"Alright," Amon said.
He walked through the blood and bodies with measured steps, ignoring the dead as though they had already become part of the furniture. He chose the nearest seat not stained by gore, pulled it back, and sat down. One leg crossed over the other. One hand rested on his thigh. The other came up to support his jaw at an angle, lending him a posture of cool thoughtfulness that contrasted almost disturbingly with the carnage around him.
"I now have the information we need to infiltrate the organisation."
He gestured faintly for the others to listen.
The rest of them gradually settled.
They adjusted themselves to the massacre, to the blood, to the abruptness of death, and perhaps more than anything, to Amon's expression, cold, indifferent, undisturbed. After a few moments, they turned their full attention toward him.
"First," Amon said, "we need the Customisation Effect. It is in your status window. Use it to customise your identity. That is all it means."
As the others opened their status windows and began searching for the setting, Amon chose to examine his own.
A bright translucent panel unfolded before his eyes.
== << [| STATUS |] >> ==
Name: Amon
Age: 17
Titles: The Gunman | The Dancer in an Open Field | Master of Seven Mirrors | Friend of Val Erith, the Head of Awakeners | The Gunman of the Erith Order
Class: ?????
Talent: ??????
Unique Aspect: Ecliptience | ??????
Existence Classification: ??????? Human
Dominion: ????????
Origin: Being
Physique: All That Was, Is, Will Be
Paths: The Unknowns | Balance | Identity | Existence | Infinity | Writing | The Meanings | ????????? & ???????
Alter Ego: Flaw
Flaw: Inner Positivity and Outer Negativity
Powers: The Narrativity | ??? | ???? | ???? | ???? | ???? | ??? | ????
Realm: Mortal | Rank: FFF | Level: 3
== << [|---------|] >> ==
== << [| Unique Settings |] >> ==
| Customisation Effect
| Quests
| ?????
| ?????
| ??????
| ?????
== << [|-------|] >> ==
Amon's eyes settled on the Customisation Effect.
He selected it.
At once, another window appeared.
== << [| To change your identity, please imagine what you want. |] >> ==
Amon let his thoughts sharpen, then began to shape the persona with deliberate precision.
I want to remain a man of my current height, but with pale skin, a slimmer frame, and little visible muscle. I want red pupils and black hair. I will become an intelligent man, the greatest ritualist operator in history, the finest learner of combat, the greatest gunman of all time, though I will carry no gun. I will be the greatest memoriser, the most persuasive speaker, and the most skilled manipulator. I will wear red robes dyed like blood, a white cross around my neck, and a circlet of stars upon my head. My weapon will be a formless node. This persona will be called the Righteous Ritualist.
The response came at once.
== << [| Your First Persona has been created! |] >> ==
== << [| Would you like to add this Persona to your identity? |] >> ==
"Yes," Amon answered.
Light swallowed him.
It rose around him in a bright, luminous surge and lifted him from the ground. The others recoiled on instinct, stepping back as the glow intensified around his body.
For several seconds, nothing could be seen clearly except the outline of his towering frame suspended within radiance.
Then the light began to dim.
The transformation revealed itself piece by piece.
His height remained unchanged, still a commanding six foot nine, but his skin lost its healthy pallor and became pale, almost bloodless in appearance. His naturally broad build narrowed into a leaner frame, stripped of visible excess strength and replaced with the severe elegance of something more cerebral, more ritualistic. His black pupils, already deep, now burned red, vivid as fresh blood and sharp as restrained wrath. His long black hair remained as it was, falling in dark strands around that altered face.
But the change did not stop at flesh.
His mind sharpened.
The power of the Discerner deepened, his perception becoming finer, colder, more exact. Memories of rituals flooded into him in ordered streams, ancient rites, lesser ceremonies, obscure invocations, procedures of blood, faith, calling, sealing, witnessing. Each settled into his mind with impossible clarity, as though filed away in an unseen inner archive. Combat experiences aligned themselves with his body. Muscle and memory fused. His gunmanship remained with him, but was now reframed beneath the logic of his new identity. The arts of manipulation, persuasion, performance, instruction, and language rose with frightening ease to the front of his thoughts. Meanings seemed easier to grasp. Words easier to wield.
Then the clothing followed.
Red robes descended over him, rich and dark, dyed in a tone that resembled blood beneath moonlight. The fabric fell from his shoulders to the floor in heavy folds, trailing softly as he moved. His shoes vanished, leaving his feet bare against the stained wooden boards. A white cross rested diagonally across his chest, swaying faintly with each breath. Upon his brow stood a circlet of stars, subtle yet strange, as though night itself had been fashioned into ornament.
And the formless node became part of him.
"Nice," Amon murmured as he lowered back to the ground.
The others had changed as well, though less dramatically.
Their physiques remained the same, but their faces had shifted into new masks.
Leon now bore black hair and white pupils. Arroz had taken on green eyes and pink hair. Seraph now possessed golden eyes and white hair. Fe Yuan wore black pupils and black hair, while Shingen's new features were silver eyes and red hair.
Amon let his gaze pass over them.
"Good. We are ready."
A faint smirk touched his lips.
"We begin the infiltration now."
Arroz frowned slightly, curiosity overtaking him.
"Where is the organisation, though?"
"Follow me," Amon said.
He turned and walked toward the exit without waiting for further questions.
The others followed.
Together, they pushed open the inn's heavy wooden doors and stepped back outside, where the carriage still waited for them in patient silence.
One by one, they climbed in and took their seats.
The doors closed shut.
The carriage moved.
The Inn of Information receded behind them, its laughter and lamplight vanishing into the night like the last visible edge of a lie.
Hours passed.
At last, the carriage reached the corners of the Valereith Citadel, along the eastern shore, and came to a halt above the sands near the Red Waters.
They stepped down in silence.
Their boots sank slightly into the golden sand, its coarse grain shifting beneath their weight and sending faint, dry sensations up through their feet. Before them stretched a sea of red, crimson to the eye, blood in the language of old records. Its surface moved with slow, tireless rhythm beneath the rising moon. No fish broke it. No beast crossed it. No wind dared trouble it beyond the smallest ripple. Nothing lived visibly within those waters.
The sun had already gone to its rest.
The moon had risen in full pale authority, laying its light upon the sea so that the crimson surface seemed to glow from within, as though old slaughter still breathed beneath it.
A fine rain began to fall.
Not enough to storm.
Only enough to mark the shore with soft, reverent plops every few seconds, each droplet darkening the sand before vanishing into it.
Behind them, the driver snapped the reins.
The horses neighed sharply, then turned.
The carriage departed.
Its wheels rolled away into the dark, leaving the group alone at the edge of the Red Waters, where the corners of the Valereith Citadel met sea, sand, and old history.
Amon turned to face them.
Their expressions were tense, perplexed, uncertain.
He spoke in a low voice.
"Listen carefully. Nuez said the organisation lies at the corners of the Valereith Citadel, along the eastern shore, beneath the sands near the Red Waters. This is where we are."
He let that sink in, then continued.
"There is no reason to be confused. If the organisation lies beneath the sands, and we are standing above those sands, then the answer is obvious."
He looked down.
"We go beneath them."
Seraph gave a slow nod, though the doubt did not leave his eyes.
"I understand the logic," he said. "But how, exactly, do we go beneath the sand?"
Amon paused for a few seconds, considering his answer.
"I will blow it up."
"What?" Fe Yuan interjected. "That doesn't make sense. We were instructed to infiltrate the organisation, not blow up the sands near the red waters. They might become aware of us, and worse, we will attract even more danger to ourselves."
"I understand your reasoning and your caution," Amon replied. "But risks must be taken. Unless someone has a better way of getting beneath the sand, this is the best option, even if it has not been fully thought through."
Yet Fe Yuan's words made him reflect. There had to be some passage rite to go beneath the sand near the red waters. I know what I am to say when I encounter them, but before we can get beneath the sand, there must be a ritual, an oath, or someone we are meant to speak to.
He looked up at the moon hanging in the sky, at the dark clouds releasing rain upon the sand. He drew a quiet breath, one that seemed to carry the distant songs of many men.
"If my heart tells me this is right," he said doubtfully, glancing at Leon, Fe Yuan, Arroz, Seraph, and Shingen, "then this should take us beneath the sand."
Just as his whisper was caught by the cold wind, a heavy hum echoed through the night.
HHHHHHHHHHUUUUUUUUUUMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!
A trumpet blast tore through the air, tangled with screeching and cries of dread. Arroz, Fe Yuan, Seraph, and Shingen lowered their heads, frowning as they covered their ears.
Amon lifted his gaze. Seven figures formed a circle around the moon. The individuals, or angels as he first thought, wore white garments with golden crosses hanging from their necks. They all had golden hair, and each held a black trumpet to their lips, blowing with relentless force and producing that warped, dreadful sound.
"Interesting," he muttered.
The mouldy sands suddenly quaked. Cracks split across the ground, and the earth rumbled violently beneath the weight of the hum.
The others looked at Amon with doubt and confusion, demanding an explanation.
It is fine. It is all part of the rite to go beneath the sand.
He conveyed the words into their minds, assuring them of their safety.
The cracks widened until the hum finally ceased, leaving gaps large enough for a man to fall through.
Though the fractures had opened beneath their feet, none of them fell. Even when the ground split wide, they remained standing, as if suspended in air, or as though the sand itself refused to give way beneath them.
No.
A massive cage shot up from below. Iron bars enclosed it, and fresh sand spilled from its floor as it rose to stand before them.
They paused, staring at the unknown structure now looming in their path.
Suddenly, one of the iron bars swung open with a metallic screech, followed by a heavy clank.
Leon and the others, except for Amon, stepped back instinctively and raised their guard. They watched carefully, waiting to see if something would emerge from the empty cage, if the hum would resume, or if some form of corruption would reveal itself.
A voice boomed from within the cage, startling them.
"Enter," it commanded.
They hesitated. Their bodies eased slightly, but none of them moved toward or away from the cage. They remained frozen in guarded stances, watching without any understanding of what was unfolding before them.
However, Amon stepped into the cage without the slightest pause or twitch of hesitation. He stood firmly on its sandy floor and motioned for them to follow.
"It's fine. This is how we enter the organisation. The cage is an elevator. In simple terms, it will help us fulfil our revenge," he called out, gesturing for them to come inside.
It was a complete lie. If the cage was alive and capable of hearing them, offering a harmless explanation was safer than speaking of infiltration. Concealing their motives and identities was the objective. To ensure they understood him, he decided to make it clear.
I should wink.
He winked his right eye briefly.
The gesture confirmed the deception.
After witnessing both his composure and the signal, they approached one by one, hesitant but resolved. Each stepped into the cage until they were all enclosed within it. The bars sealed shut.
Moments later, the cage began to descend slowly beneath the sand. The pale light of the moon faded until complete darkness surrounded them.
Soon, the cage struck solid ground with a muted jolt. The iron bars creaked open, and they stepped out.
A voice echoed through the darkness.
"There is an iron door one hundred meters ahead of you in this direction. Open it, and you will enter the descent of the god's domain."
"Shit."