This will be my only creation for Zorg, a world where hope is as fleeting as the dust in the wind.

It’s a forgotten testament in a shattered bottle drifting through space.

Zorthar. A flayed planet, where sand slices skin like razors and the sky bleeds colors even the ancients can’t name anymore. Here, the Zorgers keep moving, always, driven by a faith older than their bones.

They ride a Sand Zordali, that fossilized monstrosity with a mouth cracked from too many screams. The Phi banner flutters weakly in the heavy air, as if it remembers a glory too distant to be true. On Zorthar, everything built is doomed to be swallowed. And still, they persist. Because there’s nothing else.

In skies thick with regret, the faces of the First Zorgs hover, frozen in the clay of remorse. A stone tear falls and shatters on a dune. No one hears it.

At the rear of the procession, a younger Zorger, almost a child, walks. His small steps carve a pathetic line in the vastness. He doesn’t really know why he’s moving. He just knows he must.

On Zorthar, the past is a mirage, the future an insult, and the present just a bad joke.

But Zorg isn’t made to understand. Zorg is made to endure.