Renewal

The world was being perfected. The gleam of gold and stainless steel cracked the old cities. The sand on every beach was pure white and smooth. Every roadway was immaculate, clean enough to eat from.

Except no one did much eating, or anything else. There was no room in perfection for change.

Their quest ended in a dank, swampy wood, perhaps the last one remaining. The edge of perfection was miles away, but advancing inexorably. The temple still stood here, the place of defilement, of death and filth and muck, the throne of the Rotlord.

He was their only hope.