At the Manor-turned-Cathedral on the Cliff's Edge, Just Shy of the Firmament, in the Sacred Borderlands.
"My utmost obeisance, Your Eminence, You Who Once Kissed the Feet of the Divine."
The rain ceased mid-air, vanishing as if sublimated, as if all creation conspired to amplify the sound of footsteps beneath the eaves of this skeletal church—the remnants of a domain that once held all, before being laid to ruin by the hands of the scum.
The interior was not one of refined elegance. It was cheerless, devoid of vitality. The stained-glass windows, meant to glow with hallowed light, were utterly blind. Yet, strangely, some portions of the opaque glass shattered suddenly when exposed to the moonlight for a prolonged time, as though they had never endured the passage of light before. Works of art were smothered in thick, black paint—countless canvases depicting faceless figures, all pertaining to the faith.
But… it held a perplexing, terrible sanctity in the unclouded light of the Divine Law, and a truth so strange it surpassed the grasp of any mortal.
"Your Eminence…"
A tall man stood nearby. His height, if one were to make a comparison, soared multiple times higher than the ceiling of a common man's dwelling. This towering figure was the one who now paused at the vast cliff's edge, behind the remains of the manor-cathedral.
"Three moons. The Sun has never risen beyond the shell of this firmament…"
He turned toward his attendant, who had spoken. Compared to the tall man's stature, the attendant was a tiny ant gazing up at a human. The attendant was clad in a grey and gold-yellow habit, the attire of the Deep-Rooted Pilgrims. The tall man merely spoke this, then turned his gaze back to the cliff, for what lay beneath the rocky precipice was either too beautiful or too repulsive in his eyes to turn away from the heartbreaking sight.
"This region is cleansed of the defiled, Your Eminence. But the oracles of the sinners—whom they call the Vibaris—are still in the process of being hunted down.
Furthermore, the Execution Ground of the Transgressors still requires the
administration of torture beneath the Name of the Lord, which causes the cleansing to proceed slowly. Another new shell of the firmament might emerge, Your Eminence," the attendant stated, bowing his head upon finishing.
The tall man sighed, a sound of profound weariness, and looked up to find the great moon imposed upon the cosmic sunset of another side of the universe—a picture beyond imagination. This cold was a rare thing in the territory he had administered before arriving at this border.
"The commander and our company of Sublime Pilgrims remain intact, Your Eminence. The cleansing may commence immediately—"
The attendant immediately fell silent, following his master's gaze to the sky. A sound of wailing, of mournful despair for the life that once crossed the path of the Goddess… or even the Lord…
"Which road, I ask, is the one we ought to walk, little one? For in my sight, it is so utterly blurred. I long to witness the light at the feet of the Divine Founder once more. I desire a path. I desire a life. I… I yearn for a glimpse of hope from Him. I wish to see it clearly…" The towering man moaned with raw anguish.
His hands rose and spread open to the air, as if embracing the chilling freshness of the rain that had just fallen. The attendant bowed, acknowledging the lament, shaking his head with a deep, profound uncertainty.
The tall man fell silent for a moment, then spoke with a voice as beautiful as a woman's, yet evocative of an endless, sorrowful melody—a song of grief, regret, and torment. This sound, coupled with his attire—a white cloth like a veil that had never known a speck of dust, only wrinkles, trailing from his head to the floor like a carpet; his face hidden behind a sharp, oval mask resembling the beak of a shoebill stork, with the eye slits revealing a pair of piercing eyes, like a fragment of the shattered moon—all suggested a profound distance from peace. And upon closer inspection, the man was indistinguishable from a woman.
"If we live in His Name, if we exist in the Name of the Divine Law, then when… will we find the path? Please, Lord, please. I have always served the light beneath Your feet. Please, let me see even the tip of Your nail, that would be enough."
The composed voice shivered through his frame, filled with a fervent faith that received no answer from the heavens he had never ceased to pray to.
He wept. Tears flowed, yet he did not kneel. He turned his gaze downward at the ground, drenched from the rain that had fallen just moments ago after the screams. The entire manor-cathedral was wet and sodden. But compared to the past bloodshed in some other place, these millions of raindrops could not compare to the deluge of blood that had poured from the bodies of the sinners, the tall man thought to himself. His hands clasped in supplication to the light of the sacred teachings. Everything was forged by a fire that was compressed, again and again… and again… and yet again…
"We are doing what is righteous, according to the will of the Lord, Your Eminence," the attendant said with a warm voice. The tears that fell, mirroring the tall man's weeping, reached the attendant, who whispered, "We shall meet Him again, rest assured. We must meet the Lord."
"Aargh! Stop it! Stop it, I say! We only followed the oracle's command! We had to—!"
A sound came from the front, behind the tall man and his attendant—the execution ground before the nameless manor-cathedral. The savage screams of the Vibaris being mercilessly slaughtered. Many of them were strung up with their limbs pointing skyward, secured to stone pillars with ropes. Sharp, hot iron was jabbed into them, causing flesh and blood to pour forth, executed by the Suffering-Substitutes acting on behalf of the pilgrims. They tortured the numerous sinners.
The screams, worse than those of a newborn, were the sound of the most brutal fear of death. Their bodies were tossed down the cliff, then hauled back up by vengeful spiritual energy, tearing their bodies to shreds on the ascent. Some were caged together, forced into cannibalism—a chaotic, bloody stench in the slaughter field where the sinners were hanged with burnt ropes. They were purged to extinction on this ground. "Die. Die beneath the Name of our Lord. You shall perish in agony in His Name."
The pilgrims recited a prayer over each corpse with savage indifference, unashamed and proud. For after the prayer—a verse carved into the skin of each of them—their bodies and the souls still clinging to the flesh regained sensation after every verse ended. They endured torture as if for an eternity—torment of countless varieties, devoid of cause but replete with reason. Who, then, was the sin-bearer? Who was the cleanser? If such brutality was sustained by the voice of the perpetrator…
"Your Eminence! We require the Prayer of Supplication before departing this realm!" a voice shouted, following the sound of running into the manor-cathedral.
The tall man and his attendant turned to find a troop of the Sublime Forces. Their gleaming armor reflected the beautiful, green moonlight, stained with the blood of sinners and devils. Strange pieces of flesh still adhered to the shoulders of many.
"The supplication you seek, is it a plea to the land or to the spirits, or—" the attendant began, but was silenced by the strong scent of spirit-energy and the radiating light of truth around the tall man. All went silent, even the screams from the front of the cathedral still ringing.
"The supplication to the Lord in the land you have just cleansed will birth a new poem. The complications will only multiply, little ones," the tall man said slowly, lowering his hands and pointing to some location within the manor-cathedral.
The soldiers bowed their heads in acceptance and walked in the direction he indicated. The attendant watched, no different, but the question in his mind concerned a hope that had once been lost in this land. "We are the path. You are the one who grants the way," one soldier uttered. They gazed upon the myriad pictures arrayed behind a curtain, staring in awe at each image.
"These may merely be called the portraits of the Submissive-Hosts-Who-Kissed-The-Lord's-Feet. These may be proclaimed as nothing more than the paintings of perverted souls who lay claim to the sacred teachings of the faith. But there is neither accusation, nor absolution; there is only I, you, we, and Him—the one standing at the final edge. But… You are the ultimate destination where the path remains open…"
Tears streamed from the tall man's eyes once more. He wiped them away. The sound of his high-heeled boots and his attendant's footsteps echoed with a brittle sound. He paused for a moment. The scent of old smoke, crusted rust, or even the smell of decaying wood. He stopped, silent, at the innermost painting of the corridor, stretching far beyond sight. The destination was a torn portrait of a faceless goddess, scorched black.
He reached out his hand to touch the burned spot. The soldiers had vanished entirely, leaving only the sparse, luminous light of White-Winged Cicadas, fluttering about, circling, returning, playing hide-and-seek. He wept as he lowered his hand… His tears wet his cheeks. His amber-red eyes, seen through the mask in the night, reflected the moon's light spilling over this manor-cathedral.
"Do not abandon us yet. Please, Lord. We will remain with You. I shall find Your path, and I shall embrace the life You bestow. Please, Lord… as I once embraced You… I swear it. By my body, my blood, my very lineage… I shall find the root of Your path."