They paused, taking in what lay before them. Thousands of people stood with their backs turned, dressed in an array of formal attire: tuxedos and suits with top hats, flowing robes, cloaks, and garments of many kinds. In their hands, they held cups of wine. Silver tables were arranged across the golden floor, accompanied by wooden chairs, though none were occupied.
Butlers in black tuxedos moved among them, carrying circular trays of wine and fine juices. Occasionally, they brought magazines, empty plates, cutlery, or additional drinks, placing them carefully on the silver tables.
Amon's eyes widened at the sight, marvelling at the scene. The others let out soft gasps, equally captivated by the spectacle before them.
So, this is the Descent of the god's domain. Amon thought.
A melodious sound then spread across the endless golden floor, mingling with the whistle of the wind and carrying the soft songs of birds that flew overhead.
Seven angelic figures ascended into the night sky, each holding a black trumpet, blowing it. They wore white garments with golden crosses suspended around their necks, and their golden hair swayed gently in the calm breeze.
Amon and the group moved through the crowd, and with every step a quiet unease settled deeper within them. The smiles worn by the men and women appeared mechanical, fixed in place as though assigned rather than felt. Their eyes seemed distant and strained, dark circles staining the skin beneath them. Their laughter rang out at intervals, hollow and slightly unhinged.
They remained perfectly still. None shifted their stance or turned their heads, yet they continued to laugh and smile. It was as though they had been arranged there to resemble living statues, frozen across the golden floor.
Chairs rested neatly beneath the silver tables, yet no one pulled them out to sit. Cups of wine were held delicately in gloved and bare hands alike, yet not a single person took a sip.
Inwardly, Fe Yuan felt a growing chill. Each step sent sharp fragments of fractured memories crawling up his spine as he passed by the motionless figures. At one point, he glanced back and thought he saw grey clouds shrouding the upper halves of several faces, veiling their eyes and noses while leaving only those rigid smiles exposed.
He turned forward again, walking slightly behind Amon's left side while Leon kept pace beside him. From time to time, Fe Yuan studied Amon's expression, wondering how he maintained that calm, indifferent composure, untouched by the unnatural atmosphere around them.
As they advanced further, a towering black castle gradually revealed itself ahead, as if darkness itself had taken shape. The moon's pale light cast a grim glow across its darkened windows, giving the structure an ominous, watchful presence.
Even from a distance, the black castle appeared immense and oppressive, towering high above them with an overwhelming presence.
Before long, they arrived at its base and ascended a short staircase that led to the massive black doors.
A lone man stood before them. His long black hair swayed gently in the breeze. His eyes were a vivid orange, set against pale white skin. His hands were folded neatly behind his back. A golden cross hung at his neck, and he wore flowing white robes that stood in stark contrast to the dark castle rising behind him.
"Who are you? I do not recall seeing you here before," the man asked calmly.
"I am Amon. I was once a ritualist operator from an organisation in the western world. The government turned against us and eliminated my comrades, my friends, my superiors, and the organisation itself. I alone survived. During my journey here, I encountered them along the way, and we formed an alliance."
The man nodded. "What was the name of your organisation?"
"I cannot disclose that. A ritualist never reveals his organisation to another ritualist. Once such knowledge is known, conflict inevitably follows."
"Indeed," the man replied with a faint smile, nodding in agreement.
"If that is so, how did you learn of our organisation?"
"There was a spy from your organisation at an Inn of Information. I did not know his nature at the time. I sat with him and spoke at length. During our conversation, he revealed his identity and told me he belonged here," Amon answered steadily.
"Because of that, I killed him and everyone at the Inn of Information, especially after I learned he belonged to the Erith Order."
"Kuku." The man let out a restrained laugh. "You are indeed a true ritualist."
Amon offered a faint smile and folded his hands behind his back.
"Answer me three questions," the man said. He raised one finger. "First, what was the dead man's name?"
"Nuez."
He raised a second finger. "Do you belong to any Order?"
"No. A true ritualist does not belong to an Order. He remains with his organisation."
The third finger rose. "Why do you refuse to speak the name of our organisation?"
"Because" Amon replied evenly, "a ritualist cannot utter the name of an organisation before joining it. To do so is an abomination. Only after one has joined may the name be spoken."
"Good."
The man's gaze shifted to the white cross hanging at Amon's neck.
"What is your truth?" he asked.
At last. The decisive question.
Amon narrowed his eyes slightly. "Anti-truth is the way of freedom and life."
"You have passed."
The man turned and pushed the heavy doors open, allowing them to enter.