> Welcome, Luner Veritas.
> Active Assistant: [Intel - Subconscious]
> Avatar Set: Anthro Tuxedo
> Options: Create | Destroy | Modify | Change Avatar
> Potential Magicka : 97
> Skills: Waterbending - Basic | Space Pocket | Fire Lv.7 | Ice Lv.8 | Thunder Lv.6 | Healing Lv.10 | Protection Lv.9
◇ ◇ ◇
The flames leaping from my fingertips lit the twisted bushes for an instant before dissipating in a small burst of heat. The goblin fell with a muffled thud, and silence returned to the plain, broken only by the sound of my own breathing.
I straightened up slowly, scanning the area with my eyes, alert. No other monsters. Still, my senses remained alert.
>— You're really putting in the work. You've already killed more monsters today than all the previous days combined.
"I needed that," I replied, wiping a bead of sweat from my forehead. "I'd rather not end up regretting it later."
>— Admirable. And a bit desperate, but admirable.
I ignored the comment and bent down to pick up the coins left by the goblin . The system automatically notified me of the gain, and I put the money in my space pocket without thinking much.
"Intel..." I muttered, slowing my pace as I climbed a small hill covered in thin grass. "Do you think my body is still there?"
This time, he took longer to respond.
>— Probably. That is, if they haven't already ruled it out. The ties are still there, but they're weakening. If something happens to him… well, he might become irrelevant.
— Irrelevant?
>— From the perspective of who you are now… maybe. But if that worries you, then you haven't cut it yet.
I stopped at the top of the hill. From there I could see the town of Paroom in the distance, the smoke from the chimneys rising in lazy spirals. The late afternoon light tinged everything golden.
— What if he's in danger?
—It 's unlikely that you're in or pose any danger, and someone must have already dealt with it. Or not. In which case… it will no longer be a problem. — His voice was soft, almost cruel in its honesty. — The reality of Earth has no way of reaching you here.
— I still feel a strange discomfort when I think about him...
>— Just because you still want to.
—I don't know if I want to—I confessed, looking at the sky, where slow clouds crossed the blue.
>— Well, it's up to you.
Trying to put that aside, I continue my practice.
◇ ◇ ◇
Carlos was furious. On his cell phone screen, another missed call. It was already past noon, and Ludovico hadn't shown up at work for days. At first, he tried to be understanding — he thought it was illness, tiredness, maybe even a nervous breakdown. But no one disappeared like that. Without giving any sign. Without asking for time off. Without answering.
He stopped the car in front of the simple building where Ludovico lived. La-Polis. Far from the center, far from everything. Carlos already hated this neighborhood before, now he had another reason.
He got out of the car and walked through the front gate. The intercom didn't work — or Ludovico simply wasn't answering. He rang once, twice, three times. Nothing. He walked up the stairs with firm steps, his irritation growing with each step. When he reached the door, he knocked loudly.
— Ludovico!? — he called. — It's me, Carlos! If you're in there, open that door now!
No answer. He knocked harder.
— I swear, if this is some kind of joke of yours... — he muttered, and then put his ear to the door. Absolute silence. No sound of movement, no sign that anyone was awake or alive inside.
Anger gave way to concern. Something was wrong.
He looked around. The hallway was empty. He took a deep breath, tested the doorknob. Locked. He took a step back... and kicked the door hard. Once. Twice. On the third kick, the lock gave way.
The apartment was dark and stuffy. The air, stagnant for days, was as thick as that of a forgotten cellar. The closed windows let nothing in, no light, no breeze—no life. But there was something else. Something that could be felt not just in the lungs, but throughout the body.
Carlos was not a man of refined sensibilities. He had already faced filthy bathrooms, abandoned basements, even a broken organic waste container in one of the company's warehouses. But this was different. It was as if the air itself had gone bad. A hot, damp, sour stench that stuck to the back of the throat and made the eyes water.
He frowned, his nostrils twitching in reflexive revulsion. But he went in.
- What the hell is that...?
The door creaked shut behind him, muffling the world outside. The dim light from the hallway barely reached the inside of the apartment. Carlos advanced with hard, irritated steps. The living room was organized, contained. The cushions were symmetrically arranged on the sofa. The bookshelf was spotless. The table was clean, with no signs of recent use. Everything... too normal .
— You'll see, this kid has taken off. He threw everything up in the air and left — he muttered, mostly to himself, putting his hands in his pockets. — Idiot.
She looked around with disdain, as if expecting the apartment to confess something. Nothing. No travel clues, no suitcases, no farewell letters. Just the smell. Stronger now. As if it emanated from beneath the floor, from the walls, from some corner where death had taken up residence.
He walked into the hallway. The worn carpet muffled the sound of their shoes. The lights there were off too. He passed closed doors—bathroom, closet, maybe a guest room—until he saw the master bedroom door, ajar, just wide enough to admit a thick, motionless shadow.
Carlos stopped. The smell was coming from there. It was unbearable now. His stomach churned, but he didn't give in. He'd seen worse, right? Nothing a grown man couldn't handle.
He pushed the door open with the back of his hand. It was pitch black. No light came through the blinds. Just a thick silence and an oppressive heat. Carlos felt something tighten in his chest. That irrational feeling that he was about to see something he shouldn't. He felt along the wall, his fingers sliding over the switch. A click. The light came on. And there it was.
On the bed, under tangled sheets, lay a body. Or what was left of it. The darkened, dull skin seemed to have hardened, shrunken, like leather burned by time. The arms were half-erect , curled against the chest, as if the corpse had frozen in the moment of a last failed breath. The eyes, now sunken and opaque, were still open. The mouth too — wide open, as if emitting a silent scream. Was it a smile, or a grimace of pain? Carlos wouldn't know how to say. He just knew that image would never leave his head.
—Holy shit... — he whispered, taking two steps back, as if the corpse might jump on him.
He pulled his shirt out of his pants and held it to his face, trying to filter out the smell, but it was too late. The odor permeated everything—his clothes, his skin, his memory. He stumbled into the hallway, tripping over his own feet. He leaned against the wall and hunched over, swallowing hard.
— What the fuck... what the hell is this, Ludovico?!
He tried to pick up his phone, but his hands were shaking. He hesitated. He stood there for a few seconds too long, staring at the screen as if he didn't know what to do with it. As if calling someone would... make it official.
Carlos could barely keep the phone steady in his hands. His fingers were still shaking, stained with the sweat that was dripping from his forehead, as he fought the nausea that insisted on rising in his throat. Staggering back into the living room, he tripped over a rug, leaning heavily against the wall. The smell seemed to have stuck to him, like an invisible curse.
He dialed the emergency number with abrupt gestures, almost crushing the screen.
— Hello? Yes, I need an ambulance. And the police, too. Now. — His voice was hoarse, but firm. — There's a... a body. In an apartment. It's... rotting. It's been dead for days, maybe weeks. It's a horrible thing.
He paused, breathing heavily.
— Apartment 304, Torre Branca building, La-Polis neighborhood. Come quickly! — he shouted, his voice breaking at the end of the sentence. — His name is Ludovico. He works with me. He used to.
He didn't even wait for the attendant to finish. He hung up, threw his cell phone on the couch and left. He yanked the door open, as if the wall itself was trying to hold him back. When he finally stepped back into the building's hallway, he sucked in air like a drowning man. But the smell still seemed to be there, stuck in the inside of his nose.
He ran down the stairs, tripping over the last step. He came out of the building sweating, his face pale and his eyes sunken. He leaned against his truck and stood there, panting, trying to make the world stop spinning.
Time passed without him noticing how much. It could have been minutes or hours. It was only when he heard the distant sound of the siren that he came to.
An ambulance approached down the narrow street, its lights flashing blue and white. Right behind it, a police car. The vehicles stopped in front of the building, and professionals rushed out—paramedics with their bags, police officers alert to the surroundings. But then, something out of place: a car.
Black, modern, expensive. Impeccable paintwork, chrome rims, and completely tinted windows, as if not even one's own reflection dared to peek inside. No sirens, no rush. The vehicle glided down the street like a silent predator and stopped with calculated precision, as if it already knew exactly where it should be.
Carlos frowned, swallowing hard. The driver didn't get out. No one got out. The paramedics had already gone up. The police officers were talking among themselves, taking notes. But the car remained there, motionless. Unsettling.
Carlos looked at it again. The black paint reflected the surrounding buildings like a distorted mirror. Something about its presence was unsettling. There was no sound coming from inside, no movement. It was as if the vehicle was... watching.
Carlos looked away and ran his hand over the sweaty back of his neck. Maybe it was someone from the family. A private doctor. A lawyer. But something inside him knew it was nothing like that.
Something was wrong. And deep down, he was beginning to realize: that death was not just another one.
Carlos was still recovering, with his stomach churning and his hands sweaty, when he saw one of the police officers approaching. The man was wearing sunglasses, even with the cloudy sky, and his expression was that of a professional used to dealing with all kinds of things — the kind who is not easily surprised.
— Sir, may I ask you a few questions? — he asked in a neutral but firm voice.
Carlos nodded, taking a deep breath.
— Full name?
— Carlos Mendes. I'm... I'm a manager at the delivery agency where he worked.
— And when was the last time you had contact with Ludovico?
— It's been a month since I saw him, at a meeting. But... five days ago, I checked the agency's records. He clocked in. And he appears on the cameras coming and going normally. But after that day... he didn't come back.
The police officer made some notes.
— And you decided to come here on your own?
— Yes. I went to HR, they said no one had said anything about leave. I got the address he left on the register and came to see if I could find anything. I tried knocking, calling. No one answered. I had to... I had to break in.
— ... And what did you find?
Carlos swallowed, looking away.
— Hell. Unbearable stench. That... that was left of him in the bed.
The police officer just nodded and wrote a few more things. As he answered, Carlos noticed movement near the entrance to the building. Two paramedics were coming down, carrying two black bags. Body bags. His eyes widened in confusion. Two? The scene passed in silence, but the image remained.
One of the officers accompanying the paramedics paused for a moment, looking around, as if checking for too many witnesses. Then he walked over to the black car. The backseat window rolled down just enough to reveal a crack, and the officer discreetly handed over something—small, wrapped in a dark cloth. The window rolled back up. The car remained motionless.
Carlos felt a shiver down his spine.
"We're done here, Mr. Mendes," the police officer in front of him said, interrupting his thoughts. "You can go. Don't worry about what happened. The situation is under control."
— Okay... okay — Carlos murmured, unable to hide his relief. He didn't even try to question. I just wanted to get out of there.
He walked back to his car with slow steps. The smell of the apartment still seemed to stick in his nostrils, but at least the air outside was breathable. He sat in the driver's seat and started the car. Looking in the rearview mirror, his attention was drawn to the ambulance. The back door was ajar, allowing a glimpse inside for a moment. Only one bag was inside.
Charles frowned. Weren't there two? He thought about going back and asking. But the doubt didn't last long. He looked away and sighed deeply.
— I must have gotten confused. And that. With the nervousness... maybe I saw it wrong.
Soon after, the ambulance left. The vehicle too. And finally, the black car, which left in absolute silence, like a shadow disappearing from the street.
Carlos also gave the start. I was sure of one thing: I didn't want to think about it anymore.
◇ ◇ ◇
The interior of the car was dark, silent, and sterile, like an extension of Francisco's own presence. The leather on the seats looked like it had never been used, and the mirrored glass didn't let in even a shadow of the outside world. The air inside was thick, permeated with a faint scent of leather and mint.
Someone approaches the window, and with the click of a button, a small crack appears. A police officer leaned in, barely looking directly at Francisco. He simply held out an envelope, sealed with transparent tape. Francisco took it without saying a word.
The door closed with a subtle click. The car remained motionless. Francisco unsealed the envelope with slow, meticulous movements. From inside, he pulled out a small stack of Polaroid photographs. Instant images. Direct. Raw. He looked at the first one. Silence.
Not a facial twitch, not a sigh. Just the gliding of eyes, attentive, over what was revealed on the paper. A body twisted in crumpled sheets, almost unrecognizable. The darkened skin, stuck to the bones. Eyes wide open. Mouth deformed in an eternal grimace.
Francisco moved on to the next one. And then to the next. One by one, he observed them calmly. The smile that appeared on his face was crooked, asymmetrical. Not of pleasure, nor of horror—but of understanding. As if confirming an old hypothesis. His eyes, dark and deep, reflected something that could not be seen on the surface.
When he was finished, he handed the photos to the man next to him.
The security guard, a burly man with a stony expression and a well-fitted suit, took the images with a subtle nod. Without hesitation, he tore them into four pieces each, with mechanical precision. The strips fell into a cardboard box at his feet, already partially filled with ash and the remains of other documents. Soon, the whole thing would go up in smoke.
Francisco, with calm gestures, pulled his cell phone from his jacket pocket. The screen glowed cold. His fingers typed a short message: "Bring him." No punctuation, no signature.
Almost at the same moment, the trunk of the car opened from outside. Two men emerged from the shadows, carrying something heavy—wrapped in dark canvas, tied with rubber straps. The sound of the heavy impact as they lowered it into the compartment echoed briefly. Then the trunk closed.
The car then drove off. Fast. Necessary. No unnecessary noise. As if he was in a hurry.
Or an inevitable fate. Francisco leaned back on the bench, closing his eyes. The smile remained.
◇ ◇ ◇
Two days later. The car slowed down in front of the chapel. It was a modest, ancient building, with its stones worn by time and by prayers that never ceased. The pale facade reflected soft yellow light from the streetlamps, as if the place was still trying to look welcoming. But Francisco knew what was behind those walls.
Without saying a word, he got out of the car. The security guard who accompanied him was already moving forward, leading the way with the precision of someone who knew exactly where he was going. Francisco climbed the steps with slow, almost ceremonial steps. Each step seemed to carry the weight of an ancient oath.
As he walked through the chapel door, he was enveloped in a thick, almost sacred silence. No worshippers, no music. Only the muffled sound of the wind touching the windows. The pews were empty, the altar unlit. A single candelabra flickered in the corner of the nave, as if the flame itself was hesitant to stay lit.
Francisco did not stop. He did not kneel. He did not pray. He walked straight to the back of the church, passing the pulpit with the ease of someone who had preached there—or condemned someone there. He stopped in front of the confession room, a dark wooden booth decorated with delicate carvings of lilies, crosses, and intertwined flames. The door creaked with an unsettling familiarity when pushed.
He pushed aside a red velvet curtain that hid more than just sins. Behind it was a reinforced metal door with an electronic lock and a biometric security tag. The security guard, already in front, entered the code with deft movements. A low beep sounded, followed by the heavy unlocking of the lock.
The door opened. The air on the other side was thicker, almost sticky. Humidity. Concrete. Memory. Francisco began to descend.
The raw cement steps were narrow, damp, and poorly lit. The lamps hanging from the ceiling cast intermittent shadows on the stained walls—creating the illusion of moving figures. The silence grew deeper with each step. It was not the silence of the absence of sound, but the silence of the presence of something that did not want to be heard.
At the bottom of the stairs, an antechamber opened up. No windows. No symbols. Just cold, sterile white light. A glass panel slid open as Francisco approached, revealing a neatly folded set of white clothes and a decontamination pod.
Francisco calmly undressed and reverently put on his new clothes. It was almost a liturgical habit. Then he positioned himself in the center of the cylindrical compartment while jets of thin, almost invisible steam enveloped his body. The process was brief, but enough to erase any trace of the world above.
He never looked away. As soon as the decontamination was finished, a new door opened with a pneumatic sound. A corridor of light revealed itself ahead—and with it, the true heart of the place: The laboratory. Modern. Clinical. Necessary. Divided into silent sectors and sterile rooms, hidden beneath the foundations of a church. There, faith and science merged in a secret pact, sealed not with prayer, but with genetic code, scalpel and silence.
Genetic analysis rooms. Monitoring stations. Observation chambers with mirrored walls. High-tech equipment disguised under ambiguous names in encrypted files.
Employees passed silently through the glass corridor. Their gazes were low, their steps measured. All in white coats. No names. Just badges with codes and an expression of obedient resignation. No one asked questions. No one dared.
Employees milled about in silence, all wearing standard uniforms and badges that displayed no names—only alphanumeric codes. Their faces were serious, focused, as if each of them knew they were dealing with something that could not be explained simply.
Some offered brief waves to Francis as they saw him pass—contained gestures, almost involuntary reflexes. Others looked away, not out of direct fear, but for something more subtle. As if his presence aroused an uncomfortable reverence. A reminder that there, in that space that mixed concrete and faith, science and secrecy, Francisco was not just a hierarchical superior. He was a symbol.
That underground laboratory, hidden beneath a sacred facade, was not listed in public records. No architectural plan revealed its existence. But everyone there knew what they had signed, what they swore to preserve, and what they could never repeat outside of there. It was a place hidden in plain sight—and yet invisible. There, doctrine and biotechnology walked together, and Francis… was the priest of a new form of miracle.
He stopped in front of one of the sealed rooms. The opaque glass door seemed to pulse silently, as if it concealed something that still breathed. His lips curved into a slight, almost gentle smile—but artificial, like a meticulously applied mask.
— I'm here. Show me what we've got.
Almost at the same moment, one of the employees approached. She was a tall woman, with a rigid posture and a tense expression. Her hair was tied in a meticulously neat bun. Her white lab coat was without a single crease. Everything about her screamed efficiency. But her eyes... betrayed the anxiety that not even discipline could contain.
— Sir! I'm glad you came, we—
— Has it been confirmed?
Francisco cut her off naturally, without raising his voice, but with the authority of someone who is used to not being interrupted. His eyes, fixed on her, were like blades: cold, sharp and inevitable.
The woman hesitated for a moment, surprised by the coldness of the question. But then she swallowed hard and nodded once, firmly. Her eyes showed the gravity of what they had discovered, but her body remained restrained, as if she feared that any uncontrolled emotion could desecrate the moment.
Francisco smiled again—a smaller gesture than before, but infinitely more charged. There was a gleam in his eyes now. A strange light, of restrained excitement, almost childlike. But it wasn't a happy excitement. It was fanatical. Fierce. Like someone who had waited a lifetime for a chance to prove himself right.
"Perfect," he murmured, almost in a prayerful tone. Not for her. For himself. For something greater.
Without needing further explanation, he began to walk alongside the scientist through the corridors. The security guard followed them a few steps behind, silent as a well-trained shadow. Francisco walked with a calmness that bordered on solemnity. There was no rush. There was pleasure in waiting. Each step reverberated like a rhythmic beat in the structure of the polished floor—marking the time until the moment of revelation.
As they walked forward, the other employees made room automatically, without any command being necessary. Everyone knew he didn't need to introduce himself. Not here. He was the reason all this existed. And today, the reason was about to be justified.
They reached a restricted access door, sealed by a light panel. Without any verbal command being necessary, the scanner activated with a soft beep, analyzing Francisco's retina. A metallic click sounded in response. The door opened smoothly, revealing a pale, cold light—like that of an operating room where time seemed frozen.
The observation room was large, silent, and sterile. It was divided into two areas by a large translucent glass panel, thick enough to contain noise and odors but not enough to hide the horror. On their side, a long table held monitors, consoles, and digital readouts. The panels pulsed in blues and reds, loaded with graphs, tables, and real-time readings: electroanalysis, thermography, cell scanning, bioenergetic particle tracking. Each screen was a heartbeat of data.
Francisco approached slowly, stopping in front of the glass. On the other side, in the sterile observation chamber, illuminated by suspended white spotlights, lay the body. Or what was left of it.
He was laid out on a steel surgical table, surrounded by trays filled with sharp instruments, probes, vibrating scalpels, and drainage tubes. The flesh—blackened, dried out, with purple spots—no longer conformed to what one would expect of a human. It had been cut into meticulous segments. Bones were exposed. Muscles were retracted. Tissues had been removed, sorted, and distributed on trays. Some floated in tanks of preservative fluid. Others remained connected, held together by metal sutures or biomechanical hooks, like pieces of an anatomical puzzle awaiting decipherment.
Francisco watched with the intensity of someone contemplating a sacred relic. The room on the other side of the glass didn't just look like a laboratory. It looked like an altar. A profane temple built to receive offerings of flesh, and there, on that table... lay an inverted miracle.
He smiled. A crooked smile. It would be light, if it weren't so loaded with meaning. It would be human, if it weren't so... surrendered.
"Very well," he said , in a low, serious voice. "What can you tell me? Straight to the point."
The scientist beside him hurried forward. She pulled a digital clipboard from a stand, typing a quick sequence to access the confidential files. Her fingers slid across the screens with practiced precision, but her eyes betrayed a contained uneasiness. The room was too quiet to hide the tension.
"According to the collection records and the eyewitness testimony," she began, keeping her tone professional, "the body was found exactly seven days ago. Since then, it has remained technically dead. No brain activity. No measurable vital signs."
She slid aside another control panel. The images changed, revealing thermal scans and complex CT scans, oscillating gently under the digital light.
—But the rate of degradation... is completely incompatible with this interval. The epidermis shows the typical shrinkage of very advanced stages. Muscle tissue has collapsed uniformly. Internal organs have necrotized in irregular patterns, as if something inside... had abruptly and unnaturally stopped supporting them.
Francisco remained silent. Only his eyes moved from image to image, with the attention of a scholar who was already expecting that answer before even hearing it.
— There is no presence of accelerated bacterial infection, no signs of parasites, no external influence from the environment. No trace of advanced oxidation or contact with corrosive chemical elements. And the strangest thing... — she hesitated — ...there were no insects. Nothing. As if nature had refused to touch that body.
Francisco turned his head slightly, but said nothing.
— Apparently — continued the scientist, swallowing hard —, the process was... internal. A degeneration that seems spontaneous. Or induced by an unknown factor. Something we have not yet been able to identify.
She paused before concluding.
—And there's more. Until a few hours before the dissection began, the body still maintained an internal temperature. Constant. High. There was no pulse. No electrical current in the brain. But… it was warm. As if something still resided there, but it was gone.
Francisco frowned slightly. It was the only sign of emotion he would show in that room.
— The cooling only began after the dismantling — the scientist added, glancing at him briefly. — After the opening of the thoracic cavity. The cooling... was immediate.
She closed the panel, and for a moment, let silence take over the room.
"Sir... this... is consistent with some of the occurrences classified in the Esoteric Records Archives," she said, her voice lower, almost as if she feared being overheard by something beyond the walls. "Cases that have been removed from the public index and sealed by direct order of the doctrinal summit. Categories S and P-Delta."
She paused, as if the very act of uttering those terms required caution.
— Anomalies associated with uncatalogued manifestations... and extraphysical interventions not officially recognized. The oldest cases mention bodies that remained intact for weeks. Others... that did not rot. But the records are incomplete, fragmentary. Some were handwritten. Others were transcribed from oral accounts by missionaries, inquisitors, and delirious monks. All end abruptly. None with resolution. None with a survivor.
The silence that followed was so thick that it seemed to weigh on both of their shoulders. Francisco didn't move. He was still standing in front of the glass, as if frozen. But inside him, something was erupting.
In the eyes—deep, dark, burning with a sultry glow—there was no doubt, no fear. Just certainty. A spark that grew, hungry, like an ancient secret finally confirmed. Like a promise made over many generations... about to be fulfilled.
It was a feverish glow. A fire of faith mixed with madness. And for Francis, it was like seeing the dogma itself take shape — there, in flesh and blood — for the first time. Francisco tilted his head slightly, now more attentive than before.
— Go on.
The scientist swallowed hard, her eyes momentarily escaping the glass as she gathered the courage to continue.
— Until a few hours ago... the body still maintained its internal temperature. As if it were alive. Warm. There was no heartbeat. No brain activity. No reflexes. And yet... warm. As if something inside it... resisted dying.
She hesitated.
—The cooling only began after we began the process of... dismantling.
The word came out with a lump in her throat. She knew it wasn't appropriate—but there was no technical term for it.
—The phenomenon is unprecedented. No plausible metabolic explanation. There was no rigor mortis. No evidence of active necrosis. No infestation or external contamination. The body simply... persisted. Supple. Whole. Quietly warm.
Francisco began to walk toward the glass with slow steps, as if he were approaching a reliquary. His expression was not one of astonishment, but of recognition. Of devotion. He stopped in front of the translucent wall, stretching out his fingers until they touched the cold surface.
— Do you know what this is?
Her voice was low, almost a whisper. The scientist remained silent. She knew the question was not rhetorical, but inevitable.
— That... is an impossibility. A paradox incarnate.
The smile that appeared on his lips was small, slanted, almost tender. Like that of someone who finds a missing page in their holy book.
— A miracle disguised as a curse. A bleeding enigma. A testament to what we have proclaimed for centuries. You see: this flesh should not be here. Not like this. Not like that. But it is. As if time had hesitated. As if death... had refused.
His tone wavered between fervor and reverence. Each word seemed to unfold like an inverted prayer.
"Every inch of it"—he pointed to the mutilated body—"is a scripture. A verse. A symbol. A man who strayed from the Holy Flame, who rejected the doctrine, who walked the path of darkness... and was marked for it. Preserved. Isolated. Set apart from the others to be studied. As a sign. As a warning."
He took a half step back, his hand still on the glass, and took a deep breath as if he had just glimpsed a beatific vision.
— For the first time, we have matter. Not parables. Not allegories. But flesh. Blood. Data. Something that breathes, even without breath. Something that screams, even without voice.
He turned slowly to the scientist, his intense eyes now alight with a sickly glow.
— This changes everything. Faith, at last, is measurable. Replicable. Quantifiable. No longer just an invisible flame ... but a tangible energy. One that can be contained. One that can be used.
He paused briefly.
— And who better to do this than us?
The silence fell like a thick veil, too heavy to be lifted with simple words.
— I want to understand why this body resisted. What kept it warm. What kept it from rotting. Whether it was punishment... or unholy grace. I want to know if we can induce it. Reproduce it. Amplify it. And... apply it.
His tone became more serious. More calculated.
— The envelope was not taken by the soul. It remained. Like a chalice... waiting for the next anointing.
Then, with one last look at the desiccated remains, Francisco lowered his hand and stepped away from the glass.
— Prepare the second phase. The purification experiment.
As he walked towards the exit, calmly adjusting the sleeves of his jacket, he added with disconcerting serenity:
— We must not waste an empty shell... given by the heavens.
The footsteps echoed through the halls like the drums of a service about to begin. The security guard followed him silently, like a faithful shadow.
The scientist remained where she was, paralyzed for a moment. Her eyes fixed on the fragmented body beyond the glass. It was no longer just a corpse. It was a relic. An altar.
And even shattered, it seemed to hold... something.