My request to become a priest of the temple wasn't a sudden one, or not to me at least. My
options were extremely slim, even non-existent, and I had no way of rallying anybody to
fight against the hordes of abominations that would soon come after us. The fact I couldn't
even provide a clear time for their arrival would grind any such attempt to a halt. Sneak
around the temple for weapons or secrets? If I was a Faceless or Psychiatrist who had
Psychological Invisibility maybe, but I was just a Spectator. My only option was to use the
system and work my way up it until I could find something better to do. At the same time, I
needed to convince this Saint, a pillar of this crumbling temple, radiating a power that could
either be our salvation or our final undoing, to fight and support me. To move freely, to have
my voice heard when the darkness came, I needed to stand beside him, not beneath him.
The Saint's dried-gold eyes widened a fraction, the stern lines of his face softening into pure,
unadulterated surprise. He was silent for a long moment, studying me not with suspicion, but
with a deep, weary curiosity. "A Priest?" he finally said, his voice a low rumble. "Child, the
path of the cloth is not a shelter from the storm. It is a commitment to stand within it, to be a
lightning rod for the fears of others. It is a life of service, not safety. Why would you seek this
now, in the world's ending?"
This was the test. I couldn't mention the vision. I couldn't speak of the nightmare or the
Spell. My lie had to be built on the foundation of the truth I'd just been given—his truth. I
met his gaze, allowing the lingering shock and grief from Father Malachi's death to resurface,
channelling it into my performance. "My village is gone. The world is madness, as you said. I
have nothing left but the memory of a priest who showed me kindness before he… before he
died. He believed in sanctuary. In light. When I saw this temple, when I felt… I felt a
semblance of that peace here…" I let my voice tremble, just slightly. It wasn't entirely an act.
The scale of what was coming was truly terrifying. "I don't want to just hide. I want to help. I
want to be a part of whatever light remains. Please. I have nowhere else to go." I saw it in the
micro-shift of his expression, the slight relaxation of his jaw. The Spectator ability translated
the signals instantly: he saw my youth, my palpable loss, and a desire he interpreted as pure,
if naïve, faith. He saw a reflection of the idealism he himself had likely once possessed, now
worn down by the silent heavens. He let out a long, slow breath, the sound like wind through
ancient stones.
"The old ways are breaking. Perhaps new blood is what is needed, even if it arrives drenched
in sorrow." He stood, his movement fluid and effortless, the power in his frame unmistakable.
"Very well. I am Saint Theron. I oversee the spiritual well-being of this sanctuary. I cannot
offer you formal ordination—such things require years of study and the blessing of a higher
authority that does not answer. But I can offer you a place among the acolytes. You will
work, you will pray, and you will learn what it means to hold fast to hope when there is none.
If you still wish this path after you have seen the true depth of the despair we face, then we
will speak again." It was more than I could have hoped for. Legitimacy. Access. A reason to
wander the temple halls unsupervised, if only openly. "Thank you, Saint Theron," I said,
bowing my head. The gesture felt foreign, but right."Come," he said, his tone shifting to one of practical command. "The first lesson begins now.
You will help me take inventory of our medical supplies. The refugees bring not just fear, but
injury and sickness. To tend to the body is often the first step in tending to the soul." He led
me back inside, not towards the main courtyard, but down a side passage. As I followed, my
mind was already racing, cross-referencing the vision with this new reality. Medical supplies.
They would be critical when the siege began. Knowing their location, their quantity, would
be the first strategic step in altering our doomed future. Saint Theron had given me a chore.
But to me, it was the first move in a war for survival, and I was now perfectly positioned
behind enemy lines. Not that I had any intention of bring harm to these people of course, we
all stood on the same side after all. Now, the biggest issue was figuring out the exact timeline
shown to me.
From what I'd seen, the flood of refugees will stop for a time, which was rapidly accelerated
in the opening. Then a man presumably connected to the Shadow God will arrive, followed
by another accelerated period of time. Then the monsters. So I had at around two weeks after
the last of the refugees show up before we all die. From now, maybe 20 days. While Theron
had showed me some favour by agreeing to my request, I was sure I couldn't achieve much
more in such a short time by doing chores. I would need an opportunity to stand out, to prove
my worth. For now though, I obediently did what was asked of me and started going through
the boxes of herbs and labelled potions.
****************************
Three days bled into a tense, weary rhythm. The initial awe of my new reality had subsided,
replaced by a grinding, methodical anxiety. I had settled into the role of an acolyte, my black
tunic now a familiar uniform. I fetched water, helped distribute thin, gruel-like stew from a
massive pot, and followed Saint Theron on his rounds, my Spectator's sight constantly active,
cataloguing every face, every whispered conversation, every hidden tension in the crowded
temple.
Saint Theron was a constant, calm presence, but I watched him with a new, critical eye. Each
new group of ragged, hollow-eyed refugees that stumbled through the gates was met with the
same gentle efficiency. He would observe them, his Transcendent aura a subtle comfort, but
he never interrogated them, never pressed for strategic information. He sought only to soothe,
to offer sanctuary. And the refugees had nothing to offer but their fear. Their stories were all
the same, heard weeks ago from villages and towns now erased from the map. They brought
no news from the front lines of this unseen war because there were no front lines anymore.
There was only the advancing tide, and they were the flotsam left behind. News from outside
the valley mountain range was cut off entirely, and no one knew how things had progressed.
Hell, they didn't even know who was fighting, just vague names or notions.
I watched as the priests, under Theron's directive, distributed food with a scrupulous, heart-
breaking morality. A withered elder received the same portion as a broad-shouldered
blacksmith. A wailing infant's mother got more than a solitary scribe. It was an act of
profound kindness, a stubborn refusal to surrender their morality to the coming darkness.
And it was a catastrophic tactical error. The thought coiled in my mind, cold and ruthless. My
thoughts, focused on survival and resource management, conflicted with my hearty.
Prioritize, a voice whispered, the voice of unkind reason who knew that some lies werenecessary for a greater truth. Feed the strong. Arm the healthy. Identify the soldiers, the
hunters, the ones who could hold a spear. This temple wouldn't be saved by prayers or
fairness; it would be saved by those who could kill the things climbing the mountain. But I
said nothing. I kept this calculus a secret, locked behind a mask of placid helpfulness.
Because I also saw the deep, genuine compassion in Saint Theron's eyes. He couldn't watch a
single person suffer if he had the means to prevent it, even momentarily. His kindness was his
greatest strength and the flaw that would doom everyone here. This paradox gnawed at me,
and it forced me to re-examine the vision. The temple had fallen without a fight. I had
assumed it was because they were overwhelmed, because their defences failed. Now, I wasn't
so sure. What if they never fought at all? What if their leader, a man like Theron, so
committed to preservation and mercy, had been unable to make the brutal choices necessary
for war? What if, when the shadowed figure arrived—the key I still hadn't identified—he
found not a fortress ready for battle, but a hospice waiting for the end? A place where the will
to fight had been compassionately, kindly, starved out of existence? The thought was a
chilling revelation. The enemy wouldn't need to break down the gates. They just needed to
wait for the light within to sputter and die on its own. And as I carried another bowl of stew
to a trembling old woman who might be dead in a week, regardless of the monsters, I feared
that was exactly what was happening. Perhaps when the beasts arrived, all they found were
corpses and empty hallways.
Apart from gaining a further understanding of Theron's character, I had also managed to
explore some more of the temple. As told in the vision, it was quite large, with up to a dozen
prayer chambers and four gardens: one for each corner. Apart from me, there were only
sixteen other priests and thirty guards, of which three were Ascended and a dozen were
Awakened. The rest were Dormant or just trained mortals. The three Ascended had relatively
straightforward abilities: one could transform stone to sand and vice-versa. The second had
the ability to see echoes of past events that occurred in the last twenty-four hours, and the
third could convert kinetic energy into explosions. Two were female, one young the other
middle-aged, while the third was a man in the prime of his life. I was closest to the man, who
was relatively simple-minded and liked to talk. He told me a bit about the temple and its
history, which dated from the dusk of the Age of Heroes to now, and some titbits of the
"Venerable One" mentioned by Theron.
They were an extremely powerful but mysterious individual, having not been seen in over
fifty years. They were Theron's teacher and likely a Supreme, as well as the founder of this
Temple. According to the Master, Jeryl, the Venerable One had been blessed with the blood
of the Sun God and held a higher status than other Supremes because of this. Where such a
powerful being was now was unclear, and I wondered if they died during the Doom War, but
at least I could confirm they wouldn't be showing up here.
**************************************
The summons came as it did each evening: a soft-spoken priest gathering the handful of
priests, myself being the only acolyte, and leading us to the inner sanctum. The air here was
different from the anxious buzz of the main hall—thicker, heavier with the scent of old
incense and silent devotion. Sunlight, filtered through a high, stained-glass window depicting
the Sun God's triumph over some serpentine beast, cast fractured pools of colour on themarble floor. Saint Theron stood before the modest altar, his presence seeming to draw the
fading light of day to him. We knelt in a semi-circle as he began the daily baptism, not with
water, but with light. A gentle, warming radiance emanated from his hands, washing over us.
It was a benediction, a reinforcement of the soul against the despair that seeped through the
temple walls. To the others, it was a sacred comfort. To me, with my Spectator's sight, it was
a fascinating display of controlled divine energy, a precise and careful application of power
meant to soothe rather than invigorate. He gave his usual short speech, his voice a low,
resonant hum in the quiet chamber. "The Lord of Light does not promise a world without
shadow," he intoned, his dried-gold eyes moving over each of us. "He promises that the light
will always return. He grants us the strength to endure the night, so that we may greet the
dawn. Hold fast to that truth. It is your shield."
The words were meant to be inspiring. All I heard was a doctrine of passive endurance. A
promise to endure the slaughter, not to prevent it. I was damned sure there were texts in the
Sun God's doctrine about crusades and burning heretics alive, since I had come across
some...less friendly tomes the day before, but Theron always chose the gentler messages. For
a man in position of power, it was an undeniably good quality, but for a world in a position of
imminent destruction it was useless. As the other acolytes rose, bowing and filing out with
quiet reverence, my attention was snagged not by the altar, but by the far corner of the
chamber. Partially obscured by a heavy woven tapestry depicting a celestial battle, was a door
I had somehow missed previously. It wasn't like the others in the temple. It was made of
aged, dark bronze, thick and banded with black iron. There were no handles, only a single,
complex seal at its centre—a stylized sun whose rays were locked in place by what looked
like interlocking chains.
It was utterly out of place in the chamber of gentle light and soothing blessings. It looked less
like a door and more like a vault, or a prison. I lingered, pretending to straighten a fallen
cushion near the altar until the last of the other acolytes had departed and their footsteps had
faded down the hall. The heavy silence of the chamber was broken only by the soft rustle of
Theron's robes as he turned, noticing my presence. "Is there something you need, Adam?" he
asked, his tone kind but weary from the day's burdens. I approached him, my expression one
of curious innocence. I gestured towards the corner. "Saint Theron… I couldn't help but
notice that door. It's unlike any other in the temple. What is it for?"
The effect on him was immediate and subtle. His weary posture straightened almost
imperceptibly. The gentle light in his eyes dimmed, replaced by a guarded, ancient caution.
The kind warmth in his face cooled by a single, crucial degree. He looked from me to the
bronze door and then back, and the silence stretched just a moment too long. "That," he said,
his voice losing its resonant comfort and becoming flat, final, "is a relic of a older time. A
sealed vow. It is not for acolytes. It is not for anyone. It is best left forgotten."
He didn't say it with anger, but with a weight that felt heavier than the door itself. It was the
first time he had outright refused to answer a question, the first time he had hidden
something. In that moment, the kind Saint vanished, replaced by a man guarding a secret.
And in a temple on the brink of annihilation, a secret that required a bronze door and a
chained sun to contain it was the most interesting thing I had seen yet. Perhaps it held the
vital clue needed for me to overturn the situation. Of course, it could just as likely be the cage
of a Cursed Titan that would obliterate us all instantly in a nuclear blast of annihilation butthat was neither here nor there. It was the one of the few places I had yet to access though,
and by far the most conspicuous. The other three places were Theron's room, the guards
quarters and scribe's office. Sighing to myself, I returned to my duties, storing the bronze
door away for future use.
***************************************************************
The silence was the worst part. For days, the rhythm of dread had been set by the arrival of
new refugees—their cries, their stories, their desperate energy. Then, the flow slowed to a
trickle: a lone family one day, a pair of wounded soldiers the next. Then, nothing. The great
gates remained open, but the mountain path below lay empty and still. The void where hope
should have been grew louder than any alarm bell. The atmosphere in the temple curdled.
The initial shock of survival gave way to the slow poison of idleness and fear. Squabbles
broke out over sleeping space, over food portions that were now cut thinner than ever. A
deep, restless anxiety hummed through the halls, a tension that my Spectator sight could
almost see coiling around people's throats. The guards' grips on their weapons were
permanent now, their faces set in grim, unyielding lines. They weren't just watching for
external threats anymore; they were watching us.
Saint Theron became a ghost of reassurance, moving through the crowds with his calming
aura, laying a hand on a shoulder here, mediating a dispute there. His words were still of
hope and dawn, but they began to ring hollow against the palpable, thickening despair. He
looked more drained each day, the light around him seeming to fight a little harder to push
back a darkness that was no longer just metaphorical. I counted the days. The eleventh since
I'd awoken here. The vision had shown the temple's fall happening rapidly after the arrivals
stopped. My every nerve was stretched taut. I'd given up on sleep, spending my nights
watching the gates, the Spectator ability burning in my mind, analysing every shift in the
wind, every strange sound. And then, he came.
There was no fanfare, no warning, not even the sound of footsteps on the polished stone. I
was watching the gate when I saw a figure crest the hill, wrapped in a black shawl that
seemed to be impossibly deep. His face was covered by a hood that cast shadows over his
eyes, like some sort of Assassin's Creed cosplayer. I would have laughed at that thought, but
now I was in no mood. The shadowed man. He was exactly as he'd appeared in the vision,
yet the reality of him was a physical blow to my senses. The shadows around him weren't
cast; but seemed alive. And that's not just hyperbole, I swear I saw them wiggle and shift a bit
as he approached. He seemed to drink the fading evening light, making the air around him
several degrees colder. My Spectator sight, which could read the subtlest twitch of a muscle,
slid off him uselessly, unable to find purchase in the inky black. He stood perfectly still, his
posture not of a weary traveller or someone ignorantly fleeing disaster, but of an observer
who had reached his destination. He was composed, steady, a rock in the frantic river of our
fear. A guard finally noticed him, casting a suspicious gaze.
This guard was an Awakened, and I guess his senses were stronger than me, because he
gripped his spear and his face dropped. "Halt! Identify yourself!" he barked, his voice
cracking with a tension that was near breaking. The man didn't respond. He simply tilted his
head, as if studying the architecture of the gate, the same way he had in the vision. The
gesture was calm, analytical, and utterly terrifying. Chaos erupted. More guards converged,shouts echoing through the courtyard. Refugees shrank back, pressing themselves against the
walls as if trying to disappear. The air, already thick with tension, now crackled with
imminent violence. And through it all, the shadowed man just stood. Waiting. My heart
hammered against my ribs. This was it. The catalyst. The event that preceded the flood. The
last checkpoint before the final boss.
As the two parties stared at each other in silence-one side tense, the other lazily calm-Theron
moved through the crowd. His eyes lit up in recognition, but his face hardened and jaw
tensed. He waved down the concerned guards and ordered the crowd to make way. Once they
had done so, the man walked through the temple gates, nodding politely at the guards as he
passed. He and Theron spoke not a word as they walked side-by-side until they were out of
sight. Beside me, another priest let out a sigh of relief. Turning to him, I asked, "Do you
recognise that man?" "No," he shook his head. "However, since Bishop Theron walks beside
him, he cannot be a foe. I trust the Bishop."
Letting out a hum of acknowledgement and dallied for several minutes longer before
discretely sneaking towards Theron's quarters. The room wasn't soundproof, so upon arriving
I was able to make out their conversation. The thought of being discovered obviously crossed
my mind, but I had an excuse prepared and Theron wasn't the kind to punish me harshly.
Putting my ear against the door, I strained my improved senses to their limit.
"You shouldn't be here, Karion" Theron spoke in a less friendly tone than usual, though not to
the point of being impolite. "I should not be anywhere," the man replied, "For my soul has
already been claimed by Shadow. Yet I persist in the land of the living for I still bear a
mission."
"Your presence will bring misfortune to these people. Leave at once, and let us spend the rest
of our days in peace."
"Peace? You think being devoured alive, torn apart limb from limb, is a peaceful end? It
would be a more graceful death to slip hemlock into everyone's drink-"
"Karion!" I flinched as I heard Theron shout for the first time.
Several seconds of silence reigned after this, as both sides seemingly collected themselves.
Eventually, Karion spoke up. "I apologize, old friend. Saying such a thing was cruel,
mocking your efforts this far. I admire what you have done, I really do, but surely you can see
their lies no salvation at the end of this path? Why do you refuse to take a stand, to brandish
the light to repel all darkness?"
"A Blessed of Shadow desires light?" Theron laughed in faux amusement. "I have your God
to blame for much of this in fact, for allowing death and misery to proliferate unchecked like
it has!" "Shadow merely created death," Karion retorted.
"It was War and Beast and Sun who spread it. War...those mad zealots destroyed our world
and even still marched forward to claim more. Let the Rot take them all, those bastards. If I
could, I'd go out of my way to uproot that sickening empire of theirs."
"Why do you not?""Because the Empire of War no longer exists" he said simply, stunning Theron and I into
silence. Well, I was already silent, but my heart still dropped.
"How?" the Saint whispered.
"I am not entirely clear on that myself, but I've heard a group calling themselves "The Nine"
played a part in that. Organized revolts, important Nobles assassinated in their homes,
churches and temples burnt alongside their priests...the entire country went mad with
bloodlust and suppressed desires. The Daemons' have charged suicidally against the Divine,
and the aftermath even I do not know yet, though my soul tells me it cannot be good."
"The Nine?" Theron question with a troubled tone. "I have never heard of such a group: the
Venerable One has never mentioned it either. And besides, even if the Gods are preoccupied
against the Daemons and Nephilim, how could They just watch the Empire fall? It doesn't
make sense!"
"Perhaps there is more going on than we know" Karion offered calmly, seemingly
unperturbed by his own revelations. Silence once again dropped before Theron asked with a
weary tone, "Karion what exactly do you seek here?"
"Nothing, or rather, nothing that you can give me. I merely want to inform you that time is
running out. You have five, maybe six, days before every soul in the temple is destroyed. A
flood of twisted monstrosities are sweeping through the valley, and this is the only safe place
left. If you are unwilling to use the Radiance, then death is the only fate awaiting you."
"Death awaits us either way" Theron dismissed bitterly. "The Gods have fallen silent, and I
cannot use the Radiance multiple times. No one in this temple can, and having anyone less
than a Transcendant will kill them after a single use anyways. If the Venerable One was here
then...but he is not, so that's a moot point. I am not blind to the future coming Karion, but I
cannot see a way out. Perhaps this is the fate woven for us. I have lived a long and good life."
"And of the people?" I could hear the loaded question in his words.
"...I will handle that" he spoke quietly, a deadly level of resignation in his voice. Despite his
loud outburst at Karion's recommendation of mercy killing, I couldn't help but be alarmed. If
a quick and painless death was the only alternative to being eaten by corrupted beasts, would
Theron take it? My heart wanted to deny it, but I couldn't. What would I do in his place? The
answer, I already knew.
"In that case, I wish you good luck. I will be on my way now."
Hearing the sound of a chair moving backwards, I quickly fled from the door and around a
corner. As I heard the door open and low murmuring taking place, I steeled my hard and tried
to appear normal. I "walked" around the corner and pretended to be surprised to see Theron
and the shadow man standing together, the Saint walking him out. Theron gave a slight smile
at me, while Karion just silently observed me. If either knew I had been eavesdropping, they
didn't show it.I passed them by and continued on my way, taking another corner and leaving them behind. I
kept walking until I reached my quarters, then locked the door and sat on my bed with my
head between my hands. Karion had been a key figure as I had guessed, but he brought only
bad news. I thought I would have more time after his appearance, but if it was only four or
five days then I would need to speed things along. The fact Theron might be planning to
murder everyone here in their sleep was another concern for me to deal with. Karion's
warning had cut my timeline from weeks to mere days, and Theron's fatalistic resignation
was now an active threat. Passive observation was no longer viable. My first move must be to
neutralize the immediate danger: Theron's potential "mercy killing."
I needed to discreetly monitor the Saint, perhaps using his enhanced perception to track his
movements and any preparations for such an act. Simultaneously, I have to solve the riddle of
the bronze door. Theron's guarded secret was the only anomaly in the temple's otherwise
hopeless equation. It represented a power—the "Radiance"—that Karion believed could save
them, but Theron refused to use. According to him, it could only be reliably used by a Saint
and others would perish, but even then it carried a price high enough to terrify the man.
This meant I would have to risk exploring the inner sanctum again, searching for a way to
bypass the sealed door, perhaps by finding a key or deciphering the sun-and-chains emblem.
Finally, I had to prepare for the siege itself. My powers as a Spectator could no longer remain
a secret though. I would need to identify potential allies among the guards and Awakened,
like the simple-minded Jeryl, and begin subtly planting the seeds of defiance, convincing
them that a fight—however desperate—was better than a quiet, administered death. Rallying
the people, which I originally dismissed due a lack of time and authority, was once again the
best option. Groaning painfully, I lay down on the bed and closed my eyes. I would deal with
everything tomorrow, riht now I just wanted to sleep.Chapter 6: First Nightmare-IV
Morning came earlier than I would have liked-a feeling I figured I would be experiencing a
lot as the clock ran down. Another three days had passed since Karion came and went, and I
had only made some marginal progress on opening the bronze door. Theron hadn't been
acting any different despite the deadline closing in, and while supplies got notably tighter, it
hadn't yet reached the point of desperation. A few got sick, and a couple of the weaker
refugees even died, but order was maintained for the most part. There were no actual sings of
the approaching apocalypse either: the weather hadn't changed noticeably, nor had the ground
shook. The sun was still a grey blob in the sky, but it had been that way for weeks apparently.
While his attempts to get more information on what was behind the door, what the
"Radiance" mentioned by the two Saints was, had failed, he was more successful in
his...other ventures.
For three days, my became a ghost in the temple's nervous system. I did not command or
confront. I simply… nudged those around me in the way I wanted, but only using the tools
they themselves prepared.
Leaning against a wall near a group of grumbling guards, I'd sigh, just loud enough to be
heard. "It's a shame. All this strength, waiting to be used. If only we had a plan." The words
were vague, but they fell on the fertile soil of their frustration, giving their inchoate anger a
shape: the lack of a plan. These were men trained from a young age, since I knew the temple
adopted orphans, who held more zealotry than even Theron himself (as bizarre as that may
be). They desired action, a definitive move to do...something, even if it was ineffective.
Being in the forefront of handling the refugees had also frayed their nerves. Even the
toughest soldier can only handle the wailing of children and mothers before they started to
crack.
Serving stew to a family, I'd murmur to a grim-faced father, "The children look so pale. I
hope the Saint has a strategy to protect the most vulnerable." The man's fear for his family
was subtly redirected from the external threat to the internal leadership, a quiet question of
Theron's capability forming where blind faith had been. These people knew Theron: not
personally, but through stories passe down for years. They all depicted him as a godly and
kind man, but not a fighter, not a negotiator. The grim father could not draw upon stories of
Theron's prowess or leadership, though the Saint was certainly brave, this no one denied. But
would that be enough? Could mere courage save them in these times?
I never lied. I simply highlighted existing fears and unspoken doubts, weaving them into a
narrative of unease. I was an author composing a symphony of discontent, each note perfectly
chosen to resonate, yet the music felt like the listeners' own thoughts. I was the Manipulator,
the Author of a new, defiant story, carefully editing out the passages on passive acceptance
and writing in margins of rebellion. I watched the atmosphere shift, the tension coiling
tighter, ready to spring. There was no malice towards Theron, even though I will not claim I
held no frustration towards the older man. As Noctis had said, the Age of Heroes was long
past. The Gods had fallen silent, and soon They would fall dead. It was up to me to ensure thesame fate did not befall the hapless souls here. Even if this was a mere false history generated
by the Spell.
The manipulations continued on the next day. Saint Theron's compassionate inaction was a
slower, kinder death sentence than the horde climbing our mountain. I wasn't trying to betray
the man I respected; I was trying to save everyone from the despair he wore like a shroud.
This was the message I slipped between my gilded words, a backdoor I left in case anyone
reported me for betrayal. 'I am not evil; I am merely trying to help!'
My Spectator ability became my scalpel. I could see the frustration in the set of a guard's jaw,
the silent terror in a mother's eyes, the grim acceptance in a soldier's slouch. I didn't invent
their fears. I simply found them, and I gave them a voice.
Leaning against a sun-warmed wall near a group of guards, I let out a weary sigh, just loud
enough to be heard. "The masonry on the eastern wall is so strong," I murmured, as if to
myself. "A real shame we don't have a plan to use it. All this strength, waiting." I saw one
guard's hands still on his spear. Another glanced toward the wall I'd mentioned. I'd redirected
their aimless anxiety into a tangible, solvable problem.
Serving thin stew, I knelt beside a young mother. "He feels the cold, doesn't he?" I said softly,
nodding at her shivering child. "I overheard the priests say the inner sanctum retains heat
best. Reserved for... well." I let the sentence hang, leaving her with the unspoken question:
Reserved for who? The sick of course, for they needed it badly. But perhaps the mother
thought of a different group. I wasn't lying. I was just suggesting that the strategy of shared
suffering might not be the only way.
I listened to the blacksmith curse his lack of decent metal, and later I mentioned to one of the
Ascended female Temple warriors, "It's amazing what that man can do with scrap. Imagine if
he had real ore." I was connecting people, building a subconscious web of capability and
need that completely bypassed Theron's paralyzed leadership.
By the time the sun rose on the fourth day, I knew I had achieved the first level of success.
Portion of the crowd stared with emotional eyes at the guards and servers, and when Theron
showed up for his daily inspection, there was less warmth and hope in the eyes of his
observers. This change did not go unnoticed by the man, as his jaw tightened slightly. He
stayed for longer that day, speaking with men and women I assumed held local influence. I
had also marked them and dropped a few words here and there, but never made proper
contact. I was afraid they would point me out as the source of discontent spreading through
their ranks. I had less to worry about from the guards and other priests, I had already found
out, as Jeryl and more shared my frustrations to some extent. The priests were all young, the
older and more experienced taken away to fight in the Doom War. That meant the ones who
stayed behind were eager for action, for glory in the name of their God.
**********************************************
The subtle cracks I'd been carefully etching into the foundation of Theron's peaceful
sanctuary finally began to spread. I saw it in the way the guards now stood their ground when
he passed, their nods less deferential, their eyes holding unspoken questions. I heard it in the
low, tense murmurs that rippled through the refugee crowds, no longer just fear, but a sharp,frustrated anger. My whispers had taken root. Theron had to personally intervene more and
more, his calming aura now a visible effort, a light straining against a rising tide of discontent
he couldn't understand.
It culminated in a tense gathering in the main hall. Myself, a handful of the most resolute
guards whose resolve I'd hardened, and even a few younger priests whose faith had curdled
into a desperate need for action, stood before Theron. Jeryl and one of the two Ascended
woman were with me, though the third remained indecisive even now. We had talked over
what we would say to the Saint for several hours, choosing the early rays of the morning
when there would be less people. I wanted to spare Theron the humiliation of being
questioned by his own subordinates, even if it would be a better stage for my ends. I knew the
feeling myself from my past life after all, and it struck a particular chord of distaste.
"Saint Theron," I began, my voice respectful but firm, acting as the group's "reluctant"
speaker. "The people are afraid. We are all afraid. But fear is curdling into panic. We have
strong walls, able bodies. Let us form a militia. Let us prepare a defence. Give us a plan, any
plan, to fight for this sanctuary."
He looked at us, his face etched with a profound, weary sadness. "To fight is to invite the
darkness inside," he said, his voice hollow. "Our strength is in endurance, in faith. To raise a
weapon is to become what we fear. I will not lead you down that path."
"That's nonsense!" roared Jeryl, before swallowing his voice after Theron looked at him.
"Please, Sir, at least let the volunteers choose to fight. The Radiance, the things the temple
sealed behind that door, let us wield it. We do not fear oblivion if it means saving the lives of
hundreds of others!"
"My answer is no! Now, disperse and resume your duties. I am sure your absence is
negatively affecting your brothers and sisters."
"What are you afraid of, Saint Theron?" I spoke clearly, my voice piercing the old man's
heart. His brows furrowed and then relaxed, but in a way that made my stomach drop. "There
are worse fates than death, boy. Now leave."
The finality in his tone was a door slamming shut. The hope in the eyes around me died,
replaced by a bitter helplessness. I felt it too—a cold fury at his beautiful, suicidal
philosophy.
He refused. He would let us all die peacefully rather than risk our souls, believing that being
torn apart and devoured by Nightmare Creatures was better than the "Oblivion" mention by
Jeryl. Was it ignorance, I wondered? Did growing up in an era of peace leave Theron without
understanding of the terrors of the Corruption? Entirely possible, I mused. The Gods had
been damn effective at hunting down the Void's spawn, and the Daemons kept to themselves
apart from the occasional love-spat between Nether and Storm. Maybe men like
Theron were genuinely ignorant. Or perhaps I was the ignorant one, since I still didn't know
what the temple's secret weapon was.
Turning to Jeryl, I tried my luck. "Ascended Sir, what do you know about the bronze doors?""Only what I told you before" he sighed. "It houses either a great weapon or a terrifying
power that requires the Supreme Venerable to watch over. The seal itself was created many
centuries ago: the Venerable is merely this generations guardian. I don't know if his absence
has had any effect on the seal, but Theron doesn't seem to spend much time around it. As for
opening the door itself, the only key is in the Bishop's office."
"And the oblivion you mentioned?"
"The Venerable's own words, apparently. I can only guess based off them, but it seems those
unable to bear the weight of the weapon are erased beyond all measure...including their
souls."
Jeryl had nothing knew to offer, and the other Ascended only had hearsay. And so, I had no
choice but to change my game. I stopped being a surgeon. I became an arsonist.
I let my Spectator sight flare, pinpointing the most volatile elements in the crowd—a man
with a hair-trigger temper who'd been robbed on the road, another who'd lost his family and
had nothing left to lose. I didn't need to be subtle know, a few probs and deliberate
mistreatments and he would lash out. The guards and priests would come to my defence, and
the situation would escalate from there. I was already aware of a dozen or so strong-ish men
who looked at us temple folk meanly. Another problem with Theron's mercy was his failure
to properly screen those who came to him.
The air in the great hall was thick enough to choke on—a stew of fear, sweat, and simmering
rage. I could feel it, a pressure against my skin, every frayed nerve in the place humming a
tune of impending violence. My Spectator's sight picked out the threads of it, the micro-
expressions of people pushed past their breaking point. It was a tapestry of despair, and it
needed one final, brutal pull to unravel completely. I took a breath and tried to psyche myself
up for what was to come. I needed to manage my expressions carefully, and keep my voice
controlled just enough so only those I want to hear will do so. This wasn't in line with the
Acting Method of a Spectator, quite the opposite in fact, but I had no push through.
I found my thread. He was a big man, shoulders slumped not in defeat but in a coiled,
dangerous grief. His eyes were hollow, the eyes of a man who had lost everything—family,
home, any scrap of future. He was a bomb waiting for a fuse.
Taking a deep breath, I walked straight into him, my shoulder hitting his arm with a solid
thud. I didn't apologize. I sneered, letting all the calculated contempt I could muster into my
voice.
"Watch where you're standing, you oaf. Some of us have actual work to do."
He turned, his face a mask of slow-burning shock that quickly kindled into fury. "What did
you say to me, you little rat?"
I met his gaze, my expression one of pure, arrogant dismissal. "I said move. Or are your ears
as useless as the rest of you? No wonder you ended up here with nothing."I saw the exact moment the last of his restraint snapped. It was in the way his jaw clenched,
the way the hollows in his eyes filled with a raw, blinding fire. "My family is dead," he
growled, the words ripped from somewhere deep and broken inside him. "You spoiled, pious
little—"
"Maybe they got tired of you," I cut in, my voice a cold, sharp blade. My heart was
hammering, a frantic drum against my ribs. This was cruel. This was monstrous. But it was
necessary. "Maybe they saw you for the worthless burden you are and found a quicker way
out."
With a roar that was half anguish, half pure rage, he lunged at me. I was ready for it,
sidestepping just enough so his grasping hand only caught my tunic, tearing the fabric. The
sound was like a starting pistol.
"Hey! Back off!" A guard—one of the younger ones whose frustration I'd been stoking for
days—was there in an instant, shoving the big man back. He saw the torn cloth, saw me—an
acolyte, one of theirs—being attacked.
"He attacked me!" I said, my voice pitched high with feigned shock and indignation. "He just
snapped!"
The big man wasn't listening. His world had narrowed to the guard and the insult. He swung,
a wild, powerful punch that caught the guard on the shoulder, spinning him around.
That was all it took.
Another guard, seeing his comrade struck, waded in with a shout. A friend of the big man,
seeing him set upon, threw himself into the fray. A woman screamed. A priest tried to
intervene and was knocked aside.
It wasn't a fight anymore. It was an explosion.
Weeks of hunger, of terror, of watching the light die in their saint's eyes, all of it erupted at
once. It was a dam breaking. Fists flew. A bench was overturned. The air filled with shouts,
curses, the raw, animal sounds of a crowd tearing itself apart.
I stumbled back from the epicenter, my chest heaving. The chaos I'd orchestrated roared
around me, a terrifying, living thing. I had wanted a spark. I had created a wildfire.
The guards, outnumbered and panicking, fought to subdue the riot. The refugees, a wave of
unleashed desperation, fought back. This was the culmination. Not of my careful whispers,
but of their pain. And I had been the one to finally, decisively, light the match.
A guard, his own frustration pushed to the limit, shoved someone back. "You'll show
respect!"
It wasn't a debate anymore. It was a spark hitting gunpowder.
A fist flew. A scream ripped through the hall. The scene erupted into chaos. The ruffians,
their fear transmuted into blinding rage, lunged. The guards, their discipline shattered by daysof pent-up anxiety and my careful manipulation, met them with equal fury. It was no longer a
unified community facing a threat. It was a brawl, a schism, a civil war contained inside a
single temple. There would be bloodshed, but relatively few casualties I knew. Despite their
tensions, the guards were well trained and diligent, even if lacking actual experience. They
knew to hold back, to subdue rather than kill or maim.
I stood back, my heart hammering against my ribs, the taste of ash in my mouth. I'd done it.
I'd shattered Theron's peace. The path of passive endurance was gone, burned away in the
fire I'd lit.
Now, we would either forge a will to fight in this chaos, or we would all tear each other apart
before the first monster ever reached our gate. I had gambled everything on the former, and
as I watched men I'd eaten beside bloody each other's noses, I was terrified I'd chosen
wrong. 'I wonder if this is how Nephis felt, watching Bright Castle tear itself apart? No, that
crazy bitch probably enjoyed it. If she felt anything at all. Gods, what did Sunny ever see in
that woman?!'
***********************************************
The conflict did not end for twenty minutes, maybe more, and it took Theron thundering
down the hallways personally before it did. He hadn't spoken, but a formless rage pressed
down on us all, temple-folk and outsiders alike. I briefly wondered which category I counted
as, given my only brief stint as an acolyte, before bowing my head submissively before the
Saint. He gave me a probing glance, but only for injury, and not suspicion. Why would he,
since I was just a mundane boy of only nineteen or twenty? Theron was swift in gathering
witnesses and testimonies. The man I had originally provoked was knocked unconscious by a
stray punch, so it was the young guard who came to my rescue who was the first to be grilled.
He stated he acted in my defence, and I in turn stood up for him. This started a cacophony of
voices shouting that we had done nothing wrong, silenced with an impertinent flick of
Theron's wrist. "One at a time," he spoke.
When he had heard our side of the story, he turned to one of the refugee spokespeople. A man
I vaguely remembered as a carpenter stepped forward and spoke nervously. Most of the
involved had no idea what was happening, merely striking back in retaliation for stray blows
or just outright panicking. While the mob was not blameless, there could be no fair
judgement passed on any one individual. And Theron was far too kind for group punishment.
He ordered an early night, and for every guard to stay awake on supervision before turning
away. Yet he had only taken a few steps before abruptly stopping, then calling out my name.
"Adam, you are to come with me."
Jeryl and the others looked at me with worry, but I just shook my head and followed after the
older Saint. We walked in silence towards his office, and he offered me a seat upon entering.
I looked around in restrained curiosity, not wanting to gawk too much, but Theron seemed
unbothered. Not that there was much to see: it was a quaint but cosy little room, with carpets
and a high-back chair of leather. A bookshelf stretched from wall to wall, but it was only half
full. Once I was properly seated, Theron crossed his hands and looked at me deeply.
"I have heard from Annette that you and others have been greatly dissatisfied with my
leadership as of late. You feel I have abandoned our dignity as servants of the Lord of Light,that I am content to simply doom my fellow man to the darkness. Is this what you think?"
"Yes" I respond frankly.
The silence that followed was heavier than the chaos in the hall. I sat in the high-backed
leather chair, feeling like a child called to the principal's office, the weight of the recent
violence and my own guilt pressing down on me. Theron didn't sit behind his desk. He stood
by a small, high window, staring out at the grey sky, his broad shoulders slumped with an
exhaustion that seemed to go far beyond the physical.
"They tell me you were defending yourself," he began again, his voice quiet, devoid of the
resonant power he used in the sanctum. It was just the tired voice of an old man.
"I was," I said, the lie tasting like ash. "I didn't mean for it to… escalate like that."
"It was always going to escalate, Adam," he sighed, turning to face me. There was no
accusation in his dried-gold eyes, only a deep, weary understanding that was somehow
worse. "The fear had nowhere else to go. I have… given them no outlet."
He gestured for me to stay seated as he slowly lowered himself into the chair opposite me.
"You are not from here. You have seen more of the world than I have. This temple… it is all I
have ever known. I was left on its steps as a babe. The stones of this floor were my cradle;
the hymns, my lullabies. My world has always ended at the tree line."
The confession was stunning. This powerful Saint, a Transcendent being, was a prisoner of
his own sanctuary. His entire existence had been this single, failing point of light. How old
was he? I called him an old man, but Transcendants had a way of surpassing age. Maybe late
fifties, maybe mid-sixties?
"I met Karion on one of the few occasions I journeyed beyond the mountain," he continued, a
faint, ghostly smile touching his lips. "It was a diplomatic errand, a foolish attempt at unity
between our gods before the current war. We are not friends. Our natures are too opposed.
But we understand each other. We are both… relics of a dying age, trying to fulfil our duties
to powers that may no longer even be watching. The path of Ascension is becoming harder
with each passing year. The need for struggle and growth has slowed and stagnated, as much
as the Priests of War would try to make you believe otherwise. Their Empire, founded on the
very concepts, has decayed and begun rotting from the inside."
He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and the mask of the serene Saint finally fell
away completely. What was left was a man stretched to his absolute limit.
"You think I am a coward," he stated, not as a question, but a fact. "You think I lack the will
to fight. You are wrong. I have been fighting every single day and night since the refugees
began to arrive. Just not in a way you can see."
He took a slow, shuddering breath. "The 'Radiance' is not merely a weapon. It is a
blasphemous item, combined from the divinity of not one, not even two, but three Gods. It
was left over from a horrendous battle from the Age of Heroes, maybe even earlier, that
requires champions of the three Gods to sacrificed themselves. Their souls and lineagescombined into one. An extremely powerful thing…and volatile. Unstable. To wield it in
violence, to channel it for war… it would be like trying to focus sunlight through a lens made
of glass. It would shatter. It would consume the wielder and likely everyone nearby in a
conflagration of pure, undirected divine power."
"It combines the purification of the Sun, the destruction of War, and the emotions of Heart. I
do noy trust my own capability to wield the power of the former two, so I can only turn
towards the last of the three."
He met my eyes, and I saw the true depth of his sacrifice. "I have not been idle. I have been
using the Radiance, siphoning it in the smallest, most controlled amounts I can manage. I
have been trying to use it to tunnel through the mountain, to create an escape route. But the
process is agonizingly slow. It drains me. It requires absolute peace of mind, a soul utterly
dedicated to preservation, not destruction. Any act of aggression, any intent to harm… it
would disrupt my control. It would snap the tenuous connection I hold, and the Radiance
would shift towards the other two aspects within it. Only by minting the ascetic balance
within my heart can I choose the power of the Goddess of Souls"
He looked at his hands, and for a moment, I saw them tremble. "Agreeing to form a militia,
to brandish weapons, to prepare for battle… in my heart, that is an act of war. The Radiance
would sense that shift in my spirit. It would become unusable. The escape tunnel would
collapse, and our one hope—a hope I have been sacrificing my strength to build—would
vanish. Not to mention the possibility of it just exploding. So you see, boy? I am not
choosing peace over war. I am choosing a possible, difficult salvation over a guaranteed,
glorious death."
The truth landed like a physical blow. I had seen a passive leader. In reality, I was looking at
a man conducting a desperate, silent, and solitary operation to save us all, an operation my
manipulations had just brought to the brink of catastrophic failure. My cleverness, my
authoring of discontent, hadn't been a masterstroke. It had been the fumbling of a fool who
couldn't see the real battle being fought. 'So in the end, I was right,' I though numbly. 'I was
the ignorant one.'
"Why tell me now" I asked firmly, leaning forward.
"Because I have already felt my heart begin to shift. Whether or not I can hold control before
the arrival of the Creatures of Dark is now uncertain. And so, I need you, and those who
share the same heart as you, to help me. We will need to work together to maintain the output
necessary to reach our freedom."
"But you said anyone less than Transcendant would...perish..." My words trailed off as I
realized what was being asked.
"Yes, my boy" Theron looked at me grimly. "I ama asking if you are willing to sacrifice
yourself to save these people."Chapter 7: First Nightmare-V
The silence in the office stretched, thick with the weight of Theron's confession and his
impossible request. I looked at my hands, then at the worn carpet beneath my feet, anywhere
but at the Saint's weary, expectant gaze. My mind, usually a whirlwind of analysis and
schemes, was stunned into a rare, blank stillness.
He was asking me to die. Not in the abstract, hypothetical death of a future battle, but in a
very concrete, immediate way. To pour my life force into a divine artifact until I was erased,
soul and all, to buy a few hundred people a chance to run from a horror I had seen consume
everything in a vision.
And the truly terrifying part was that I saw no reason to refuse.
What was the alternative? Wait for the monsters? Die screaming, torn apart in the temple's
courtyard, my death just one among hundreds? Or perhaps be "mercifully" ended by a
despairing Theron if his control finally snapped? My grand plan of manipulation had been
based on a fundamental misunderstanding. There was no army to rally, no glorious last stand
to organize. There was only this: a desperate, silent, digging operation against time, powered
by the sacrifice of souls.
A strange, cold calm settled over me. This was the Curator's game, wasn't it? This was the
"interesting story." Not a tale of cunning and power, but one of brutal, necessary sacrifice. I
should have expected it, really. Not all Nightmares require brute force and killing to clear,
though killing is usually still a factor. A game where the clear condition hinges on sacrifice,
whether your own or others, would probably be more exciting to watch than just a battle.
"How long?" I asked, my voice surprisingly steady. "How long have you been digging?"
Theron's shoulders slumped further, as if the question itself carried a physical weight.
"Weeks. Since the first refugees arrived and I knew this would be the final haven. The
mountain's roots are deep, Adam. Impossibly deep. And the rock… it is not natural stone. It
is infused with the same ancient power that the Radiance embodies. It resists its own."
Weeks. A Transcendent being, channelling a sliver of divine power for weeks, and he was
still digging. The sheer scale of it was mind-boggling. A normal Transcendent could level a
city block, but to tunnel through miles of magically reinforced mountain? It was a task for a
Sovereign, maybe even a Sacred. The Radiance's power must be… astronomical. A true
sliver of deific might.
And he'd been doing it alone. The isolation of it, the immense, silent burden, suddenly made
his hollow eyes and weary posture make perfect, horrifying sense. He hadn't been passive.
He'd been exhausted, pouring every ounce of his being into a hole in the ground.
"You can't finish it alone," I stated, the truth of it settling in my gut like a stone. "Not before
they get here.""No," he admitted, the word a soft exhalation of defeat. "I cannot. The progress is measured
in metres a day. The strain… it is…" He trailed off, unable to even describe it.
That was the final piece. There was no choice. Refusal meant everyone died for certain.
Acceptance meant I died, but maybe, just maybe, enough others would live for my death to
have meaning. It was a brutal, simple equation.
I looked up from the floor and met his gaze. The fear was still there, a cold knot in my
stomach, but it was overshadowed by that eerie calm. This was the role I had been given. The
Fool who had seen the end, now tasked with forging the escape.
"Alright," I said, the word simple and final. "I'll help you. What do you need me to do?"
There was no grand speech, no heroic declaration. Just a quiet acceptance of the only path
forward left in our doomed world. The Author had written himself into a corner, and the only
way out was to burn the page. "How far along are we to the bottom? Wait, if the mountain is
so high, how did everybody get up here?"
Theron looked at me in confusion before answering. "Did you forget? The path is blessed by
the Venerable One, it ensures that any pilgrim who walks it doesn't run out of energy. Don't
think about using it to fight though, standing in the open will only get us killed quicker than
in here. As for your other question...maybe four-fifths or just slightly less. Thankfully, the
Radiance's power does not depend on the Rank of its user: it will apply the same power for a
Dormant as it will a Transcendant. It's just the former will die after only a few minutes. Its'
fuel is faith, devotion and emotions, not soul essence. The one silver lining, I suppose."
Now that was interesting. A Supreme-level Echo that could be used by anyone, even if only
for a tiny period of time, so long as your heart was strong enough. The value of such a thing
was astronomical, but I could all to easily see it turned into a sacrificial basin, lives thrown
into the grinder to fuel it. No wonder Theron was so loathe to use it, or even acknowledge its
presence. I wondered darkly, just how much blood had been spilled for it over the years.
"I will talk with the most determined, the most brave" I promised, standing up from the chair.
Theron sagged in his own, face both relieved and ashamed. "Thank you, Adam. It is shameful
of me to shirk this duty, but I cannot bring myself to ask them to die for me, even if I know
it's their duty. In the end, perhaps you're right: I am a coward."
"You are no such thing" I denied firmly, placing my hands on the table and leaning forward.
"I have seen many men in my life Theron, and you are amongst the best of them. You would
rather be hurt than hurt others, and while this can be a fatal flaw at times, it by no means
makes you weak. It is simply another side of the coin that is strength. You tried your best
with the options available to you, and perused a method I didn't even think of."
Digging out of the mountain? Never even crossed my mind. The thought was ludicrous for
someone who lived in the 21st Century only four weeks ago.
Theron gave a pained smile as he looked up at me. "Thank you, Adam. I knew it was a good
idea to allow you to join the temple."I looked at him, puzzled. "You had a feeling about me?"
"Yes. I can't explain it, but I felt you were wiser beyond your years. And those eyes...those
were the eyes who had seen untellable horrors. I know them well. My teacher held the same
gaze many a time."
I took a breathe and then bowed to Theron before leaving his office. The fact I had revealed a
bit of myself during our first meeting wasn't surprising, given my inexperience and lingering
panic over the vision. That didn't matter now though. Now, I had to convince the people I had
roughly come to consider friends to offer up their lifeblood to a divine artifact gone rogue
and buy time for the several hundred trapped civilians to escape with Theron.
I found Jeryl first. He was in the barracks, meticulously cleaning his gear, his face set in lines
of frustration from the earlier confrontation. I didn't soften the blow. I told him everything—
the Radiance, the tunnel, the true cost. His blunt, honest nature deserved nothing less.
He listened in silence, his hands stilling on his weapon. When I finished, he looked past me,
toward the temple walls, as if he could see the mountain itself. "Oblivion," he muttered, the
word I'd heard him use before now taking on a horrifyingly concrete meaning. He was silent
for a long moment, then he nodded, a single, sharp jerk of his head. "If that's the price for
getting the children out, then I'll pay it. My life was given to this temple. It's fitting it ends
for it."
His simple, unwavering faith was a powerful catalyst. With Jeryl at my side, we gathered the
others. We didn't go to the main hall. We sought out the individuals—the young priests with
fire in their eyes who craved purpose, the guards whose frustration had hardened into a
desperate need to act, to mean something.
I didn't manipulate or lie anymore, no deceits or ulterior meaning loaded behind my words. I
presented the brutal calculus. I showed them the mountain Theron had been trying to move
alone. I told them about the black tide swarming towards us, mixing my own vision with
what Theron and Karion had described. Surprisingly, the others took it better than I expected.
They saw it not as death, but as the final, greatest prayer for their God.
The guards were harder. According to Theron, the maths only needed a third of their number
volunteered. It was a sobering, necessary balance. The remaining two-thirds were tasked with
the future—maintaining order in the final, frantic hours and leading the evacuation through
the tunnel once it was complete. Theirs was a different kind of courage: the courage to live
with the memory of our deaths and ensure they were not in vain. After gathering everyone, I
told them to rest and prepare themselves for tomorrow: by Theron's own words, they needed
time to collect themselves.
And when the next day came, we stood before Theron in the inner sanctum, a group of two
dozen: priests, guards, and me. There were no speeches left to give. The bronze door stood
before us, its chained sun seal seeming to pulse with a faint, anticipatory light.
Theron looked at us, his face a mask of sorrow and reverence. "The path will be forged with
light," he said, his voice thick. "Your light."He turned to the door, and for the first time, I saw him begin the process of opening it not
with a key, but with an outpouring of his own soul, a soft, golden radiance flowing from his
hands to the intricate seal. The chains on the sun began to glow, then unravel.
To my shock, the bronze door didn't open-it melted away. The liquid bronze then filled
grooves carved into the walls and floor, where it shimmered and waited. Theron walked on
unbothered, and we followed him. Once everyone passed, the bronze surged upwards and
once again took the shape of a solid metal door, unchanged from before. Behind the door was
a simple tunnel, carved from smooth rock with no artwork or carvings, just torches placed
every eight feet evenly. We walked in silence for anywhere between five minutes and thirty,
before reaching our destination.
Once I stepped inside, it felt like the air itself had vanished, replaced by a substance that was
pure, thrumming power. It was hard to breathe, not from lack of air, but because each
inhalation felt like drawing in liquid light. My eyes, even before they were forced shut, could
only manage fractured glimpses of the source.
It was a crystal, three meters tall and perfectly geometric, but that was like calling the sun a
warm rock. It wasn't a thing that contained light; it was light given impossible, solid form. A
miniature sun of silver and gold, its brilliance was a physical force, a pressure against my
face and soul. Looking directly at it was like trying to stare into the heart of a star—blinding,
painful, and utterly mesmerizing for the five seconds my vision could endure before white
spots drowned everything out.
Theron's voice was a strained thread woven through the overwhelming hum that now filled
the chamber. "The circle. Join hands."
We fumbled for each other, priests, guards, Jeryl, myself—a chain of the doomed linking
around the impossible crystal. Jeryl's grip on my right hand was like iron, his calloused palm
steady. The priest on my left was trembling, his fingers cold and slick with sweat.
Theron placed his own hands upon the crystal's blazing surface. There was no cry of pain,
only a deep, resonant groan that seemed to come from the very bones of the mountain. The
light didn't just brighten; it detonated without warning.
A silent, concussive wave of pure radiance slammed into us. My eyes screwed shut of their
own accord, seared by the intensity even through my eyelids. The world vanished into a
white-hot void.
And then the pull began.
It was not a pull on my body, but on my essence. My Spirituality. It felt like a hook had been
set deep in my core, and an inexorable force was steadily, mercilessly, reeling it out. A cold
fire raced along my veins, not burning, but unmaking it, breaking it down to the purest
components on a molecular level. I could feel pieces of myself—my memories, my thoughts,
the very fabric of my being—being drawn toward the crystal, atomized into pure energy to
feed its hunger.A scream tore from someone's throat—a raw, ragged sound of agony and terror. I didn't
know if it was mine. I clenched the hand to my left as hard as I humanely could, and felt
someone squeeze mine in turn. The Radiance didn't need Spirituality from anyone but its
actual user, but it would still take what was given to it. The main ingredient though, I could
already start to feel being taken from me. The pain was striking, burning hot irons being
pressed onto the soft tissue of my belly. Within seconds, I felt the uncontrollable urge to just
let go, to turn my back and flee, to give up and submit, to scream and destroy that wretched
thing which afflicted such pain on me.
But I ignored all those impulses. To flee, surrender or resist would trigger my own doom. I
had agreed to come here, and now I had to fulfil my vow.
The affirmation may have helped, or maybe it was just my mind scrambling for anything to
distract it, but I swear I felt the pain lessen a fraction.
Beneath my knees, the solid marble floor of the sanctum shuddered. Then it began to vibrate,
a deep, subsonic tremor that climbed into a violent shake. The hum of the Radiance
deepened, becoming the grinding roar of impossible forces at work. It was the sound of
reality being rewritten, of stone not being melted or vaporized, but uncreated, its existence
revoked by the sheer, annihilating light.
A pressure descended, immense and focused. It wasn't the diffuse weight of the Radiance's
aura. This was directed, purposeful. It pushed down, a divine piston driving into the
foundation of the world. This was it. This was the force forging our path to survival. Every
shudder of the ground, every scream of straining rock, was a meter of tunnel being carved
through the impossible mountain.
The cost was etched in the agony of the circle. I could feel the person to my left weakening,
their grip going slack as their essence-not Soul Essence, but the literal essence of their
existence- was drained away faster than their body could endure. The Radiance was a hungry
god, and we were its communion.
I clenched Jeryl's hand tighter, anchoring myself in the solid, stubborn reality of his presence
as my own was slowly siphoned away into the light. We were paying in blood and soul for
every inch of freedom. And the bill had just come due.
The cycles blurred into a nightmare of light and agony. Six hours of soul-rending drain, a few
precious moments of collapse where we shoved tasteless nutrient gruel into our mouths and
gulped tepid water, then the circle would reform. The sanctum, once a place of reverence,
now felt like a slaughterhouse, the air thick with the scent of ozone and a deeper, more
metallic tang of spent life force.
Theron moved among us during these respites, a ghost of his former self. His own light was
dimmed, his face gaunt, but his hands were gentle as he passed out rations and checked on
the weakest. His voice, though hoarse, never lost its thread of steadfast assurance.
"The path extends," he would rasp, his eyes holding onto ours with a desperate intensity.
"Another fifty meters cleared. The rock gives way. Hold on. We are closer."We clung to his words like drowning men to splinters. But doubt was a rot in my mind. Could
he truly see the progress? Or were the numbers—fifty meters, a hundred meters—just
invented comforts, a necessary lie to keep the human components of his machine from
breaking down too soon? The Radiance offered no feedback, only a constant, voracious
demand. We were burning ourselves out based entirely on faith in a man who was burning
himself out faster than any of us.
The first death came fifteen hours in.
It was two of the youngest priests, brothers who had volunteered together. Their faith had
been the brightest, their resolve the most fervent. Perhaps that was why the Radiance
consumed them first. One moment they were in the circle, their faces masks of strained
concentration. The next, a soundless flash of silver-gold erupted from the crystal, not
outwards, but inwards, like a vacuum imploding.
It wasn't fire. It was pure, instantaneous dissolution.
Their forms didn't burn; they were unwoven at the seams. Their bodies became shimmering
motes of light for a fraction of a second, then were sucked into the heart of the crystal. There
was no scream, no time for one. One moment they were there, the next, two empty spaces in
the circle, their absence a deafening silence in the roaring chamber.
The shock was a physical blow. The circle wavered, the flow of energy stuttering. A raw,
animal sob escaped from one of the other priests.
"Steady!" Theron's voice cracked like a whip, frayed with his own grief but utterly
commanding. "Their sacrifice is not in vain! The path lengthens! Hold the line!"
We held. What else could we do?
The deaths became a grim, predictable rhythm. Every cycle, as we grew weaker and the
Radiance's hunger seemed to grow stronger, it would claim another. A guard who had joked
about seeing the ocean one day vanished between one heartbeat and the next. Another priest,
her lips still moving in a silent prayer, was taken.
We were being erased, one by one. The circle shrank. The empty spaces where our comrades
had stood were colder than the surrounding air.
When only half of us remained, our numbers perilously thin, Theron finally called a halt. His
voice was little more than a shredded whisper.
"Rest. A longer rest. Conserve your strength."
We didn't need telling twice. We broke the circle, not with the relief of before, but with the
numb exhaustion of survivors stepping over the bodies of the fallen, except there were no
bodies. Just memories, already fading under the relentless glare of the Radiance.
I collapsed against the wall, sliding down to the floor. Jeryl slumped beside me, his breathing
ragged. He looked older, the vitality leached from him. We didn't speak. There were nowords left. We just sat in the blinding, silent cathedral of our shared demise, waiting for the
call to go back in and feed the god that was eating us alive. I wonder why the Venerable One,
or those who came before him, kept such an object. Surely the Gods sought to reclaim Their
individual pieces? Why would War and Heart allow Sun to keep it for Himself? Even for the
Gods, a Supreme was nothing to scoff at, an immensely powerful tool and pawn for battles
They cannot wage directly. Not to mention the fact Theron claimed all three Supremes that
made up the artefact held Divine lineages.
As I clutched my forehead in though, it happened.
The thought was a serpent, cold and venomous, slithering into the quiet exhaustion of my
mind. It didn't shout; it whispered, its logic perverse and undeniable.
Is this the right thing to do?
The goal of a Nightmare is not to complete the objective. The goal is to change Fate. To alter
the recorded history. The Spell rewards deviation. It doesn't care if you turn a glorious victory
into a catastrophic defeat, or a silent, forgotten failure into a legendary triumph. So long as
the outcome is different, the potential is fulfilled. The Tomb of Ariel was proof, as the Six
Calamities knew that killing everybody within the Nightmare would allow them to return to
the Waking World, why they engaged in such horrific and wholescale slaughter.
The memory of the vision crashed over me: the temple, empty and dark, being consumed by
a tide of filth. No resistance. No final stand.
I had assumed it was because they were all dead.
But what if they weren't?
What if the reason the Nightmare Creatures marched into the temple unopposed was because
it was already empty? Because Theron's desperate, sacrificial plan had worked? What if the
true, historical outcome was that a handful of survivors, led by a broken saint, had fled
through a tunnel of light, escaping into an unknown world, leaving the temple to be
desecrated by a victory without a battle?
The Spell had shown me the end of the story. But it hadn't shown me the fate of the
characters.
A cold sweat broke out on my skin, entirely separate from the Radiance's heat. My hands
began to tremble. To ensure a higher rating… to truly master this Nightmare and seize its
ultimate reward… the most profound change wouldn't be engineering an escape.
It would be ensuring that no one escaped.
The thought was so abhorrent, so monstrous, that a wave of nausea clenched my stomach. I
gagged, doubling over, my forehead pressing against the cool stone floor. I saw the faces of
the priests, incinerated into motes of light. I saw Jeryl's steadfast resolve. I saw Theron's
weary, sacrificial love for his people.And the serpent whispered: Their deaths would mean more. Their sacrifice would be
absolute. A perfect, tragic end. A story the Spell would never forget. One it might even
reward.
I was a fool. A proud, arrogant fool. I had been so focused on defying the vision of
destruction, on being the clever author who rewrites the ending, that I never considered the
most terrifying possibility:
What if the ending I was desperately fighting for was the one the Spell wanted me to
achieve?
What if my "heroism" was just me playing my assigned part in the original tragedy?
The weight of the choice was crushing. Save them, and potentially earn a mediocre reward
for simply following the script of a forgotten history. Or… condemn them all, betray every
ounce of trust they'd placed in me, and twist this tale into a gut-wrenching masterpiece of
failure that the Spell would be forced to recognize as a true, monumental change of Fate. But
that was assuming Theron really was successful in the original timeline. How could I know?
How could I choose without certainty? I was no criminal mastermind, no insane gambler
willing to risk everything for as potential fantasy.
I stayed curled on the floor, shaking, the light of the Radiance burning against my closed
eyelids like a judgment. I had wanted to be the author. Now I understood the terrible price of
the title. It wasn't about writing a better story.
It was about being willing to write the worst one imaginable, if it meant the story was
yours. Just because He is willing to accept the worst, doesn't mean He won't strive for the
best.
Amon's words, ones I had admired and then moved on from. Who did I think I was, the real
Adam? I was just a wannabe actor, a loser who was so average even a God took pity on me. I
couldn't stir up a world war, couldn't spend a three thousand years skulking in the shadows,
lying and using everybody close to me. I-I-
The truth hit me with the force of a physical blow, shattering the last fragile illusion I'd clung
to. I wasn't some reincarnation of a cunning, ancient being. I wasn't a chosen one, a fragment
of Adam from *Lord of the Mysteries*. I was a ghost. A terrified, ordinary soul stuffed into a
borrowed name and a borrowed body, playing at being a god with a power I didn't
understand, in a story that was eating me alive.
For a fleeting, insane moment, I envied the hypothetical holder of the Hanged Man Pathway.
To have your emotions, your doubts, your very logic excised. To be a madman, self-assured
in everything you do or did. There would be no paralyzing moral crisis. No soul-sickening
weigh-up of lives versus a Spell rating. A Hanged Man would simply choose the most
efficient and brutal path to power and walk it without a backward glance, untouched by the
human cost. For their Lord would bear their sins.
But I wasn't a Hanged Man. I was a Spectator. And a Spectator, above all else, observes.
Even when the thing they are forced to observe is the darkest, most selfish part of themselves.I saw it clearly now. The temptation wasn't some external corruption. It was my own fear and
ambition given a voice. The desire to not just survive, but to win big. To emerge from this
hell not just alive, but powerful. To make the agony mean something more. No wonder
Theron refused to allow others in here. Only a day and I was already considering killing
everybody else here as an outlet.
I watched the others in the dim light—Jeryl's steady, resigned breathing, the hollow-eyed
tremors of the remaining priests. I saw Theron, a man who had given everything, preparing to
give the last dregs of his soul for people who might already be dead in the true history.
And I knew, with a certainty that felt like a nail being driven into my own coffin, that I
couldn't do it. I couldn't become the monster that ensured their sacrifice was for nothing. I
was just a man. A scared, selfish, ordinary man. But I was still enough of a man to not
willingly orchestrate a massacre for a better loot box.
The grand cosmic game could go to hell.
Theron stirred, pushing himself upright with a groan that spoke of fractured bones and a
splintered spirit. His light, though faint, began to steady. He didn't look at us with pity or
sorrow anymore. There was only a grim, final determination.
"Once more," he rasped, the words scraping from his throat. "We finish it this time. The end
is in sight."
The call to resume the operation wasn't a request. It was a verdict.
I pushed myself up from the cold floor. My body felt like it was made of lead and glass. My
mind was a scarred wasteland, but it was clear. The doubt was gone, burned away in the
crucible of my own shame. There was no more calculation, no more weighing of outcomes.
There was only the circle. The Radiance. The tunnel.
I took my place, the empty spaces where others had been now a permanent part of the
formation. Jeryl found my hand, his grip still strong, an anchor in the raging sea of light. I
met his gaze and gave a single, grim nod. No words were needed.
Theron placed his hands on the crystal.
The light detonated. The pull began. The mountain shook.
And I gave myself over to it completely. Not as a chosen one, not as a hero, but as a man who
had finally, truly, accepted his role. I was fuel. And I would burn until there was nothing left,
for the simple, stupid, human reason that it was the right thing to do.
The Spell could keep its rating.
Error
[Your Aspect is evolving!][Congratulations on your new Aspect Ability!]