After the final trumpet shattered the sky, the earth recoiled in judgment.

The apocalypse did not come with fire alone—it came with fractures. A great earthquake split the continent, and from its wounds spilled the gates to Hell and Purgatory, long sealed, now exposed like ancient scars. The faithful called forth their last crusade—priests turned tacticians, relics repurposed for war. The Vatican banners rose once more, but their soldiers vanished one by one, as if consumed by the very domains they sought to cleanse.

What followed was not deliverance—but division.
A new American civil war erupted, born not of politics or pride, but of theology and terror. States fractured like scripture misread, brother turned against brother, and the land itself became a sacramental battlefield.

And in the quiet between eruptions, the Confessors whispered:
“Heaven withdrew, and men forged new creeds in the shadow of the breach.”