"Hereby, the New Order of Truth marks you as a true Paladin, Twenty-Seventh," the robed man declared, voice hollow but firm.
His robes were white, spotless, layered in ancient regional iconography that felt too clean to be real, like something meant to blind, not bless.
Behind him stood another man, draped in robes that looked like stolen museum pieces—gold-threaded, jewel-embedded, screaming status without needing to speak.
This one didn't move.
Didn't need to.
The weight in the air shifted around him like he owned it.
And then he spoke.
"Your name shall be Ser Caldus Mire," the man intoned, voice low, heavy with ceremonial weight, echoing across the obsidian court. "You shall serve me with the will of the god, and the might of my army, in service to mankind."
The hall was grand, but not beautiful.
Cold marble. Golden scripture carved into bone.
The light didn't reach the corners.
"We fight for our survival," the man continued, pacing slowly down the steps of the throne. "Our salvation. So that we may achieve nirvana."
Behind him, the High Clergy stood still—bodies cloaked in ceremonial ivory, their faces hidden behind masks shaped like screaming saints.
"In these chaotic times… a third of mankind has betrayed the Light of Truth."
His voice dropped into something darker. Less like a man speaking, and more like something reading scripture from within a dream.
"You shall be the Twelfth Blade of the Order."
A final pause.
"Let it be known: Ser Caldus Mire is the Twenty-Seventh Paladin, and now, the Twelfth Blade of Order."
Stillness followed. Not even a breath. Not a single reaction from the masked clergy or the velvet-robed guards standing like statues.
Because in the Order, oaths meant blood.
And the man who'd spoken—draped in masterwork silks stitched with golden glyphs, wearing rings etched with unknown symbols—finally smiled.
A smile that didn't reach his eyes.
Duke Thalor Veyne.
The Fourth Duke of the New Order of Truth.
The Hand of Doctrine.
And Mire bowed—slow, cold, precise.
The sound of the prayer grew louder.
It echoed through the grand hall like a cough in a tomb—loud, pointless, hollow. It clawed at Mire's nerves with every syllable. Didn't matter how sacred it was supposed to be—he hated it.
That damn prayer.
The chant echoed off the rotting hall.
The priests walked just behind him, their voices rising with each step like they believed louder meant holier.
Mire igorend him.
He was sent by the Order to—
"My lord, don't you think it's strange?" the priest finally asked.
It would be strange.
But Mire had already figured it out. He just needed confirmation.
"One might presume… maybe they're using magic. Something to stop us from entering. A hell-load of Vowbound and gen-made monsters waiting inside, all packed into the mansion. That'd give them better odds," the priest muttered, tone tight with unease.
Veilkeeper's Sigil.
Mire didn't need to hear it to know it.
He could smell it—like burnt copper and spoiled incense.
His nose picked up the residue of forbidden rites, and his eyes—his cursed, sharpened eyes—could see the warping hum of unnatural energy bleeding through the cracks beneath reality.
"We also received reports they were using the Veilkeeper's Sigil," the priest added.
Mire didn't reply.
They walked for a while, silence growing heavier with each step.
Then they saw it.
At the center of the mansion's heart, where walls had rotted and the ground split open, stood a tree—if you could call it that.
Massive. Twisted. Black.
Its bark pulsed like breathing skin, and from its tangled roots and veins, bodies hung—limbs fused into its mass, heads bent back in agony, faces frozen mid-scream. A garden of torment.
The priest stopped.
His breath caught. Eyes wide, mouth slack. The prayer had died on his lips minutes ago, but now he was moving again—slow, dazed, like a moth to flame.
He stepped forward.
Mire's eyes narrowed.
"What are you doing?" he asked, voice low, sharp.
The priest didn't answer at first. His lips moved, but not in prayer.
He smiled.
"It's beautiful," he whispered. "It's calling my name."
Mire was far removed from these kinds of temptations.
He didn't pause. Didn't flinch.
He drew his blade and swung once—clean, brutal.
The priest didn't even get a chance to reach the tree.
Steel met bark with a wet crunch. The tree shrieked—no wind, no leaves—just screaming. Black blood sprayed like tar, sizzling as it hit the ground.
The priest collapsed, trembling, sobbing like something in him had snapped.
"I… I didn't mean to—God, forgive me, I didn't mean—"
Mire didn't care.
He wiped the blade, turned, and walked on. Time was bleeding out, and he wasn't about to waste it on weakness.
They walked until they found the basement entrance, hidden behind half-collapsed walls.
"It reeks," Mire muttered, nostrils flaring. "Flesh. Blood. The scent of a saint… It's coming from down there."
The priest nodded, pale and silent.
Step by step, they descended into the dark. The stone steps groaned beneath their boots.
Corpses littered the passage—Desan's work. Sloppy, brutal. Mire's eyes lingered on the splatter patterns, reading them like old scripture.
They entered the final room, where Desan had once slept, bled, and burned with fevered dreams.
It was empty now. Cold. Still.
Mire stepped in, scanned the space, then simply said:
"…It's no longer here."
His tone held no surprise. Just quiet confirmation.
"They must have run away with it," the priest said, then hesitated. "…No. That's not possible. If they had, you would've tracked the scent, my lord. You would've come here directly. They must've… used it."
A pause. Then a disgusted whisper:
"Such blasphemy."
Mire didn't answer. Just stared at him.
'Smart for a Zealot, ' he thought, almost amused. Hope he doesn't catch on.
They were walking back toward the entrance when they noticed it—A door, half-open, carved with blasphemous symbols scorched into the wood like burn wounds.
Mire didn't care. Didn't even slow down.
But the priest did.
Curiosity always killed the faithful.
Mire followed—more out of habit than interest.
The room was dim, blood-stained. The corpse of some creature lay twisted on the floor. Face half-melted. Jaw gone. Acid burns hissing where flesh used to be.
The priest knelt, holding up the shattered remains of the Veilkeeper's Sigil like it still held meaning.
"My lord… it's broken," he said, voice shaky. "It only shatters if the guardian is killed… from the inside."A pause. A breath of realization.
"It's him. Desan. He's the only one… He must've—"
Steel flashed.
The priest's words died in a wet choke as Mire's blade slipped clean through his back, into his heart. No hesitation. No ceremony.
Blood poured from the priest's lips.
"W…why…?"
Mire leaned in close, voice low. Icy.
"Ask your god that."
He twisted the blade.
The priest collapsed, spasming once before going still.
Mire watched the body bleed out, expression blank.
Just silence.
He slid the blade free with one smooth motion, dragging it once across the stone floor. Sparks danced.
The acid-soaked corpse caught fire.
A soft whuff—and the whole room lit up in flame.
Smoke curled. Screams of the dead echoed in the walls. Symbols writhed in the flickering light.
By the time he turned, the whole room was burning. Fast.
Mire didn't say anything. Didn't look back.
He just walked out, flames behind him.