The basement was cold and smelled of burnt ozone. My frail, human body, which had inherited nothing of my divine essence, had a great tendency to shiver. What would happen if those twelve people saw my body shivering from the cold?
If I could not resist the cold, I was definitely a creature who had stolen their ritual and had to be killed. Now I was left with a body that had no ability other than shameful bluffs. If I had minimal knowledge of them, perhaps my chance of success would have been higher.
I was amidst these thoughts when my vision changed, and auras—the meanings of which I strangely understood—appeared around the bodies of those twelve people. The auras were strange; some were unstable and weak, as if they could be extinguished at any moment, and others were clearer and stronger, as if they were unchangeable even against a storm.
The power and clarity of the aura of the person in front of me appeared greater than all. It had a high risk, but its success would reinforce the collapsing bridge in front of me.
I made my decision and began the acting. "O mortal, whose limit of knowledge regarding 'His' names does not exceed the 13th, what has caused you not to prostrate before your Lord?"
The voice I heard was not the voice of a God. It was a scratchy and unused voice vibrating in a throat that had never uttered a word. It did not seem human; the absolute lack of fluctuation and the complete absence of the warmth of emotions made it appear cold. It was like the speaking of a dead creature.
It was as if the temperature of the room dropped a degree with every word that exited this mouth. The legs of that person, who until now had been motionless like a stone statue, began to tremble. The next moment, all twelve people had prostrated like dominoes on the wet and cold concrete floor.
"M-M-My Lord... F-F-Forgive my insolence and spare the life of this humble servant. We expected a Duke of Heat... we did not even dare to nurture the fantasy of meeting the Prince of the Abyss in our dreams..."
The person's voice trembled with fear. My bluff had worked, and now they saw me as a primordial entity. In the dimension of the Abyss, the hierarchy of power was circular; low-level demons were monsters with terrible limbs, mid-tier demons had a semi-human appearance, and the highest-tier ones regained an appearance completely resembling a human.
In their eyes, I was a monster so strong that I did not need claws and armor to kill.
I rotated my neck. My neck vertebrae cracked. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the silent room.
The physical sensation was distinct and sharp. I bent and straightened my fingers and watched the movement of tendons under the skin. I felt the movement of air on my body. The sound of blood moving in my veins was still audible, a warm and rhythmic tide.
I stepped over the chalk lines. The "barrier" sizzled on my ankle—a static shock similar to touching a doorknob in winter. It was pathetic. I ignored it and exited the circle as if I were passing through fog.
I stopped in front of the prostrated leader. I looked at the back of the man's balding head and saw drops of sweat gathering on his neck.
I said, "The air is stale."
The leader pulled himself together as though he had been hit. "Pardon us, Great One... Ventilation... To stay out of the Church's sight, we are underground. There are Inquisitors everywhere. To serve you, we live in the shadows.
I announced, "Clothes." I merely stated one of the necessities.
"Yes! Immediately!" The leader jumped up in a panic. He kept his head down such that his chin was glued to his chest and frantically pointed to a terrified disciple in the corner of the room. "Ceremonial clothes! Hurry up, fool! Do not keep the Great One waiting!"
The disciple stumbled over his robes and, trembling, clawed into a canvas bag in the shadows. He took out a folded pile of fabric—an ironed, modern black suit, most likely intended for the cult leader's post-ceremony dinner or funeral.
I took the clothes. The fabric was rough under my sensitive fingertips. Wool. Cheap wool. Its fibers annoyed my fresh skin. I dressed slowly. I put on the trousers, buttoned the shirt, and tied the shoelaces. My every movement was monitored by twelve pairs of eyes that were terrified to look but too captivated to look away. They watched me dressing as if they were witnessing a holy ritual.
When I buttoned my coat, I felt the whisper of the cosmos around me.
I had the authority of a God and the durability of a barista. It was as if I were walking on a tightrope over a pit of vipers, while my only weapon was a bluff and a suit whose shoulders did not fit perfectly.
While smoothing my coat collar, I asked, "Who is the current keeper of this... flock?"
The leader bowed again and said with a thin voice, "It is I, Great One. I am High Priest Malakor. We are the Order of the Tongueless. We have waited three generations for this night."
"Malakor." I tasted the name. It tasted of ash. "You... have done well."
Malakor let out a sob of relief, and tears ran into his beard. "Thank you, My Lord. Thank you. Your praise is worth a thousand deaths."
The tone of my voice became colder, as if threatening that if cooperation did not occur, their eyes would never see light outside this basement again. "But my descent... has taxed the local casualty. To anchor myself, I need information."
"Anything, My Lord. The library is yours. The treasury is yours. Our lives are yours. Command us."
I said, "It is good." I took a look at the dreary basement. I looked at the water stains. I looked at the flickering bulb. This was my starting point. The Creator of everything was standing in a basement—or whatever damp hell this was—and requesting snacks.
As I turned toward the stairs, I said, "Start by saying the date, and then... bring me something to eat. This vessel has a metabolism, and I find it... demanding."