The sky blushed red like a wound gaping in its chest. The sun set behind pillars of bricks laid by human hands, stained with dust, sweat, and ambition. Beneath it, the Tower of Babel rose, piercing the firmament like a spear aimed at the heart of Heaven itself.
They came from the East, from the vast plains where wind knew no obstacle. Mankind, once scattered by tribe, tongue, and homeland, now stood united in one will, one voice, one resolve. Division no longer existed. Their language was unified—not by gods, nor by miracle, but by the will of man alone. They called their alliance the Unity of Epiphany.
"Come, let us build a city and a tower whose top reaches the heavens, so that our name may be great, and we will not be scattered across the earth."
Their cry echoed across the plains of Shinar. Day after day, thousands toiled without rest, their hands calloused, their eyes reddened by the dust of bricks swirling like the fog of Hell. At the tower’s base, the priests of the Unity chanted litanies of courage. Their voices thundered:
"O Man, thou art the new god!
Neither lightning nor heavenly fire governs thy fate,
But thy own hands that carve stone, that conquer stars!"
Hymns of victory resounded. Drums beat, flutes played, the songs of virgins and warriors merged into a delirious rhythm, as though even the gods must bow their heads. They danced around the tower’s foundation, in ecstasy that sliced the bounds of sanity. They believed: they were no longer creations — they were creators.
Upon His throne in the heavens, God gazed with eyes ablaze like embers. The Ancients, entities long dwelling upon the mysterious throne, stirred in displeasure.
"Behold their arrogance," spoke the Lord, His voice thundering through the cosmic silence.
"With one language and one voice, they unite to defy the boundaries I have ordained."
God raised His hand—a small motion, yet it summoned tempests across the cosmos.
"Come, let Us descend and confound their language, that they may not understand one another."
Thus began the wrath of Heaven.
In the midst of their celebration, as the final pillar was about to be set, storms erupted without warning. Black winds coiled like ancient serpents, wrapping around the tower that had pierced the clouds. Lightning struck, shattering the brick pillars into blackened rubble, toppling workers who screamed in tongues suddenly foreign to one another.
"Can you hear me?!" shouted a foreman to his laborer.
But the worker only stared blankly, replying with incoherent mutterings.
Their language had been torn like cloth ripped apart by a beast. No more Unity of Epiphany. No more litany of victory. No more hymn of triumph. Only screams, confusion, and blood remained.
Fire fell from the sky, consuming the altars of pride. It rejoiced with dreadful glee. Dancing upon the ruins, its hair whipped wild. Hurling bolts into the clashing crowds. Blasting fierce winds that tossed bodies like straw dolls.
God stood still, observing His creation now scattered, returned to His original design: mankind dispersed, bowed beneath uncertainty, unable to unite and challenge the heavens again.
And the Tower of Babel — the emblem of human pride — became a broken monument, its shattered spine towering like the skeleton of a primordial beast amidst the desert dust.
Thus was Heaven's wrath poured upon mankind’s epiphany.
Yet amidst the ruins, a faint whisper groaned:
"One day... we shall return..."
God, from His throne, narrowed His eyes. For He knew: mankind always forgets destruction. And pride... will always find its way.