Amon paused.
That was not a coincidence, he thought. That man should not be able to hear us through internal communication. It is a function of the mind. If he can hear what we are saying… then he may have already realized we are not ritualists of that organisation. Amon suppressed the reaction before it could show
He looked at the darkness beyond the door, then at the man standing beside it, his hand still gesturing inward.
"I have a question," Fe Yuan said suddenly, as if trying to buy time, reluctant to step into the darkness.
The man turned his gaze to Fe Yuan and smiled warmly.
"What is it? Do not be afraid. Ask."
"What is beyond that door?" Fe Yuan asked, doubt evident in his expression.
The man's expression hardened, his brows drawing together. The warmth drained from his face as he opened his mouth.
"Believe," he intoned.
His voice thundered through the hall, layered with faint screeches and hisses, heavy cries buried beneath a solemn, restrained tone.
"A true believer does not allow doubt to take root, even when confronted by fear or uncertainty," he continued, now speaking gently.
He exhaled slowly and opened his brown eyes a fraction.
In a voice barely above a whisper, he stepped into the darkness and gave a slight wave of his hand. The darkness shifted, peeling back as though disturbed, replaced by a dim, muted glow that made it no less oppressive.
"Come in," he said. "The darkness is brighter now."
Amon had been irritated from the moment Fe Yuan asked the question. He remained outwardly patient, waiting for the needless exchange to end so they could proceed with their objective: gathering information about the ritual of descent outlined in Objective Three.
With the conversation concluded, Amon stepped forward to follow the man.
With that, Amon stepped into the darkness.
The darkness sprouted tendrils and dragged him forward as the void swallowed him whole.
Reluctantly, Leon and the others followed. A faint shimmer of light flickered as they crossed the threshold. The brightened hall behind them dulled, its colour draining, and the door shut with a final, muted thud.
The darkness within was not true darkness.
It was a confined space, scarcely larger than a small room. The walls were damp, their surfaces slick with moisture. Moths clung to the corners, spiders lingered in their webs, and thin strands of silk trembled faintly in the still air.
They stood on square silver tiles, dull and graceless, like those of a neglected washroom. The surface was mottled with fungi and patches of rot. At the corners, ants swarmed together, carrying fragments that resembled strips of peeled flesh.
The air was dim, lit only by a faint glow rising from the bottom of a staircase that descended directly before them.
The railings were smeared with a thick red liquid that smelled of spoiled food. The stench was sour and clinging. The stairs themselves were comparatively clean, laid with the same silver square tiles.
The man stood ahead of them. As always, a wide smile rested on his face. His expression was warm, his brown eyes closed as he tilted his head slightly toward them.
He clapped his hands twice. The sound echoed softly through the confined space.
A dark cube materialized before him. He reached into it and withdrew a lantern. When he switched it on, pale light spilled across the tiles.
Then he began to speak.
"You know," the man said, turning as he began descending the staircase, the lantern swaying lightly in his hand.
Amon and the others followed. Fe Yuan relayed quiet descriptions to Leon through their new internal channel, guiding him step by step.
"I am known as the Driver," the man continued as he walked.
"Toward which path?" Amon asked with a faint smile, as though he already understood the answer.
"Well… I am called the Driver of the Path Leader because I either drive people toward death… or toward life."
"What is the hierarchy of this organisation?" Amon asked, his tone measured, almost bored. He intended to extract as much information as possible and later use it as leverage to dismantle the organisation, expose its secrets, and present evidence to the Erith Order.
The man fell silent at the question; a faint chuckle escaped him.
Only their footsteps echoed along the tiled stairwell.
"What is your name?" the man asked at last. The screeching undertones were gone. His voice had softened into something gentle, almost lulling.
"My name is El," Amon replied. "I am also known as the Righteous Ritualist."
"El… That is quite a unique name," the man said.
I cannot tell this man my real name, Amon thought. For the sake of this task, nothing personal can be disclosed. Besides, El suits this identity better, he smirked inwardly.
[For the duration of the task, Amon would be known as El.]
Silence stretched between them. No questions followed, no conversation resumed. Only the faint rhythm of footsteps, the steady pulse of breathing, and the quiet beat of hearts filled the narrow space.
They continued descending the square-tiled staircase without a word.
At last, they reached the bottom step.
The man moved ahead and opened a door before them, gesturing for them to enter.
"This is the ceremony room where you will become blessed and gain power," the man said warmly, though his expression remained unreadable.
El opened the status window of his current identity.
== << [| Status |] >> ==
Name: El
Age: ???
Religion: Christianity
Identity: Righteous Ritualist
Marks: None | Requires the Ritual of Awakening. A maximum of seven marks may be bestowed by gods, or even True Gods, should they favour you.
Class: None | Requires a Ritualist Awakening
Talent: None | Requires a Ritual of Awakening
Path: None | Requires a Ritual of Awakening
Power: None | Requires a Ritual of Awakening
Flaw: ?????
== << [|-----------------|] >> ==
El studied the panel with quiet scrutiny.
Why do I not possess a physique or an Origin? Why is there no realm level, no rank? Or is it that identities do not have such things because they are merely aliases?
He directed the question to Leon through the new internal channel.
"Identities, or personas, cannot possess an Origin, physique, realm, or existential classification," Leon replied. "They are aspects of you, not independent beings. They lack unique aspects because they are not truly alive. They are constructs shaped through the customisation effect."
He paused briefly before continuing.
"That is why it is said never to allow an identity or alter ego to reach perfection."
"And why is that?" Amon asked lightly, though his curiosity was genuine.
"You know… My masters, no I mean one of my masters who is the King of information once told me," Leon began. "A person is never singular. Within every mind stand countless masks; some worn for survival, some forged for ambition, some born from fear. An alter ego is merely a self-refined emotion or state for oneself for a specific battlefield.
That is why one must never allow any identity to reach perfection.
Perfection invites fixation. Fixation breeds rigidity. And rigidity is the first crack through which madness, fate, or enemies may enter.
A flawless persona becomes a prison. A perfect mask forgets it is a mask.
Leave flaws in every self you create. Leave doubt. Leave incompletion.
For only the unfinished can evolve. And only the evolving can survive Corruption."
El began to laugh inwardly.
"Such wise words from a blind man," he said.
Leon gave out an internal sigh. "Maybe one of this days, you can tell me a good quote without stuttering or even make one up on the spot," Leon challenged.
"We will see."
El dismissed his status window and entered the ceremony room.
Before them laid a white chamber overgrown with flowers. Dandelions, sunflowers, and roses spread across its floor.
Along either side of the flower-filled chamber stood wooden stools, each occupied by a man in red and black robes that trailed across the floor.
They each wore a pope's cap on their head.
A bowl of water stood in front of them which was placed on the ground. Blood and black dots gathered beneath their eyes and lay on their bodies, they trembled in fear and dipped their hands into the water to rinse themselves and their faces.
A golden Altar rested perfectly in the middle of the white room on the flowers while runes and faint sigils adorned the surface, it resembled the symbols of the rituals used in the haunted house.
At the front wall of the white room hung a gold cross and beneath the cross was throne of pure silver and faint lines of gold. Seated upon the throne was a mysterious man shrouded in a dark veil that pulsed faintly as Amon and the others entered.
As they entered the ritualists that sat on the wooden stool began to chant, shout and praise as they saw them and the man stepping forward.
"The man is back! The man is back!" they thundered.
While some began to shout as they saw El on the others. "We have newcomers!"
others shouted though, their voices were a level lower. "We have our brothers!"
Then, beneath the thunder of raised voices, a whisper moved through the room.
"We have sacrifices."