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Beneath shifting sands, your desiccated bones stir with primordial hunger. Once a sovereign crowned in sun-gold, now a hollow monarch bound to whispers of forgotten rites. Raise loyalists from dust—warrior-priests with blades of obsidian, charioteers harnessed to spectral steeds, laborer-hosts bearing slabs of sandstone to erect your ziggurat-fortress. Feast on the essence of fallen foes; let their marrow fuel your ascension. Ribs swell with stolen vigor, sinews knitting into cables of living iron. Skull-crown fractures as horns of blackened quartz erupt, throbbing with the pulse of usurped kingdoms. Each conquest stitches fresh flesh to your frame: a general’s muscle here, a sorcerer’s throat there, a thief’s nimble fingers grafted to clutch the scepters of twelve vanquished dynasties. Let tombs become your larders, mortals your mortar. The desert itself shall shudder as your reconstituted godform strides forth—no longer a relic, but a pantheon of one, dripping with the fat of a hundred plundered afterlives.
