The heavy doors of the cathedral boomed shut behind him. The corridor outside was instantly swallowed by a stifling cacophony of noise and chaos. A world away from the solemnity of the assembly within, this place felt more like a betting hall just after the opening bell, the air thick with greed, agitation, and calculation.
Right at the entrance stood several low-ranking clerics, their faces as blank and uniform as dolls'. Each held a stack of identical, thick paper folders, all stamped with a glaring scarlet "ABSOLUTE SECRET." No roll call, no assignments. The rules were simple and brutal: each pair or individual cleric was to take one folder at random from any of these attendants as they passed. It meant, in theory, an equal start for all. The rest would depend on skill and luck.
Balthasar wrenched a folder from one attendant's grasp without so much as a glance, then surged into a side passage with his pack of hyena-like followers, their laughter echoing as they dragged the chained sister behind them.
The other clerics moved forward in a more subdued tide, silently collecting their respective "treasure maps," then quickly huddling with their companions, voices low with conspiracy, eyes sharp as they scanned potential rivals.
Wolfgang did not move. He stood like a rock, using his body to shield Erika from the chaotic flow. Only when the crowd had thinned did he stride forward, take a folder from an attendant, and tuck it into his robe without looking. Then, his arm once again clamped around Erika, steering her decisively away from the main corridor and into a deserted side passage.
At a secluded corner, he stopped abruptly and turned. In the shadows, his hawk-like eyes pinned Erika, churning with an unprecedented severity, and perhaps… a faint, almost imperceptible flicker of anxiety.
"Listen," Wolfgang's voice was a low grind, like sandpaper on stone. "What you saw and heard in there—about that sister, about those Marks, about this," his hand pressed against the hidden folder, knuckles white, "all of it, wipe it from your mind."
"This isn't a game for you, boy. Hongbo wants 'eradication.' Balthasar dreams of 'devouring.' And the Inquisitorial Tribunal…" he hissed the words through clenched teeth, "they'll just let it all rot in bureaucratic procedure, then find a few scapegoats to drag down with them! That specimen is no longer a girl; she's a bomb, a piece of meat for the hounds to fight over. Get involved, and you'll be torn to shreds long before the explosion."
The tall priestess stood by like a cold shadow, adding, "Your only wise choice now is to obey orders and survive."
Kaelen, leaning against the wall, watched Wolfgang's rare display of emotion with amusement. "Of course," he interjected lightly, "the Instructor is always so cautious. Then again, if someone hadn't poked around where they 'shouldn't' have back in the 'Boiler' sector, we might not even be here today to have these worries, would we?" He shot Erika a meaningful look. "Energy and pollution, treasure and trap… sometimes it just depends on your point of view."
"Enough, Kaelen!" Wolfgang snarled, cutting off the dangerous implication. His final look at Erika was complex and inscrutable—bearing an undeniable command, the weight of some past, unspoken pain, and maybe, just maybe, a sliver of well-concealed fear that Erika might repeat a terrible mistake.
"Back to your room. Now. That's an order." With that, he exchanged a swift glance with his two colleagues, and the three of them melted into the shadows like hunting panthers, moving swiftly in the opposite direction of the main flow, leaving Erika alone in the icy corridor.
Alone in the frigid passageway, before Erika could fully untangle the complex and severe warning Wolfgang had left her with, a familiar, grating sound of dragging chains mixed with frivolous footsteps echoed from the direction of the main hall.
Balthasar had returned.
He was alone—if one ignored the blindfolded sister stumbling along at the end of his chain like a marionette. That cat-got-the-canary smirk was plastered on his face as he closed in, his large frame casting a shadow that engulfed Erika completely.
"Oh? Has our lost little lamb not found its way back to the fold?" Balthasar's voice dripped with false concern. He stopped a mere step away, making a show of looking Erika up and down.
Without giving Erika a chance to respond or retreat, Balthasar's free hand—the one that had so callously snuffed out a Mark moments before—shot out with blinding speed. It wasn't an attack, but a precise, brutal grab, seizing Erika's left wrist, the one bearing the Auric Mark.
Erika stiffened, feeling as if a band of iron had locked around their wrist, the cold touch mingling with a dull, throbbing ache from the Mark.
Balthasar's strength was overwhelming. He forcibly twisted Erika's hand, exposing the golden Mark fully to his view. He bent his head, "studying" the Mark as if appraising the quality of a piece of goods. His thumb, with deliberate, grinding pressure, scraped heavily across the Mark's grooves, sending a sharp sting through Erika's flesh.
The entire violation lasted a good five seconds. The air felt frozen. Erika could hear the frantic beating of their own heart and the faint, terrified breaths of the blindfolded sister nearby.
Finally, Balthasar released his grip as if discarding rubbish. A twisted expression of contempt and something like satisfaction crossed his face.
"The Mark is real. Pity… it's too weak. Too new." He snorted, stating it as an irrefutable fact. "Just like you."
He offered no further words about Erika's past or future, no specific threats. This simple act and verdict were more insulting and oppressive than any lengthy intimidation. It was his most direct way of declaring: In my eyes, you are nothing but an insignificant flawed product with a shoddy Mark, unworthy of even my specific attention.
With that, he dismissed Erika from his view, as if he'd merely dealt with a trivial nuisance. A sharp tug on the chain, and he was gone, the scraping sound of metal on stone fading down the empty hallway like a sinister echo.
Erika stood their ground, the cold, violent imprint of the grasp lingering on their left wrist, the Mark pulsing with a dull ache. But what ignited in their chest wasn't pure fear. It was a cold, sharp sense of humiliation and a crystal-clear understanding of peril. Balthasar had shown them, in the most direct way possible, that in this world, without power, you weren't even granted the dignity of being taken seriously.
They drew a sharp breath, forcing the churning emotions down. No more hesitation. They turned and strode quickly toward the Hall of Mark-Forging.
They needed power. They needed information. They needed to find their own place in the coming storm, not remain a "flawed product" to be inspected, judged, and casually discarded by others.
Back within the familiar, energy-humming confines of the Mark-Forging Hall, the heavy black-iron door sealed shut behind them, momentarily muting the outside malice and chaos. Erika leaned back against the cold door and slid slowly to the floor.
They didn't light a lamp, allowing the darkness and the ambient energy glow to envelop them. Raising their left hand, they gazed at the Mark on their hand—the one Balthasar had deemed "too weak." But the look in their eyes was now one of unwavering resolve.
They closed their eyes.
The time for passive waiting, for merely stealing fragments, was over. It was time to take the initiative, to become the "ghost" haunting the shadows of the system.
They sank their entire consciousness into the Mark, beginning to fully sense the omnipresent network of the Resonance Protocol. Like the most patient of hunters, they began to lay their nets, waiting for the moment the storm broke over the Angel's Descent area—the perfect cover to slip deeper into the system's backend and steal its secrets.
Time flowed in the silence, their spirit gradually merging with the low hum of surrounding energy. Just as their focus peaked, on the verge of brushing against a crucial node of dataflow—
Bzzt…
A tremor of mental energy, incredibly faint but sharp with panic, lanced through their highly-tuned perception like a needle! The signature was unmistakably familiar, carrying the unique, untarnished purity of Anna's spirit. But now that purity was thoroughly churned by terror.
The signal was fractured, hard to hold, as if its sender was under immense pressure or chaos, barely able to coalesce this shred of a plea for help.The information was fragmented, but the core pulse was clear:
"...help... me..."
Then, another, even more blurred fragment that sent a jolt through Erika:
"...Mark..."
Abruptly, the signal vanished, cut off like a snapped wire.
Erika's eyes flew open, their deep trance shattered. Their heart hammered against their ribs.
Anna? What's wrong? Why is she calling for help? Why mention the 'Mark'? Did something go wrong with her training? Or… is it something else? Balthasar's sneering face flashed in their mind, a chill running down their spine.
They tried to reconnect, to trace the fading psychic imprint backward, but the signal was gone, a ripple swallowed by a deep pond, leaving no trace.
On one side: a crisis threatening the very Sanctum, the fate of Cecilia, and the hard-won opportunity to infiltrate the system.
On the other: Anna's faint, panic-stricken plea, tugging directly at one of the few soft places left in Erika's heart.
Leaning against the cold door, caught between the darkness and the energy's faint light, Erika clenched the Auric Mark on their left hand. The freshly laid "nets" still hovered at the edge of the system, while a crisis in the flesh had crashed down upon them.
A choice had to be made.