The clergy had few reasons to stop listening to or following the commands of the state, and Enosh, at the moment, qualified for none of them.
He sifted through the notes he had written during his time at the seminary, though deep inside he knew there was nothing useful there for his current predicament. Still, there was something else he was searching for.
A letter.
Once, the Bishop of First Born had invited him to voyage across the sea. With the waters plagued by pirates and sea monsters alike, he had not been eager to accept. But now that the worst had finally come for him, it seemed better to leave—to put as much distance as possible between himself and other people.
He could never guess what the devil's contract might compel him to do.
"Here!" Finally, the old monk found what he had been looking for.
The letter bore the mark of the cross and had never been opened. Enchanted with holy magic, it had retained its original white hue despite the passing years.
"Wait a second…" Enosh pulled his hand back. "Would I be smitten if I touched holy magic?"
As far as demonology taught by the students of the Church of Ancient claimed, holy power was ten times more potent against demons and those bound by devil contracts. A demon—or a devil's contractee—would suffer the pain of a thousand salt-laced lashes upon touching the holy light of the gods.
The Church of Sight taught something similar, though their scripture described it as the agony of witnessing a thousand burning suns at once.
Enosh sighed, forcing the thoughts aside. He tore the envelope open anyway.
A faint shimmer flickered before his eyes.
He froze for a moment, waiting for pain that never came.
Slowly, he unfolded the letter and began to read.
"Dear Enoch,
By permission granted from the Holy See of the Church of Ancient, the First Voyage to Sun Island has been sanctioned. We hereby invite you to join us on this perilous journey into the lands of the heathens.
May the light of the Gods guide your path across the sea and preserve your soul from the darkness that dwells beyond civilized shores."
By no means was the island uncivilized. If anything, many who had returned from it claimed the people there were even more advanced in certain ways. What truly disturbed the churches was their philosophy, which stood in sharp opposition to the teachings of both faiths.
Enosh himself, being a pious believer, found much of it difficult to accept. Yet he also took pride in his skepticism. He was not a blind follower of doctrine; he tried to seek reason in all things and would quietly question the Church whenever something seemed unusual—though always in a careful, restrained manner.
Still, he possessed enough wit to see beyond the boundaries of his own religion.
Enosh folded the letter and crossed the room to his desk. Pulling out a fresh sheet of paper, he hastily wrote a reply. At last, he signed his name, slipped the letter into another envelope—this one a dull brown—and pressed his seal into the wax before stepping outside.
The church grounds were still empty. He encountered no one.
On the way to the post office, he came across Friedrich, the farmer who had once accused the Church of Ancient of plotting against his life.
Enosh changed course and approached him.
Cowering beneath a drenched coat still speckled with strands of hay, Friedrich looked toward the monk striding in his direction.
His eyes widened.
"What do you want?"
The quiver in his voice gave away his fear.
Enosh had not intended to question him here—not in the middle of the street, surrounded by townsfolk who might begin to think Friedrich's accusations held some truth. What he truly wanted was simply to speak with the farmer again, to piece together the details of their earlier conversation.
But before Enosh could answer, or even offer a polite smile, the frightened farmer reached into his coat and pulled out a brittle, flaky object. It resembled the shell—or perhaps the shed skin—of some unknown vertebrate.
Friedrich hurled it into the air and cried out,
"May God stand with Sight! The righteous shall walk the path of holy light, guided by the angels of righteousness!"
The object burst apart midair into a cloud of pale dust that drifted toward Enosh.
"A Qliphoth…?"
Enosh's mind grasped at the word instinctively. Whatever Friedrich had thrown, he knew at once that he was neither fast enough nor strong enough to evade it.
Then the light came.
A blazing white flame engulfed him whole.
Holy fire devoured his robes first, then flesh and bone alike. The sealed letter curled black at the edges before disintegrating into ash. Agony should have followed—screams, terror, desperation—but the pain struck too fast, too completely.
Enosh never even had the chance to cry out.
His consciousness vanished before the fire could finish consuming him.
Friedrich stared for only a heartbeat longer before panic seized him. He turned and fled down the street.
Around them, the townsfolk scattered in terror. Doors slammed shut. Windows shuttered.
Within moments, the street stood empty once more, save for drifting ash and the fading glow of holy flame.
"You died too soon…"
A voice echoed through the unknown abyssal depths beneath the earth.
"Be quiet. He is only beginning," another voice squeaked—a childish sound that did little to soften the unease crawling through the darkness.
"Well, the first experience is always unbearable," a third voice murmured. It faded as it spoke, as though its owner were drifting farther and farther away. "Perhaps this will be the last time you hear me…"
The childish voice seemed to nod in agreement before offering a quiet farewell.
One by one, the other voices followed, fading into the abyss until nothing remained.
Silence returned.
Then, at last, another voice broke through the darkness.
A woman's voice.
Soft. Amused.
"A Qliphoth as the source of your first death…" she mused. "Isn't that rather poetic?"
"Let us see how your transformation proceeds…"