There are places where heroes come to die. Not with fanfare, not on a battlefield – but in the slow, relentless way their truths, stories, and illusions are stripped bare.

The Temple is one of those places. Heroism is measured, examined. Proven or pulverised. People enter carrying legends they rehearsed, victories they imagined, and versions of themselves that feel safer than the truth.

Here? None of it survives. Names lose weight. Histories fracture. Masks stop being symbolic and start being necessary. And when certainty collapses? You have no choice but to step forward.

Everyone here survives by hiding in their own way.

One of you lives inside a manufactured fantasy – a world of rules, resets, and checkpoints. Life reduced to mechanics and scripts. Identity is a save file: pause, delete, restart. But those who think they can reset never notice what vanishes along the way… Fragments left behind in a digital void.

Another drapes himself in a decade that wasn’t his, moving with charm and exaggeration. He drifts across nostalgia like a dancer on a borrowed stage, masking discomfort, failure, and fear beneath laughter… But reinvention is effortless when accountability never shows up.

Then there is one who has built a world of porcelain perfection, convincing herself she belongs in a dollhouse of careful gestures and rehearsed words. Growth terrifies her; change is chaos. Outside, the world is hostile, so she preserves innocence – smiling while the edges of reality fray.

Next comes power cloaked in legacy and bloodline, calculating every move with ruthless precision. Families bend to his will; names vanish when he decides they no longer matter. Loyalties are bought, sold, or erased. He knows how cleanly a person can be removed from history – and how invisible it looks.

Another refuses maturity – fleeing responsibility. He chooses to remain untethered; to grow would mean facing what was abandoned… The choices ignored. The debts unpaid. The truths too heavy to hold.

And then there is the one who thrives on misdirection, turning certainty into riddles. Twisting truth into weaponry. Using confusion as currency. Answers do not die – they are merely bent, obscured, and rearranged until no one recognises what they were seeking.

Fantasy, nostalgia, denial, power, avoidance, deception – and standing here makes one thing clear…

Identity is not given.

It is fought for.

The iron I wear is not decoration – it is proof. Proof that a past can be stolen. A name erased. A history suppressed.

I am not here to be a hero. Heroes need clean stories, clear morals, and endings that make sense.

I have none of that. Scars I do not remember earning. A past someone decided I was not allowed to keep…

I am not chasing applause or salvation – I am chasing what was stolen.

The Temple doesn’t crown heroes. It exposes fractures, monsters, survivors – and if tearing through every carefully constructed identity here is the price of reclaiming my own, then so be it.

This is not the end of a story – it is the first step.

The moment the search begins.

The point El Hierro begins to uncover who he truly is.

And when this is over…

One of us will remember who I am.