In the forgotten halls where ceilings kiss oblivion and walls whisper tales of ancient tyrants, the initial flames flicker. They cradle shadows of those who dare to ascend. Your name is etched in solemnity upon the altar of rust.
The wresting match is called forth, not merely of bodies but of souls, where each participant grapples with the embodiment of their darkest fears. The victor's path is lined not with gold or gems, but with whispers and shadows.
As you stand on the precipice of eternity, the ritualistic chants rise and fall with the breath of the abyss. To wrest glory is to wrest control from the confines of one's destiny. The initiation is both liberation and captivity.
Seek not the light, for it blinds; instead, embrace the darkness where the true essence of power resides. Remember, the stones beneath your feet are the memories of those who dared to rise before you.
Whispers of the Past