Under the silver gaze of the moon, three shadowy figures passed silently through the broken iron gates of a dilapidated cathedral.
The metal creaked faintly as it swayed behind them, its rusted hinges protesting their intrusion. A cold wind swept through the open courtyard from time to time, slithering between the cracked tombstones and rotten grass. Each gust sent involuntary shivers through their bodies, drawing out quiet breaths that none of them intended to make.
The night was unnervingly still.
Every step they took produced a muted crunch against the ground—rotted leaves, brittle bones, gravel softened by moisture. In the oppressive silence, those sounds echoed far louder than they should have, resounding in Othello's ears like the distant toll of a war bell announcing calamity.
Up close, the three figures were nothing more than teenagers.
Their faces were wrapped in strips of black cloth, leaving only their eyes exposed, along with stray tufts of hair poking out messily. Their cloaks were old and threadbare, patched so many times that the original fabric was barely visible. On their backs hung uneven baggage, stuffed carelessly and secured with fraying straps.
From afar, they might have looked like foreign scavengers—or desperate vagrants foolish enough to wander where they didn't belong.
"Reo."
The voice broke the silence, thin and uncertain.
"Are you sure about this?"
The speaker was the shortest of the three. Faint freckles dotted the exposed portion of his cheeks, and unruly brown hair escaped from beneath his wrappings. His eyes darted around nervously, lingering on the looming cathedral and the shadowed graveyard that surrounded it.
The one called Reo didn't slow his pace.
Tall and broad-shouldered for his age, he walked with an air of forced confidence, his grey eyes fixed on the half-rotten doors ahead.
"This is the hundredth time you've asked that, Patrick," Reo replied calmly. His tone carried a sharp edge. "If you're so scared, why not turn back now and crawl back to the accursed lowlife slums?"
Patrick snorted softly, clearly irritated. He turned his head away but said nothing more.
Reo continued forward, his footsteps steady. He didn't speak again, but from time to time, his gaze flicked to his left—toward the third member of their group.
Othello.
Unlike Patrick, Othello showed no obvious fear. His movements were measured, his posture relaxed but alert. He wasn't tall, nor was he particularly strong-looking. His most noticeable feature was his pale grey hair, which stood out faintly under the moonlight.
Reo narrowed his eyes slightly.
'An oddball,' he thought.
'Who joins something like this without hesitation?'
After all, anyone who could listen to a story about supernatural phenomena and believe it without a shred of doubt was anything but normal.
Still, Reo said nothing.
He was here for a reason.
And if anyone tried to hinder his path—
He would kill without hesitation.
Such was the rule of the slums.
Meanwhile, the "oddball" in question was quietly observing his surroundings, seemingly uninterested in the brief exchange behind him.
A thin layer of mist hovered close to the ground, curling around the crooked tombstones and patches of rotten grass.
'The grass looks decayed,' Othello noted silently, 'but there's no smell.'
That alone was wrong.
'Is the mist suppressing it? Or masking something else?'
His gaze shifted subtly.
'And footprints… faint, but present. Covered deliberately with grass and debris.'
His heart tightened slightly.
'They're walking straight through them.'
If this place truly carried supernatural significance—as Reo claimed—then any irregularity should be avoided at all costs. Yet the other two were marching forward without the slightest hesitation.
Othello adjusted his steps, deliberately moving along the edges, careful not to disturb anything unnecessarily.
He wasn't brave.
He was cautious.
There had been other signs before this night—signs he couldn't explain away as a coincidence.
Metallic cobwebs strung between alley walls.
A rhythmic knocking on the door of his shack in the dead of night, stopping the moment he held his breath.
A scarecrow that had spoken to him in a voice that sounded like dry straw scraping together.
He had survived all of it by observing, deducing, and avoiding what felt wrong.
That was why he had believed Reo's story immediately.
And that was why this calm unsettled him.
Their journey to the cathedral doors passed without incident.
No whispers.
No sudden movements.
No unseen hands reaching from the fog.
Too peaceful.
Othello frowned.
'That's not right.'
In the metaphysical, calm was often the greatest warning. The quieter things appeared, the closer one was to crossing a boundary that should not be crossed.
Still, he kept his composure.
He stopped before the towering doors alongside the others, lifting his gaze.
The cathedral loomed over them, its stone surface cracked and blackened with age. Faded carvings of saints and angels stared down with hollow expressions, their features worn smooth by time and neglect.
The air felt heavy.
Solemn.
As if the structure itself were waiting.
A mocking chuckle suddenly rang out from the right.
"Heh."
Patrick crossed his arms, laughter spilling from behind his cloth.
"I thought you were ranting about spirits and ghosts when you dragged us all the way here," he said. "Who knew it was all just random nonsense? Hahahaha!"
Reo's expression twitched.
"Between me, who told you about it," he snapped, "and you, who believed it and followed me here—who's more stupid?"
Patrick scoffed.
Reo clenched his jaw. Doubt crept into his chest despite himself. Had everything he witnessed truly been nothing more than a coincidence?
Before he could speak again, a cold, hoarse voice cut through the tension.
"Open the door."
Both of them turned.
Othello stood still, staring at the cathedral entrance.
His voice carried no excitement. No fear. Only quiet insistence.
They exchanged glances.
Even if it was a sham… it was still a cathedral.
For those born in the slums, even glimpsing one was rare—let alone standing before it. Cathedrals existed only within the city of Betham, far removed from the daily suffering of its inhabitants.
Excitement bubbled up in Patrick's chest.
He rushed forward eagerly.
"Haha! I get to open the doors of a cathedral in my lifetime—!"
The sentence died in his throat.
Crimson light erupted from the door the moment his hand touched it.
Patrick's eyes widened in pure, incomprehensible horror.
Othello saw it clearly.
Patrick's flesh peeled away as if stripped by invisible hands, his scream never forming. Blood and muscle followed in an instant, drawn violently into the glowing door. His bones shattered into fragments and vanished next.
It all happened in less than a second.
By the time Othello's mind caught up—
Only two empty strips of black cloth remained on the ground where Patrick had stood.
Reo screamed.
His composure was completely.
"It's a spirit—! A man-eating spirit—!"
He turned and ran toward the gate, terror distorting his voice.
Othello barely had time to react.
Reo's body suddenly convulsed.
Then it burst.
Blood and flesh compressed violently into a pulsating sphere, hovering midair. The grotesque mass ascended slowly, staining the sky above with a crimson hue.
The moon disappeared.
The clouds turned red.
The blood sphere exploded silently.
Like fireworks.
The fragments rearranged themselves in the sky, glowing ominously as letters formed—burned into Othello's vision.
CITADEL OF THE DAMNED
Othello stood frozen, breath locked in his chest.
The world felt wrong.
Terribly, irrevocably wrong.