It began as a quiet rebellion, a slow erosion of faith, but soon the whispers gained momentum, reverberating through the lands like the rumble of distant thunder. Mortal flesh weakened, unable to withstand the strain of resisting the unholy power brewing in the depths. The people, driven by desperation and rage, sought answers that transcended the flesh – an escape from the limits of mortality.
Then, as if heralding the final days, came the incineration victory, an unholy triumph that left towns and villages in cinders. It was not the fire itself, but the twisted ritual that accompanied it, a sacrilegious rite, and an act of utter defiance against divinity. Here, the hammer of anti-creation itself was swung, erasing belief and reducing the concept of sanctity to ashes. In the charred remains, the faithful found only emptiness.
But the worst was yet to come. A crimson dawn signaled the onset of conquest, a campaign driven by an insatiable lust for dominion over the remnants of the faithful. Sulphurist hordes were summoned from the nether, legions of beings crafted from the essence of suffering and malice, their arrival a mass death proclamation that echoed across the desolate landscape.
Warhead worship became the new gospel, a twisted reverence for annihilation and destruction. This was no ordinary conflict, but an ageless onslaught, a battle that seemed timeless, relentless. The skies grew dark as great plumes of smoke and the stench of sulfur rose, signs of the summoning of the sulphurist hordes. They poured forth like an unstoppable torrent, sweeping over the land in a wave of malice and destruction, leaving behind a scarred and desolate wasteland.
In the end, there was nothing but silence, a land stripped of life and hope. The so-called "victory" was hollow, an incineration victory that left only ashes and despair, as the prophecy of mass death came full circle. A somber, eternal reminder of the perils of unchecked ambition and heresy.