In a dimension deeper and older than the Clock Tower's, another "meeting" quietly unfolded—where even time lost its meaning.
This was the "Theatre Beneath the Blood Ceiling," a collective dream built by some of the apexes among the 27 Dead Apostle Ancestors.
Here, physics held no sway—only pure will. The seating was bone, inlaid armrests beat with the hearts of unknown fantasy races. On stage, a massive chandelier of coagulated crimson dripped not a single drop, casting ghostly red light on the monstrous audience.
Not all were present; such full convenings would flip the world. Tonight resembled more a "tea party" for the bored elders.
In the grandest box, the Black Princess, Altrouge Brunestud, reclined languidly on a chaise woven of black roses and thorns. Her two guards, the White Knight Blood and the Black Knight Strout, stood vigil, statuesque.
Before them was a mirror of flowing shadow, projecting only the emotional fury sweeping the human cosmos—and, at its storm's eye, the "existence" of Steve, clear and stable.
"Hehe... hehehe... Tonight's aftershow is truly delightful."
Altrouge's laugh was pleasant as a silver bell but chilling.
"See how hard those little mice struggle—so much 'vitality.'
After being handed false hope, their anger, despair, and fanatical faith... what sublime 'seasoning.' Won't their blood be all the sweeter now?"
To her, the interstellar war was a matter of how tasty dinner would be.
"It's not just seasoning, Your Highness,"
—came a grave voice from another box. The 16th Ancestor, Gransurg Blackmore, Lord of the Black Wings, floated with huge wings enfolding him. He spoke dispassionately:
"The 'population' now splits clearly: 90% mass-produced are caged in colonies, huge but hard to hunt—risk outweighs reward.
The other 10% are 'special offerings,' now in heavily-guarded Eden.
Now those two herds will slaughter each other over 'pasture' ownership.
This is an all-time opportunity. War will deplete both their guards—be they space giants of tin or land-bound mystery soldiers.
Even the Church, our old foe, will be wearied by this.
In short: do nothing. Watch as both falter; harvest victor—and all the rest—at leisure.
This solar system becomes our pasture."
Several Ancestors voiced cool agreement; it was safe and efficient.
"A bunch of short-sighted calculators,"
croaked an ancient, playful voice. In the dimmest box sat an elegantly-dressed, long-bearded old man—Zelretch, ranked "3rd" among the 27. Tapping his jewel-crusted cane, he addressed the room:
"You talk menus and cattle, but nobody notices the 'kitchen' is about to explode?
See those 'threads of possibility'—humans' so-called strategic weapons, used on a large scale, won't just ruin cities or pollute land—they'll tear the fabric of reality! All your proud mysteries are just mold clinging to this layer."
He glanced around, filled with quiet pity.
"If the wall crumbles, where will you run?
And—did everyone forget why the monster underground in South America fell into deep sleep? Not because he was tired, but because 'food' here was too light to whet his appetite.
But if humans, in their folly, make this land rich in 'fine death' on their own... It's like sounding a gong to a sleeping dragon.
Then, my fellows, you'll transform from aristocrats at table into the 'main course.'"
A deep chill settled in. Even the proudest Ancestors could not ignore the fear behind Zelretch's words.
At last he focused on Steve's reflection:
"That man... the shepherd. He isn't grazing; he's weaving a new net—one I can't see. From him, I smell a familiar and unsettling scent: one who is the world's enemy, who will stop at nothing to reach his goal.
At times, such men are disaster itself—more than we monsters ever could be."
Silence reigned—broken only by Altrouge's mischievous laugh:
"Enough warnings, old man!
Whether or not the kitchen blows, we should savor the meal!
I've decided! This war is a game! Rules are simple: see who finds the most 'fun' in human war. The prize... should be that arrogant 'leader of New Human'—
Let's see who tastes his blood first!"
Blackmore snorted; his figure faded into darkness. The others vanished two or three at a time—some to try their luck in space, some to wait for harvest like Blackmore. Soon the "Bloody Ceiling Theatre" collapsed, leaving only Zelretch staring into the nothingness, worry filling his ancient eyes.