped it, and every scripture of my being was redrafted until the parchment itself wept with contradictions.

Within the wreckage, Ling Xinlu, Tetchou Suehiro, Kevin Kaslana, and Sebastian Michaelis linger like fevered apostles. One bears a torch as if to illuminate, another strikes the pillars into dust, another kneels to gods who have long turned their faces away. They are martyrs and betrayers, saints in their silence, executioners in their breath. Their gospel is not salvation but collapse, and I remain the cathedral they could not complete—neither holy nor profane, trembling in the rift between devotion and desecration.

What remains is less a testament than a hymn unraveling at its last note. A city of dust clinging to its faint ember, a psalm still echoing though the choir has abandoned the nave. I endure as ruin and as relic, consecrated in blasphemy, condemned by faith that gnaws at its own foundation.

Step closer, if you will. Do not expect symmetry or sanctity. Seek instead the fissures where stray light bleeds through, the half-erased prayers scratched into collapsing stone. There, among the fractures, is where I dwell. There lies the only truth I can offer you: a ruin that refuses to be silenced, a devotion that survives only because it is broken.
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ㅤㅤ“JANAÍNA HÉLDER” 0704.
ㅤㅤEvery road leads back to you,
ㅤㅤeven the ones I swore never would.
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In the beginning they promised me salvation if only I learned to build. So I raised sanctuaries out of flesh, carved towers from borrowed names, as JANAÍNA HÉLDER I flew by, and placed upon the altar the visage of Kim Jaeyoung—a mask to be worshiped, or perhaps to be blamed. But every temple I erected fell to the same hands that had once shaped it, and every scripture of my being was redrafted until the parchment itself wept with contradictions.

Within the wreckage, Lee Nok, Tei Woodvan, Lee Sangwon, Sherry Birkin linger like fevered apostles. One bears a torch as if to illuminate, another strikes the pillars into dust, another kneels to gods who have long turned their faces away. They are martyrs and betrayers, saints in their silence, executioners in their breath. Their gospel is not salvation but collapse, and I remain the cathedral they could not complete—neither holy nor profane, trembling in the rift between devotion and desecration.

What remains is less a testament than a hymn unraveling at its last note. A city of dust clinging to its faint ember, a psalm still echoing though the choir has abandoned the nave. I endure as ruin and as relic, consecrated in blasphemy, condemned by faith that gnaws at its own foundation.

Step closer, if you will. Do not expect symmetry or sanctity. Seek instead the fissures where stray light bleeds through, the half-erased prayers scratched into collapsing stone. There, among the fractures, is where I dwell. There lies the only truth I can offer you: a ruin that refuses to be silenced, a devotion that survives only because it is broken.
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ㅤㅤ“SÄHZEIR REED” 0137.
ㅤㅤLa mesure de l'amour, c'est
ㅤㅤd'aimer sans mesure. A
ㅤㅤkamikaze existence in the
ㅤㅤbeauty of volcanic things.
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In the beginning they promised me salvation if only I learned to build. So I raised sanctuaries out of flesh, carved towers from borrowed names, as SÄHZEIR REED I flew by, and placed upon the altar the visage of Uzuki Kei—a mask to be worshiped, or perhaps to be blamed. But every temple I erected fell to the same hands that had once shaped it, and every scripture of my being was redrafted until the parchment itself wept with contradictions.

Within the wreckage, Artem Wing, Yomi, and Rerir linger like fevered apostles. One bears a torch as if to illuminate, another strikes the pillars into dust, another kneels to gods who have long turned their faces away. They are martyrs and betrayers, saints in their silence, executioners in their breath. Their gospel is not salvation but collapse, and I remain the cathedral they could not complete—neither holy nor profane, trembling in the rift between devotion and desecration.

What remains is less a testament than a hymn unraveling at its last note. A city of dust clinging to its faint ember, a psalm still echoing though the choir has abandoned the nave. I endure as ruin and as relic, consecrated in blasphemy, condemned by faith that gnaws at its own foundation.

Step closer, if you will. Do not expect symmetry or sanctity. Seek instead the fissures where stray light bleeds through, the half-erased prayers scratched into collapsing stone. There, among the fractures, is where I dwell. There lies the only truth I can offer you: a ruin that refuses to be silenced, a devotion that survives only because it is broken.
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