(Planet Ixtal, the Cult Army, a random soldier's POV)

As the Cult army landed on Ixtal in waves, the anger its soldiers felt over the destruction of its holy soil became boundless.

Standing over its destroyed historical sites, as they bent down to touch the harrowed grounds beneath their feet, many of them felt something inside their chests crack open in a way that battle never had.

This was not the clean ruin of war.

This was erasure.

All across the planet, the land told the same story.

Historical sites were reduced to skeletal outlines scorched into the ground, academies that once trained legends collapsed into blackened stone, streets that had carried parades and laughter now buried beneath layers of glassed soil and drifting soot, as if the planet itself had been flayed and left exposed to the stars.

Ixtal was supposed to be sacred.

It was the place spoken of in lullabies and old stories, the world every Cult child learned about before they ever learned how to fight, the birthplace of Soron and the cradle of everything the Cult believed itself to be.

Even those who had never stepped foot on its soil had grown up imagining its forests, its cities, its towers, as symbols rather than geography.

And now those symbols lay broken beneath their boots.

*FSSHH*

*LAND*

As more and more soldiers landed and moved out of their transport crafts, the grief only deepened.

There were no cheers.

No chants.

No triumph.

Only breathing.

A random soldier knelt without realizing he had done so, fingers brushing through the gray ash coating the ground, as he felt it clinging to his skin, staining him, as if the planet itself refused to let him leave untouched.

Ash.

Not soil.

Not stone.

Ash that had once been homes, libraries, shops, and living things that no longer existed.

Around him, others did the same. Veterans hardened by decades of conflict sank to one knee, their shoulders trembling as they stared at the ruins in silence, while younger soldiers stood frozen, eyes wide, trying and failing to reconcile the stories they had grown up hearing with the devastation in front of them.

Somewhere nearby, an older man let out a sound that did not quite become a sob, his hands shaking as he pressed his forehead against the ground, lips moving in a prayer that had no one left to hear it.

He had been born here.

That much was clear from the way his fingers traced invisible lines across the ruins, as though he still remembered where the streets had been, where the markets used to open at dawn, where children once ran without fear beneath banners that no longer flew.

Others joined him, quietly, without ceremony.

There was no shame in the tears. No one mocked them. No one turned away. This grief belonged to all of them, because even those who had never lived on Ixtal understood what this destruction meant.

If the Righteous had done this to Ixtal, then their home planets were likely no different.

The thought spread through the army without words.

Burned skies.

Flattened cities.

Erased histories.

Worlds that had once been theirs, reduced to warnings.

As anger followed the grief, slow and inexorable, rising not as a roar but as a pressure behind the eyes and beneath the ribs, a shared understanding that settled into every heart present.

This was not collateral damage.

This was a message.

A message by the enemy that said, 'you and your culture are not allowed to exist under the same heavens as us.'

"AGHHHHH!!!"

The old soldier screamed as he rose to his feet, ash still clinging to his hands, as he felt something essential break inside him in a way that could not be repaired.

Around him, billions of others felt it too, the moment grief turned into resolve, as tears dried, backs straightened, and gazes lifted from the ruins toward the sky.

This was not the Ixtal they remembered, and unless they took action now and brought the fight to the enemy, this would be the future of every Cult land they dared to live on.

—-------

(Meanwhile Soron)

Soron watched the Cult armies land on Ixtal in disciplined waves, as he felt his strength begin to return with every new presence that set foot upon his ruined home world.

"I am still their Sect Master," Soron murmured to himself, his voice quiet yet steady as his gaze lingered over the broken land.

"These are my people."

The words settled deep within him, not as pride, but as certainty, as he reminded himself that no matter how much the enemy had already taken, no matter how weak and diminished he had become, the Cult had still come. Not out of obligation. Not out of fear.

But because they chose to.

Because they believed in him.

From his vantage point, Soron watched them spread across Ixtal's shattered surface, landing with the discipline and restraint of a true army, as he closed his eyes briefly and drew in a slow breath, feeling something warm stir within his chest.

Strength.

Not the sharp, violent power that once shattered mountains, but something older and steadier, something that eased the ache in his soul even as his battered body protested every movement.

Each soldier who set foot on Ixtal felt like a thread reconnecting him to the world, binding him back together piece by piece, until the emptiness he had carried for so long began to recede.

"They came for me," Soron murmured, the realization alone pushing back the creeping cold of death that had lingered at the edges of his awareness for far too long.

Soron had lived a long life, long enough to understand that power faded and flesh failed, but faith endured in quieter, more enduring ways.

Watching these young men and women stand among the ruins, some grieving, some furious, all resolute, filled him with a peace he had not felt in centuries.

This was his Cult.

Not the buildings.

Not the forests.

Not even the old stone castle.

The people.

And as they gathered, as their presence breathed life back into a planet that had been declared dead, Soron felt himself smile faintly, the expression soft and genuine.

Whatever awaited him next, whatever fate the Righteous had planned, he knew he would not face it alone.

For as long as his people stood with him, Soron understood one thing with absolute clarity.

He was not finished yet.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.