When the last crusade reached the Chasm in China, the earth did not resist—it surrendered.

Rock split like parchment under divine judgment, and from that rift spilled the gates to Purgatory and Hell—ancient thresholds sealed since Eden’s mourning. The faithful did not hesitate.
They entered as saints and sinners alike, clothed not in armor but in conviction. No legions followed—only the brave, the broken, and the resolute. Priests with rosaries, monks with lanterns, and cardinals armed with psalms descended into the abyss with nothing more than the Lord’s name burned into their hearts.

They battled the unspeakable.
Not with swords or sanctioned rites,
but with endurance.
With prayer that did not beg—but commanded.
With belief forged stronger than steel.

And in that descent, grace became fire, and fire became memory.
For even Hell remembers the footsteps of those who walk in light.