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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 NARA HOSHIBAMI I flew by, and placed upon the altar the visage of Rui Mizuki—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 noscripture of my being was redrafted until the parchment itself wept with contradictions.

Within the wreckage, Oikawa Tooru, Shidou Ryusei, Yuki Yoshikawa and Shinobu Kocho 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“RENJIROU KEITH.” 0412.
ㅤㅤI ache for the moments that
ㅤㅤnever happened, yet feel like
ㅤㅤthey should have been ours.
ㅤㅤ

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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 RENJIROU KEITH I flew by, and placed upon the altar the visage of Mikaela Hyakuya—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 noscripture of my being was redrafted until the parchment itself wept with contradictions.

Within the wreckage, Ichimura Kohaku, Opera, Tamaki Suou and Kim Yohan 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
ㅤㅤ“REXTER FROST LOCKLEY.” 2103.
ㅤㅤI ache for the moments that
ㅤㅤnever happened, yet feel like
ㅤㅤthey should have been ours.
ㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤ
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 REXTER FROST LOCKLEY I flew by, and placed upon the altar the visage of Lin Lie—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 noscripture of my being was redrafted until the parchment itself wept with contradictions.

Within the wreckage, Dan Heng, Dick Grayson, Jang Ki Yong, and Sadewa Sagara. 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
ㅤㅤ“RIKU VIRELLAN C.” 0511.
ㅤㅤI ache for the moments that
ㅤㅤnever happened, yet feel like
ㅤㅤthey should have been ours.
ㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤ
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 RIKU VIRELLAN C I flew by, and placed upon the altar the visage of Narumi Gen—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 noscripture of my being was redrafted until the parchment itself wept with contradictions.

Within the wreckage, Ivan, Sparkle, Heeseung, Bachira and Opera 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“RONAN GIORGINO.” 2109.
ㅤㅤI ache for the moments that
ㅤㅤnever happened, yet feel like
ㅤㅤthey should have been ours.
ㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤ
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 RONAN GIORGINO I flew by, and placed upon the altar the visage of Sylus Qin—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 noscripture of my being was redrafted until the parchment itself wept with contradictions.

Within the wreckage, Noe Archiviste, Horus, Luka, Dan Heng and Boothill 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“SOMA VARSHIKA.” 1810.
ㅤㅤI ache for the moments that
ㅤㅤnever happened, yet feel like
ㅤㅤthey should have been ours.
ㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤ
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 SOMA VARSHIKA I flew by, and placed upon the altar the visage of Rudbeckia De Borgia—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 noscripture of my being was redrafted until the parchment itself wept with contradictions.

Within the wreckage, Furina, Sakai Moka, Columbina and Frieren 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.
ㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤ
ㅤㅤ“SUIHARA GAYATRI.” 2212.
ㅤㅤI ache for the moments that
ㅤㅤnever happened, yet feel like
ㅤㅤthey should have been ours.
ㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤ
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 SUIHARA GAYATRI I flew by, and placed upon the altar the visage of Reze—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 noscripture of my being was redrafted until the parchment itself wept with contradictions.

Within the wreckage, Hoshino Ai and Waguri Kaoruko 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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