RAM: THE CRIMSON TESTAMENT.

"AN AUTHORITHY GRANTED FROM THE HEAVENS ABOVE"

In the beginning, he was only known as the Lamb.

Not for the softness of his tread, but for the grace of his hands. Where they moved, wounds closed. Where his voice rang, demons fell silent. He walked barefoot across the desolation of man, stitching broken souls with nothing but warmth and the strange flicker of divine light behind his eyes. He was not handsome, nor did he boast regality; his was the face of a wanderer—weathered, kind, and marked by sorrow older than the world.

His power was not stolen nor conjured; it was given. Heaven whispered it into his bones like marrow, grafted through purpose. The winds spoke his name, though the people never heard it right. To some, he was the Mender. To others, the Blasphemer. To the quiet and the hurting, he was hope.

He gathered few, those who saw not just miracles but a philosophy: suffering could be undone, not by revolt, but by presence. His twelve were beggars, builders, orphans, mystics—none of them warriors. They built a sanctuary out of sun-bleached stone in a forgotten land. There was no crown, only calloused hands digging irrigation for barren soil. The people called it Eden's Scar, not because it healed, but because it remembered the wound.

And for a time, the world healed.

But like a scab before the scratching hand of ego, peace peeled away.

The hermits came first—broken men who brought their pride dressed in humility. They were drawn to the Lamb's power like leeches to warm flesh. At first, they praised him. Then they depended. Then they demanded. They stopped toiling. They mimicked his miracles with tricks and illusion, draining his sanctuary's soul for spectacle. And when the warlords came—those kings of empire and creed—the hermits bent knees before blades.

They handed over Eden's Scar for peace.

In return, they offered up the Lamb.

He did not run. He knelt beside each of his disciples, placing a kiss on their foreheads. "We were not wrong," he said. "They were simply not ready."

They nailed him through the wrists and ankles to a cross of polished wood. But they did not stop there. One by one, his disciples were dragged before the crowd, branded heretics and burnt alive in oil and salt. The sky bled ash.

As his body hung, unmoving, the Lamb whispered his last prayer. Not for deliverance, but understanding. And when the last disciple screamed, something ancient awoke within him.

He did not die. He transformed.

The Lamb was buried in a tomb carved from the belly of a mountain, but on the third night, the stones cried out. A crack split the tomb from base to summit. The people said lightning struck the grave, but it was something else—judgment.

The man who emerged was no longer the Lamb.

He wore the cross upon his back not as burden, but as blade. Gold gilded the edges of the crucifix, but the blade itself—black as oil and heavy with the weight of a world's failure—gleamed with every sin it remembered. It screamed when it cut. It remembered every betrayal, every lie told in the name of heaven.

His eyes were no longer warm. They were deep wells of divine fury, infinite and unblinking.

He was RAM.

Not a shepherd, but a force. Not a healer, but the hand of reckoning. Where he walked now, trees split and temples crumbled. His words did not mend; they shattered the illusions men wore like armor. The false priests who once screamed his praises now wept in corners, unable to meet his gaze.

He walked into the temple of the kings who had condemned him, dragging the black cross behind him. The floor cracked beneath each step. He said nothing. One by one, the kings tried to speak—offering wealth, apology, piety. He raised the cross. With a single downward swing, the blade split stone and bone alike.

They were not martyred. They were erased.

The hermits who betrayed him were granted no such mercy. He spared them—left them alive and voiceless, bound in golden chains to the sanctuary they defiled. Each day they watched as pilgrims, outcasts, and the suffering returned to Eden's Scar—not for salvation, but for justice. RAM built no church. He needed no followers.

He made a citadel of silence where once a sanctuary stood.

People feared him, but they also needed him. Tyrants began to disappear in the night. Slavers found their ships split in half with no survivors. War-priests drowned in wine turned to blood. Across the world, whispers spread: the RAM walks.

They came to him with prayers and gifts. He refused them all.

"I asked for nothing," he said. "And you gave me betrayal. You called me your healer. Then you made me your excuse. Now I am your reckoning."

Some still tried to fight. Kingdoms rose with armies blessed by false gods and painted saints. RAM stood alone before them, black blade drawn. The sky darkened, and from his body, not light, but shadows poured—anguished spirits of his murdered disciples. They fought for him. Their vengeance sang through steel.

The war lasted seven years. By its end, no empires remained.

Then RAM vanished.

Some say he returned to the tomb. Others say he wanders still, striking down those who dare speak his name without reverence. In cities once ruled by gold and gospel, they now whisper a new creed:

The Lamb gave. The RAM remembers.

Children are taught to pray not for protection, but to act justly. Those who wear crowns do so knowing a black blade may yet pierce their throne. The cross remains an artifact of judgment, no longer worn as comfort but etched onto gravestones of tyrants.

In time, small sanctuaries returned—honest ones, without wealth or war. Those who healed did so in RAM's memory, but none claimed to speak for him.

Because the Lamb had spoken.

And the RAM had made sure they listened.