Harry awoke to the distant sound of bells tolling, the chime low and heavy, echoing through the darkness. He was lying on cold earth, his body stiff, his mind sluggish. The air was thick with the scent of decay, and something about the place felt... wrong. Slowly, he forced his eyes open, taking in his surroundings.
Tall, looming cliffs surrounded him, and in the distance, the faint glimmer of torchlight flickered. Shadows danced across rough, weather-beaten buildings nestled in a valley below. A settlement—or a cult village, if his instincts were right. The wind carried whispers, faint and sinister, from somewhere deeper within the town.
"Temple Gate," murmured a voice next to him.
A woman stood there, cloaked in black, her face hidden beneath a hood. When she looked up, her eyes held a feverish light, the fervor of someone who had abandoned reason. This woman was Val—her presence unnerving, her smile twisted with dark satisfaction.
"You're awake," she said softly, her tone soothing yet laced with something sinister. "Welcome, my beautiful one. Welcome to Temple Gate."
Harry struggled to sit up, his mind still swimming. "Where...?" His voice was hoarse, dry. Memories of destruction, of fire, flitted through his mind—images of cities crumbling, of people screaming. But those were just fragments, scattered memories. What was this place?
Val knelt beside him, her hand resting on his shoulder, a gesture that felt both gentle and possessive. "This is your sanctuary now," she whispered, her voice low and reverent. "You have been chosen. I have seen it... The Father has seen it."
Harry's head spun, the weight of her words pressing down on him. Chosen. He remembered feeling powerful, unstoppable. He remembered... Wallrider. The name flickered in his mind, accompanied by a presence, cold and cunning, lurking just beneath his consciousness. It was always there now, a whisper, a murmur.
Join me, Harry, the voice slithered through his thoughts, smooth and familiar. They betrayed you, cast you aside. I will make you whole.
The Walrider—the creature he had come to know as Wallrider—shifted inside him, coaxing, pulling him deeper. Harry swallowed hard, pushing the voice back. But it wasn't easy. Each time he fought it, it seemed to grow stronger, tightening its hold on him.
Val watched him with fascination, her gaze never wavering. "Come," she said, rising to her feet and extending a hand. "The Father wants to meet you."
Harry hesitated, but something compelled him forward. He took her hand, the touch of her cold fingers a grounding force, an anchor in the storm of his mind. She led him through narrow, winding paths toward the heart of the village. The buildings were crude, assembled from wood and metal, the walls covered in symbols he couldn't decipher.
As they moved, he caught glimpses of his companions in the distance. Eddie was meandering aimlessly, humming to himself, his eyes wide with fascination as he explored the strange place. Chris Walker stalked between buildings, his massive form casting a looming shadow across the dirt paths, while Trager watched everything with an unnerving calm, his gaze calculating.
But Harry's focus was elsewhere. The village's residents—the cult members—peered at him with a mixture of awe and fear, their eyes wide, their hands clasped in prayer. Some whispered blessings, others curses. Children watched him from doorways, their faces pale and gaunt. A woman sobbed in a corner, muttering something about "the end" and "the chosen one."
He felt their stares prickling against his skin, and the voice inside him—the voice of Wallrider—stirred, feeding on the attention, on the reverence.
They know, Harry, it whispered, its tone soft and coaxing. They sense the power within you. Show them.
Val guided him into a large building at the center of the village, a place that felt ancient, oppressive. The air was thick with incense, and the dim glow of candles cast long shadows across the walls. Symbols, drawn in blood, lined the walls, and a crude altar stood at the far end, adorned with twisted metal and bones.
The Father—Sullivan Knoth—sat behind the altar, his expression serene, as if he had been expecting them. He was an older man, his face lined with years of devotion and madness, his eyes gleaming with fervor.
"Welcome," Knoth said, his voice deep and resonant, echoing through the chamber. "You have come to us at last."
Harry glanced at Val, then back at Knoth. The cult leader's gaze was intense, his eyes unwavering as he studied Harry. It was as if he could see into the darkest corners of his mind, peeling back the layers to reveal the fractured soul beneath.
"I don't... know why I'm here," Harry said slowly, his voice unsteady.
Knoth's lips curled into a smile. "But you do, don't you?" He leaned forward, his hands clasped in front of him. "You are not like the others. You are... special. A vessel of power. And power, my son, has a purpose."
Harry's vision blurred for a moment, the voice of Wallrider growing louder. Listen to him, Harry. He understands.
Knoth's words wove into Wallrider's whispers, their voices blending, twisting around him. Purpose. Power. He had sought both, craved both. But now... now it was consuming him, hollowing him out.
"I don't... I don't want this," he murmured, clutching his head. "I didn't ask for this."
Val's hand rested on his shoulder, grounding him. "You were chosen, my love. Chosen to bring the end, to cleanse the world. They all see it. They all know."
Knoth nodded solemnly. "Yes. You are the vessel, the one who will bring us salvation. You cannot deny what is written."
Harry's heart pounded in his chest, his pulse a relentless drumbeat that echoed through his mind. The Walrider's presence intensified, spreading through him like fire, filling him with a dark, cold certainty. He felt the madness creeping in, the walls of his sanity cracking under the weight of it.
Give in, Wallrider whispered, his voice dripping with temptation. You were never meant to live in their world. You are above it, Harry. Accept it.
Harry shuddered, his grip on reality slipping. He looked at Val, at Knoth, at the broken figures around him, all of them staring at him with reverence, as if he were their salvation. And in that moment, something in him snapped. The last remnants of his resistance crumbled, and he allowed himself to sink into the madness.
He was their leader. Their king. And they would follow him into oblivion.
Knoth rose, his arms outstretched, his voice a fervent prayer. "Praise be to the vessel! Praise be to the end!"
The cult members around them chanted in unison, their voices rising, a twisted symphony of devotion and despair. Harry felt the weight of their faith pressing down on him, filling him with a dark, intoxicating power. He was no longer Harry Potter. He was something... more. Something terrible and magnificent.
Val leaned close, her voice a whisper in his ear. "You are ours now. And we are yours."
A cold smile twisted across Harry's lips, his eyes glinting with a manic light. He was theirs, yes. But they were his. All of them. They would follow him, worship him, die for him if he commanded it.
Outside, the storm raged, lightning flashing across the sky, illuminating Temple Gate in sharp, flickering bursts. And Harry, standing in the heart of it all, felt a surge of exhilaration. He had found his purpose, his place in this broken world. He was their leader, their savior. And they would follow him, even if it led them all to destruction.
As the chanting rose to a fever pitch,Harry felt the Walrider's power coursing through him, filling him with dark magic that pulsed like a second heartbeat.
He was no longer lost. He was found.
The chanting was everywhere now, a relentless, pounding rhythm that dug into Harry's skull. It was like a heartbeat, one that didn't belong to him but had seeped into his very veins, overtaking him. His chest heaved as he stood before them—Val at his side, Sullivan Knoth watching with the gaze of a predator who knew his prey was caught.
Harry's thoughts were fractured, scattered like broken glass. There were voices, so many voices inside his head, whispering, screaming, laughing. They had been quiet at first—faint murmurs in the back of his mind—but now they were all he could hear. And somehow, he knew those voices weren't just his.
They're waiting for you, Harry, came a whisper that was more familiar than the others. Wallrider. The Walrider. Waiting for you to lead them. You're their god now. Can't you feel it?
And he could feel it. Their eyes were on him, wide with devotion and fear. The cult members circled him like moths to a flame, their hands raised, palms open in praise. Their voices, once a low hum, had turned into something feverish, something manic.
"Praise him! The bringer of the end!" one of them shouted.
"Praise be to the god who whispers!" another cried.
They were everywhere now—gathering around him, reaching for him as if his very touch would bless them, save them from the hell they believed the world had become. Their eyes burned with the kind of faith that terrified Harry, but it also made him feel... powerful. Needed. Like he was finally where he was meant to be.
And yet, something inside him recoiled, some tiny part of his mind that was still his own. He shook his head, blinking hard, trying to clear the fog, but the whispers only grew louder, pushing against his sanity.
Val moved closer, her breath hot against his ear. "They hear you, Harry. You've been whispering to them."
Harry frowned, his heart racing. "What... what do you mean?" His voice trembled, uncertain, as if a part of him didn't want to know the answer.
Val smiled, her lips curving into a grin that was almost... reverent. "I hear you too," she whispered. "You've been speaking to me in the night. In the darkness. You've told me things, Harry. Dark, beautiful things."
Harry staggered back, confusion cutting through the haze. "I... I haven't—"
"Oh, but you have." Val stepped closer, her eyes wide and hungry. "You've whispered to me in my dreams. You've told me how this world ends. You've shown me the fire you will bring. The cleansing you will deliver." She raised her hands, her voice rising with fervor. "You are the god we have waited for! You are the whisperer!"
The cult fell to their knees around him, their heads bowed, their lips moving in frantic prayer. "Whisper to us! Tell us what you see!"
Harry's heart pounded in his chest, the pressure unbearable. He hadn't whispered to them. He hadn't said anything. Had he? The lines between his thoughts and reality were blurring, twisting. His memory felt... warped. Wrong.
You've always whispered to them, Wallrider's voice slithered through his mind, soft and coaxing. You've always known the truth, Harry. They're yours now. Yours to shape, yours to destroy. Just let go.
Harry stumbled back, clutching at his head. "I... I don't want this. I didn't ask for—"
But they need you, the voice pressed, sharper now, more insistent. Without you, they are lost. They will fall into despair without their god. You are their only salvation.
Val's hand slid up his arm, her touch cold but electrifying. "You've been whispering to me for weeks, Harry. I've heard your voice in the walls, in the wind. You've told me about the blood that will wash over the earth. About how we will be reborn."
Harry's breathing quickened, panic rising in his chest. "No, no... I didn't—"
But even as he spoke, he felt it. The cracks in his mind. The places where his thoughts had leaked out, uncontrolled. Where the darkness inside him—Wallrider's voice—had taken root, spreading like poison through his mind.
"You told me to bring you here," Val continued, her eyes glowing with devotion. "To this place. To Temple Gate. You wanted to see it burn."
Harry's vision blurred, the world around him spinning. His thoughts were colliding, splintering, breaking apart. He didn't remember whispering to her, but somehow... he knew it was true. He could feel it, deep inside him. The darkness was no longer a separate entity. It was part of him. It was him.
They love you, Harry, Wallrider whispered, his voice soothing, like a lullaby. They worship you. This is what you wanted, isn't it? To be seen. To be needed. They'll follow you into the fire.
The cult members were crawling toward him now, reaching for his robes, for his skin, their eyes glazed with religious fervor. Their whispers filled the air like a thick fog, suffocating him, but also filling him with a dark sense of purpose.
"You are the voice in the darkness," Val said softly, her eyes locked onto his. "You are the end. The beginning. The god of Temple Gate."
Harry's breath came in short, ragged bursts. He wanted to scream, to tell them to stop, but his body refused to move. The power—Wallrider's power—pulsed through him, threading through his veins, weaving into his very soul. And with each beat of his heart, he felt his resistance weaken.
Val stepped closer, her lips inches from his ear. "What do you want, Harry?" she whispered. "Tell us. We are yours. We will do anything for you."
Harry's vision blurred again, the weight of her words pressing down on him. Anything. They would follow him into madness, into hell itself, if he asked. He had never felt this kind of power before—never felt so... worshipped.
This is what you deserve, Harry, Wallrider murmured, his voice almost tender. To be their king. Their god.
Harry's lips parted, and for a moment, he thought he might scream, might tear himself away from this nightmare. But instead, something darker bubbled up inside him. A laugh. Low, and twisted, it escaped his throat before he could stop it.
Val's eyes widened with joy. "Yes... yes, you see it now."
The cult members echoed her words, their voices rising in a chorus of praise. "He sees it! The god sees it!"
Harry's laughter grew, manic and uncontrollable, until it filled the room, bouncing off the walls, blending with the fevered prayers of the cult. The sound of it was like nails on glass, sharp and broken, but somehow... it felt right.
The world around him was spinning, warping, the walls of his sanity crumbling under the weight of their devotion. He could feel Wallrider's presence, deep inside him, coiled like a serpent, feeding on the madness, on the worship.
And Harry... Harry was beginning to like it.
His body felt lighter, his mind unmoored, as if he was floating above them all, looking down on his followers with the eyes of a god. They were his now. His to command. His to corrupt. His to destroy.
Val's hand tightened on his arm. "Whisper to me again, my love. Tell me what you see."
Harry's lips twitched into a smile, cold and cruel. He could feel the madness taking root, spreading through him like a disease, but he no longer cared. It felt... good.
"I see fire," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the roar of the storm outside. "I see death."
Val's eyes lit up, her breath quickening. "Yes... yes..."
"I see the world crumbling," Harry continued, his voice stronger now, more certain. "I see blood. So much blood."
The cult members moaned in pleasure, their hands clawing at the ground, their eyes wide with rapture.
"And I see me," Harry said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper. "Standing above it all."
Val's lips curled into a smile, her eyes dark with desire. "Yes, my god. Yes."
Harry's chest heaved, his pulse racing. The Walrider—Wallrider—coiled tighter around his mind, feeding him visions of destruction, of the world burning at his feet. And Harry... Harry couldn't help but want it.
The whispers grew louder, filling the air with promises of power, of blood, of devotion. Harry's hands clenched into fists, and for the first time in weeks, he felt in control. He was no longer running from the madness.
He was embracing it.
"I am your god," Harry whispered, his voice dripping with venom and dark ecstasy. "And I will lead you into the fire."
The cult erupted into frenzied prayer, their voices rising in a twisted hymn, their hands reaching toward him as if he could save them, as if he was salvation.
Harry stood at the center of it all, his laughter echoing through the room, his mind fully fractured, fully lost.
But in the madness, in the chaos, he had found something he hadn't felt in years.
He had found purpose.
And it was beautiful.
The madness of Temple Gate consumed Harry, and within its twisted embrace, he found a sense of purpose that had eluded him for far too long. He was no longer a hero, no longer Harry Potter—the boy who lived. Now, he was the god of this forsaken village, the dark whisper in the night, the leader of lost souls. The ground trembled beneath his feet as if the earth itself knew it was beneath his will.
But as the cult's worship rose to a fever pitch, something deeper, more sinister, began to take root inside him. It was Wallrider—the Walrider—lurking, twisting his thoughts, turning his mind into a battleground of desires, delusions, and whispers of destruction.
They will bow to you, Harry. They will all bow, Wallrider whispered, the voice sharp as glass, sliding into Harry's consciousness like a dagger. You can have it all. Burn this village and the world will follow.
Harry stood at the center of the temple, his eyes glazed, his breath heavy. The cult members crowded around him, their hands outstretched, murmuring his name like a prayer. He could barely hear them over the pounding in his skull, the voice of Wallrider pressing harder, urging him to let go, to become the god they all believed him to be.
But amidst the madness, a flicker of something else stirred—doubt, fear, something that reminded him of who he had once been. It was small, barely noticeable, but it gnawed at him nonetheless.
"Harry?" Val's voice was soft, reverent, as she stood close to him, her eyes wide with devotion. "You're ready now. You can feel it, can't you? The end is near. You've whispered it to me. The world is waiting for your fire."
Harry blinked, feeling the weight of her words pressing against the fractures in his mind. The world—it had always demanded something from him. Always pulled him in different directions, used him for its own ends. But here, in this dark, forgotten place, he had the power. He was the one who would pull the strings. He was in control.
And yet... deep within, the boy he once was cried out. But Harry silenced him.
"I see it now," Harry said softly, his voice raw. He looked out at the crowd, his once green eyes now clouded with something darker. "The world will burn, and we will be free."
The cult members cheered, their devotion palpable. But Harry's mind was no longer entirely his own. The whispers of Wallrider were louder, twisting his every thought, corrupting every intention.
Embrace it, the Walrider urged. Embrace the destruction. Let them worship you as they should.
Harry grinned—something sharp and unsettling. "They don't even know what's coming," he muttered to himself. "But I'll show them."
Meanwhile, somewhere deep within the hell of Temple Gate…
Far from the fervor of Harry's newly claimed throne, his companions wandered the twisted streets of Temple Gate, separated from him but still tethered by a dark, invisible thread. Each of them, broken in their own way, felt the pull of the village's madness seeping into their bones.
Eddie was wandering through the narrow streets, humming tunelessly to himself. His steps were slow, deliberate, as if the world itself were his playground. The villagers whispered and stared as he passed, but Eddie didn't care. He had never cared for the whispers of others. To him, this place was just another step in Harry's grand plan—a plan he was more than happy to follow.
He approached a small chapel, its doors wide open, and inside, a group of cultists huddled together, their eyes filled with terror as they prayed. Eddie smiled, stepping into the dim light of the chapel, his grin widening.
"You're all praying to the wrong god," he said softly, his voice like silk. "Harry is your god now."
The cultists turned to look at him, their eyes wide with confusion. Eddie took a step forward, his smile never faltering. "He's going to bring the fire. You've seen it, haven't you? He'll cleanse this place. Burn it down to ash."
One of the cultists—a woman with wide, terrified eyes—shook her head. "No, no, the Father—Knoth—he is our savior."
Eddie chuckled, his eyes gleaming with malice. "Knoth? Knoth is nothing. Harry is everything."
He knelt before the altar, running his fingers over the cracked, bloodstained wood. "You'll see soon enough."
Trager, meanwhile, had made his way into the village's outskirts. His sharp mind, always calculating, had taken notice of the strange rituals the villagers performed. There was fear here—fear of the outside, fear of Harry, but most of all, fear of something deeper.
Something beneath the village.
He watched from the shadows as a group of villagers carried a shrouded body toward a deep pit near the cliffs. They chanted under their breath, their faces grim. Without a sound, Trager followed, his movements careful, methodical.
He crept closer, hiding behind an old, decaying shack as the villagers approached the edge of the pit. The smell of rot was overwhelming, and Trager's nose wrinkled in disgust, but his curiosity won out. He watched as they heaved the body into the pit, the sound of it hitting the earth below making his stomach churn.
"What are you hiding?" he whispered to himself, his mind racing. Temple Gate had secrets, and Trager intended to find them. He knew Harry was growing stronger, but this village—there was something wrong here, something that even Harry might not fully understand.
Something... old. Something worse.
Chris Walker lumbered through the rotting remains of Temple Gate, his massive fists clenched, his breath heavy. The air was thick with decay, and the village seemed to pulse with a sickness that gnawed at the edges of his mind. Everything here reeked of death, and though Chris had seen his share of horrors, this place felt wrong—different.
He had wandered away from Harry and the others. The chaotic devotion to Harry didn't sit well with him. Chris didn't care for gods or worship. He understood power—raw, physical power. But this? This religious fervor that clung to the villagers like the stink of rotting meat? It made him uneasy, like something was watching, waiting for him to let his guard down.
As he pressed further into the village, he found himself in the deeper, more isolated areas. The narrow streets here were lined with collapsed buildings, their walls leaning at odd angles, as if they could crumble at any moment. The shadows here were thicker, heavier. Chris growled low in his throat, the primal part of him sensing danger, even if he couldn't yet see it.
The ground beneath his boots was soft, the mud thick and clinging, but that didn't slow him down. He could hear something—a faint scraping sound, metal against stone, echoing in the distance. It sent a shiver down his spine, though he'd never admit it. His grip tightened as he reached the doorway of a crumbling chapel. It was silent inside, too silent. Something wasn't right.
As he stepped inside, the air grew colder, and the stench of blood hit him like a wall. His eyes adjusted to the darkness, and that's when he saw it.
Blood, dark and dried, streaked the floor in thick trails, leading toward the back of the room. His nostrils flared as he took in the sight—a makeshift altar made of splintered wood and rusted metal stood at the center, and behind it, scattered bones and mangled bodies were piled high, like a grotesque offering.
Chris took a step closer, his breath low and rumbling in his chest. There was something about this place—something that gnawed at the edges of his mind, something that told him to leave. But Chris Walker wasn't afraid of anything. Not monsters. Not men. He was the monster.
A sudden sound—a heavy thud—came from somewhere above him, and Chris froze, his eyes narrowing. The scraping of metal on stone returned, this time closer, louder. He growled low, the sound barely human, and turned toward the source.
From the shadows above, something shifted. A figure moved through the rafters with slow, deliberate steps, her presence felt before she was seen. Chris's eyes locked onto her as she stepped into the faint light cast by a flickering torch on the wall.
Marta.
She was tall, taller than most men, her frame wiry but powerful, like steel wrapped in sinew. Her skin was pale, stretched tight over sharp bones, and her face was obscured by wild, matted hair. But it was her weapon that drew Chris's attention—a massive pickaxe, the blade glinting in the dim light, stained with old blood. She held it like an extension of herself, with an ease that spoke of deadly skill.
Chris's muscles tensed, his instincts kicking in. There was no mistaking what she was—she was like him, a predator. But where Chris was all brute strength and unrelenting force, Marta moved with a calculated, eerie grace. Her presence filled the room, oppressive and suffocating, as if the very air recoiled from her.
For a moment, they stood in silence, the tension between them thick, electric. Chris's breath came in deep, slow huffs, his fists flexing at his sides. He didn't need to speak. He could see it in her eyes, in the way she gripped the pickaxe—she was ready for blood.
Marta tilted her head, her lips curling into something that could have been a smile but looked more like a snarl. "You're not one of Knoth's sheep," she rasped, her voice low, gravelly, like stones scraping together. "You don't belong here."
Chris growled in response, his eyes never leaving her, his body coiled, ready to strike. "Neither do you."
Marta's smile widened, the madness behind her eyes flickering like a flame. She took a step forward, dragging the tip of the pickaxe along the ground, the sound echoing in the cold air. "This place," she whispered, her voice soft and dangerous, "is mine. I am the sword of the Father. And you..."
Chris felt his blood heat up, the familiar rush of adrenaline surging through his veins. He'd heard the stories of Marta—Knoth's enforcer, the relentless reaper who hunted down anyone who dared oppose the cult. But Chris wasn't afraid. Fear was something for the weak, for the people he crushed underfoot.
He cracked his knuckles, the sound echoing in the stillness. "You think you're the one in charge here?" His voice was a low rumble, more animal than man. "Let's find out."
Marta's eyes gleamed with anticipation. "You're like the others. You think you're strong." She took another step forward, her hand tightening around the handle of the pickaxe. "But I am the voice of the Father. And you... you are just another lamb waiting for slaughter."
With a snarl, Chris lunged at her, his massive frame moving faster than anything his size had a right to. His hands reached for her, aiming to crush her, to break her.
But Marta was faster.
She sidestepped him with a grace that seemed impossible, spinning the pickaxe in her hands like it weighed nothing. The blade swung wide, aimed for his side, and Chris barely managed to throw himself back before it struck. The sound of the blade slicing through the air was sharp, lethal.
Chris growled, his fury building. He wasn't used to prey fighting back, and certainly not like this. Marta was fast, too fast. But she wasn't invincible. He knew how this would end—he'd break her like he had broken so many before her.
Marta laughed, a cold, hollow sound, as if she could hear his thoughts. "Is that all, beast? Is that all you have?"
With another snarl, Chris charged again, his arms swinging wide, intending to grab her, to crush her ribs. But again, she danced away, her movements fluid, almost inhuman. She was like smoke, slipping through his fingers.
And then, with a sudden, brutal motion, she swung the pickaxe toward him. Chris raised his arm, blocking the blade, but the force of the strike sent a shock of pain up his arm. He snarled, pushing back, his eyes wild with fury.
"You're strong," Marta hissed, her voice laced with something like admiration. "But strength isn't everything."
Chris bared his teeth, his muscles coiled tight. "It's enough to kill you."
He lunged again, this time managing to catch her by the arm. His grip was like iron, crushing her flesh beneath his fingers. But Marta didn't scream, didn't flinch. Instead, she laughed, her lips pulling back in a grotesque grin.
"Then do it," she whispered, her eyes locked onto his. "Kill me."
Chris hesitated, just for a moment, something about the way she spoke catching him off guard. It wasn't fear in her eyes. It was... something else. Something mad.
And in that hesitation, Marta struck.
With a quick, vicious twist, she brought the pickaxe down, slamming the blunt end into Chris's side with enough force to knock the wind out of him. He stumbled back, gasping, his vision blurring for a moment. The pain flared hot in his ribs, but he pushed it aside, his fury rising.
"You'll have to try harder than that," Chris growled, straightening, his fists clenched.
Marta watched him, her grin widening. "Oh, I intend to."
For a moment, the two of them stood there, circling each other in the dim light, two predators locked in a deadly dance. Chris's breath was heavy, his muscles tense, ready to strike again. But Marta—Marta moved like a ghost, like death itself, and in that moment, Chris realized something.
Back at the heart of the village, Harry stood before his worshippers, his mind fraying at the edges, yet his power growing stronger with every moment. He could feel it—Wallrider's whispers intertwining with his thoughts, bending him, warping him.
But he didn't resist anymore.
The villagers looked to him with reverence, their faces lit by the flickering flames of the torches that lined the temple walls. They whispered his name, prayed to him, begged him for guidance.
Val stood at his side, her eyes alight with madness, her devotion to Harry unwavering.
"You see them, don't you?" she whispered. "They are yours, Harry. Yours to break, to mold, to lead. You've whispered to them already. They will follow you into the fire."
Harry's heart pounded in his chest, the power surging through him, the madness licking at the edges of his mind. He no longer cared about the past. About who he had been. Here, he was a god. And gods had no need for sanity.
"I am your god," he whispered, his voice low, dangerous. "And I will lead you to the end."
The crowd erupted into praise, their voices blending into one chaotic symphony, worshipping him, needing him.
And Harry, broken and lost, let the madness consume him.
Because he liked it.
Far from the temple, Eddie, Trager, and Chris continued their separate paths through Temple Gate, each of them drawn deeper into the village's horrors. They had followed Harry into the darkness, but as the village's secrets began to unravel around them, it became clear that Temple Gate was not just a playground for their madness.
It was something else entirely. A place where the boundaries between the living and the dead blurred, where the earth whispered secrets too terrible to speak aloud.
And deep below the village, something waited. Something old. Something hungry.