Wrath of the Divine

In the shadowed chambers of an ancient Egyptian temple, lit only by the flickering glow of torches, a high priest stood before an ornate altar. Draped in robes of deep crimson and gold, he raised his hands toward the heavens, invoking the gods with words lost to time. His voice, low and resonant, echoed through the vast stone hall as he spoke of justice, balance, and the righteous wrath of the divine. Before him, an offering of incense burned, its fragrant smoke curling toward the statues of Osiris and Ma'at, the gods of the afterlife and truth.

"This world is ever in danger," the priest intoned, his eyes gleaming with sacred fervor. "For the corrupt shall rise again, drunk on power, and their greed will know no bounds. But let the curse of the gods be upon them, that should they stray too far, their souls will know no peace. Let their lust for power be their undoing, their hubris the chains that bind them in eternal torment."

With a final chant, the priest completed the ancient spell, sealing the curse within the threads of time. And so it was written—an unbreakable bond between the sins of mankind and the wrath of the gods, awaiting the moment when the curse would awaken.

Thousands of years passed. Empires rose and fell, the sands of time shifting, burying the ancient temple beneath layers of history. The spell lay dormant, forgotten by all but the gods. Until, in the modern world, echoes of that ancient curse began to stir.

In the halls of power, world leaders, politicians, and corporate titans gathered, their eyes filled with ambition and greed. They spoke of war as though it were a game, moving pieces on a global chessboard without care for the millions who would suffer. They had long since abandoned the principles of justice and truth, replacing them with lies, manipulation, and self-interest.

But the ancient curse, whispered by a priest in a forgotten time, had not been forgotten by the universe. As the world inched closer to the brink of World War III, the curse awakened. It seeped into the souls of those who had forsaken their humanity for power, twisting their minds and driving them to madness. They began to see visions of the past, of the high priest's eyes burning with divine fury, of the gods turning their backs on them. They were haunted by the faces of those they had betrayed, tormented by dreams of endless suffering.

The more they tried to grasp at control, the more it slipped through their fingers. Their grand schemes began to unravel, and the war they had pushed the world towards seemed to spiral beyond even their control. They were trapped in a cycle of destruction, unable to stop the very forces they had unleashed. And in the end, it was not the armies or the weapons that would destroy them, but the curse they had unknowingly brought upon themselves.

For the ancient words of the priest had been clear: those who grew drunk on power would find only ruin, their souls cursed to wander the earth in eternal torment, never finding peace, never knowing rest.

And so, the world watched as the once-mighty fell, consumed by their own greed and corruption. The curse of the ancients had come to fruition, as the gods of old watched from the heavens, their judgment complete.