Erika staggered into the village as the last sliver of sun vanished below the horizon. He had been grateful for the twilight's cover, but the sight before him rooted him to the spot.
The new altar at the village center stood completed. Its pale stone and gold filigree glowed harshly in the deepening dusk. Nearly every villager stood gathered before it. Priest Balthasar stood elevated, a line of Auric Guard soldiers rigid at his back. At the altar's peak, a massively scaled-up version of the Auric Mark rotated slowly, pulsing with disquieting energy.
A grand consecration ceremony was beginning.
Erika's arrival drew immediate attention. His clothes were torn, his body coated in dust and grime. He stood out starkly against the solemn crowd. Dozens of eyes turned to him, but one gaze from the altar-top pinned him—Balthasar's, sharp as a hawk's.
"Behold!" Balthasar's voice, amplified by some power, washed over the crowd. "A lost lamb returns at this most sacred hour! This can only be the Golden Father's guidance!"
Every alarm in Erika's mind screamed. He tried to step back, to melt into the crowd, but two Guardsmen were already beside him, "guiding" him firmly toward the front. The bloodied cloth in his tunic and the pulsing badge against his chest now felt like burning coals.
"My child," Balthasar looked down at him, his face a mask of pity, "you are covered in the dust of the road and reek of fear. Have you faced the claws of the 'Old Shadows' out there?"
All eyes fixed on Erika. He had become the ceremony's unexpected focal point.
Just as Erika opened his mouth to deliver his prepared lie, Balthasar cut him off. "Be not afraid. Let the talisman upon your breast speak the truth, here in the altar's radiance."
The moment the words were spoken, the badge on Erika's chest erupted in a searing, unbearable heat! A living, willful torrent of energy violently forced its way into his body. He tried to scream, but no sound came. He tried to struggle, but invisible chains held him fast. The altar's golden light seemed to turn to liquid gold, threatening to drown him. He felt his consciousness being crushed, an alien presence prying at his mind, seeking the secrets he held—the truth of the ravine, the Old Pedant's plan, Leaf's betrayal.
"See!" Balthasar's voice rang out as if from the heavens themselves. "The lost one undergoes the Light's interrogation! His agony is the necessary pain of shedding old corruption!"
The villagers watched, mesmerized and afraid. They saw Erika tremble, his face pale, sweat beading on his forehead as if locked in an invisible, brutal battle.
Erika gritted his teeth, pouring all his will into resisting the invasive force, desperately shielding the core memories of the Pedant and Leaf.
Finally, at the very brink of his will's collapse, Balthasar slowly raised his hand. The invading energy receded like a tide, but it left behind a deep-seated brand upon his senses—a leash that could be tightened at any moment.
"He has passed the trial," Balthasar declared to the crowd. "Though his mind was touched by shadow, the Light has acknowledged his struggle! From this day, he shall serve as the altar's night-watchman. Here, beside the Light, he will complete his final purification and conversion!"
This was not salvation. It was imprisonment.
Erika was locked in a "Contemplation Cell" beside the altar. Windowless, its walls and ceiling were etched with softly glowing Auric Mark runes. The air hung thick with cloying incense and a low hum that vibrated directly in the skull.
The Grinding Down
The initial "purification" was direct and brutal. Balthasar shed all pretense of gentleness. His goal was to shatter Erika's foundational beliefs.
"Still clinging to those foolish symbols? To that old fool consumed by darkness?" Balthasar's voice echoed coldly in the confined space. "The pathetic secrets you cherish are worthless before the Light's majesty."
Sometimes, he brought "proof." Once, he tossed down a grime-caked scrap of cloth bearing the faint pattern of the Old Pedant's robe. "See? This is the fate of those who turn from the Light—fleeing in such disgrace."
Erika clenched his jaw, trying to hold onto the memory of the Pedant's calm eyes and the eerie blue light in Leaf's chest. But the isolation, the exhaustion, and the constant psychic pressure from the runes were wearing him down.
Balthasar would appear deep in the night, rousing Erika from fitful sleep with blinding golden light for hours of "catechism." Any hesitation, any deviation from the sanctioned responses, earned him extended sessions of "Luminous Purification"—a sensation of red-hot needles stabbing into his eyes and churning his brain.
"Is the Golden Father the one true god?"
"...Yes."
"Must the Old Shadows be utterly purged?"
"...Yes."
"Is individual doubt a betrayal of the collective order?"
Erika's lips moved, his throat dry. After a long silence, he forced the word out. "...Yes."
Each concession felt like a piece of his soul being chiseled away.
The Public "Conversion"
On a Dusk when Erika's spirit was at its most brittle, Balthasar brought him out to the edge of the altar. The entire village was assembled below. They looked at Erika—gaunt, pale, his eyes, once clear like a shepherd's, now hollow and flinching from the light.
"Behold, my children!" Balthasar's voice was a mix of theatrical pity and triumph. "The lost lamb has found his path home! Erika was deeply mired in shadow, even bearing tidings of death. But! The Golden Father's mercy is boundless! He has not been forsaken! Through these days of cleansing guidance, the stubborn walls in his heart have been broken! The filth of darkness has been driven out!"
Erika's body trembled slightly. He wanted to shout, to tell them all it was a lie, but he was mute. Balthasar's hand rested on his shoulder in a parody of comfort, a trickle of icy energy holding him upright like a marionette.
"He has confessed his past folly and feels profound grief and penitence for the brave souls lost to the Old Shadows!" Balthasar's voice rose higher. "His transformation is the most potent proof of our Lord's might! From this day, he is no longer Erika the shadow-touched shepherd! He is one tried by fire, awaiting the nascent Light of the chosen!"
Gasps, murmurs, and then a growing, stirred-up cheer erupted from the crowd. They looked at Erika as if witnessing a miracle.
Listening to these twisted words, hearing the crowd praise his captor and torturer, a wave of icy, profound despair and overwhelming absurdity swallowed Erika. He had lost not just his freedom, but his identity, his past, the warning he carried—all distorted and weaponized to strengthen the very system he loathed. This spiritual violation was a thousand times worse than any physical pain.
The Precise Lie
After the public declaration, Balthasar's tactics grew more refined. He blended threat with favor, weaving intricate lies to dismantle Erika's last internal supports.
During one "session," Balthasar dismissed the guards and sat opposite Erika, his expression uncharacteristically "heart-to-heart."
"Child, I know you still worry over that old man, Marco," he sighed, as if sharing a regrettable secret. "It changes nothing to tell you now. We found him long ago. He was clever, in his way. Tried to use those bone constructs to trouble us. But he underestimated the Light."
Erika's heart clenched. He looked up, his gaze locking onto Balthasar's.
The Priest smiled faintly at his reaction. "He thought he could control them? No. He was the one being corrupted by them. When we found him, he was nearly fused with those skeletal things, his mind shattered, capable only of meaningless screeches. We 'purified' him, of course. A more... thorough method. He is 'quiet' now. Secured somewhere safe, serving the Light by contributing his final value—as a research specimen."
This news was the final blow. The belief that had sustained Erika—that the Old Pedant was still out there, planning resistance—crumbled to dust. If even the Pedant had failed, had been "processed," what was the point of his own resistance? A vast sense of futility and emptiness consumed him. The last light in his eyes went out.
The Numb Vessel
In the days that followed, Erika became unnaturally "compliant." He recited long passages of doctrine without prompting, bowed his head when Balthasar entered, answered all questions in a hollow voice.
He began to show signs of cognitive confusion. He muttered fragments of doctrine to the walls. He woke from nightmares unsure if the wailing was from his memories or his own mind. Food lost its taste. Time lost its meaning. He barely reacted to the snippets of news Balthasar brought—mostly reports of the Creed's "victories."
He stopped questioning the strange behavior of the badge. Its constant pulse felt like a part of him now, a foreign, cold heartbeat. He even began to rely on it, finding a twisted "calm" when its rhythm was steady.
Balthasar observed it all like an artisan inspecting a nearly finished piece. The old Erika was dead. This shell was ready to be filled with something new.
The Final Decree
On a morning when the golden light seemed particularly harsh, Balthasar delivered his ultimate pronouncement. He stood over Erika, who knelt listlessly among the runes, his voice trembling with a near-fanatic gravity.
"Your purification is complete. The dust of the old days has been swept away. Your soul, a clean vessel, is ready to receive the supreme blessing."
Erika looked up dully, his eyes unfocused.
"You, Erika, shall be this village's glory, the Light of the Borderlands," Balthasar's voice was a clarion call of judgment. "The Clerical Division has decreed it. You will be sent to the Holy Sanctum as the 'First-Born Vessel.' There you will bathe in peerless divine grace, welcome the descent of the 'Angel,' and become one with the sacred will!"
"Angel's descent..." Erika repeated the words mindlessly, his face a blank slate. No fear, no joy, just a dead stillness. He couldn't comprehend what it meant—supreme glory or ultimate possession? His consciousness could no longer process such complex concepts, leaving only the conditioned reflex beaten into him: Obey. Merge with the golden light.