Screams ricocheted off the walls.
Cloaked figures shoved past each other, trampling silverware and shattered goblets in their desperate scramble for the exits. Then—silence.
Bodies lay scattered across the banquet hall. Unconscious white-robed priests. Dazed captives, blinking in confusion.
And at the center stood Andreas—the masked man.
As the bodies of the priests began to fade, becoming more translucent by the second, Andreas tilted his head and looked up at the ceiling.
Considering all the hype around the Awakened... that was way too easy.
Well, I'm sure there are stronger people out there. I shouldn't develop an ego—
...Yet.
He let his weapons fall—first the gun, then the sword. His mask and sword dissolved into gray mist. With a weary motion, Andreas dragged his fingers across his face and back through his hair.
This is kind of boring. Maybe it's because I'm not the fighting type.
But at least I experienced something new today... no. Ever since I got to this world, it's been a rush. In a good way. And hey—magic exists. Maybe I can cast some cool spells
Then his frown deepened.
"Damn."
Why would I forget something so important...? Actually, that's the least of my worries. I left my family. Just—left them behind. And I still need to figure out what the hell Welkenhaar even is. Seriously... What am I even doing? Was I always this forgetful?
As he stood there, lost in thought, the captives began untying themselves. Among them, Lilith—the girl in the pink gown—wiped her eyes and slowly walked toward him.
Andreas sat with his knees pulled to his chest, arms loosely wrapped around them.
No… I've forgotten things before, but this feels different. Maybe it's just my brain trying to process all these new memories... or maybe I've always been this stupid and just fooled myself into thinking otherwise.
He stood and gazed at the pile of half-fading corpses.
That's common behavior for murderers, right? Standing there like this? At least, I think it is...
God, I hope this doesn't wreck whatever's left of my moral compass.
A gentle tug on his sleeve pulled him back to the present.
He turned—and met Lilith's eyes. They were red from crying, but clear and focused now.
"Heyyy... L-Lilith?"
She wrapped her arms around him in a quiet hug. She could only reach his waist.
"Thank you, sir," she said in a shaky voice.
Andreas awkwardly patted her back and turned his head aside. "Yeah, yeah…"
Huh. The priest-looking guys are gone. Should I…? Nah. Someone else will handle it.
Lilith didn't let go.
"I thought I was going to die," she murmured. "I... thank you for saving me."
Andreas looked down at her, hesitating. "What happened to you? How did they even take you?" He shifted his weight, unsure if he sounded too direct—or not gentle enough.
Lilith's sobs returned, louder this time.
His gaze darkened. "Yeah… I shouldn't have asked."
They're priests. That means she was either a vessel of praise—or something meant to be offered. I'll stick with that theory… until she decides to tell me herself.
Lilith released him and wiped her tears with trembling hands. When she spoke, her voice was calm—too calm, rehearsed like a line from a play.
"I'm sorry for letting you see such a shameful side of me."
Andreas didn't reply at first. Then, softly said: "...It's okay."
---
A few blocks away, in a dim alley bathed in blue firelight, four robed priests stood surrounded by blood and ash.
A purple-haired priest lay unconscious at their feet, barely breathing.
The priest with flaming hands panted heavily. "Damn it…"
"Too many irregularities," muttered the bearded one, blood trickling down his brow. "We must accelerate the plan. Selene—prepare a portal to the Second House of the Leicesters."
"Yes, sir." The woman with smooth black hair pulled a chalk stick from her light green satchel and began to draw a sigil on the wall, her chant low and rhythmic.
The illusionist, holding his bleeding ears, said nothing. His eyes were vacant, trembling from psychic backlash.
The red-haired priest?—Kizanari, leaned against the wall, wincing. "I'm not leaving without my new vessel." The flames around his arms flickered. "Arnold, summon your master. I'll transform and deal with this 'Normy' bastard myself."
The bearded priest—Arnold—nodded. "Very well. Make sure he dies before you do. He might interfere with our plans concerning the Golden Knights."
Kizanari clutched his side. "I hate disrespecting our allies like this... but he has to die."
The others exchanged uneasy glances.
Arnold muttered, "But know this—my god will arrive hours after the ritual begins. Stall him as long as you can... Kizanari."
He lifted the unconscious priest over his shoulder.
Selene finished the portal. The circle flared to life, its vortex spinning with hues of indigo and electric blue, like a liquid whirlpool of raw energy.
Without hesitation, Arnold stepped through.
---
He emerged into a silent garden. Trees loomed, and the stone path was lined with strange violet blossoms. The air was cold—and old.
Selene followed, robes trailing like smoke. Then the illusionist stumbled through, hand still pressed to his ears. The portal shut behind them with a soft, wet pop.
Before them stood a grand mansion.
Tall. Gothic. Too pristine.
Its golden-lit windows shone through the night fog. Inside, faint voices sang, laughed, prayed.
Arnold walked up the cracked stone steps and pushed open the doors.
The entry hall was wide. Dozens of kneeling believers lined the floor. The walls bore murals of saints with winged halos, and clouds parting over golden flowers.
A tall woman approached, clad in white robes marked with the Everest symbol—etched in dried blood across her chest.
"You weren't expected until dawn," she said softly.
"Plans changed," Arnold said with a small smill. "Where is the artifact?"
Her eyes flicked to the unconscious priest on his back, but she said nothing. "In the relic room, my Lord."
"Bring it here. And prepare the summoning."
The woman nodded and ran off. Around them, eleven worshipers drew knives, whispering in an ancient tongue that dripped like molten wax. The language was a grotesque fusion of Old German and something far older—Egyptian, maybe.
As the mansion's lights turned crimson and blue, the summoning began.
Minutes passed.
Then the woman returned, carrying a black velvet box and a flat stone mirror. She placed them before Arnold.
He took the mirror. "This is the artifact?"
"Yes, my Lord. A nurse found it at a nearby hospital. We believe the Stahl family is connected."
Arnold nodded. "Then Clara deserves a reward."
He opened the velvet box.
Inside were five dolls, each carved from strange materials: bone, wax, ashwood, ivory, blood-clay, and obsidian. Their expressions varied—rage, terror, ecstasy, apathy, and a blank mask.
He chose the empathetic one. Its face is soft, almost sorrowful.
With deliberate care, he drew a Japanese symbol of death across its back.
Selene turned to the illusionist, crystal in hand. "Algoa Academy."
A burst of blue light—and the two disappeared.
The chanting swelled.
The eleven worshipers stood in a ring, sweat shining on their brows. Their blades glistened with oil.
Then, silence.
In perfect unison, they slit their throats.
No screams. Only wet crunches and the soft thump of bodies falling to stone.
Blood spread in symmetrical lines.
The last was a boy—no older than sixteen. He smiled as he fell, completing the circle.
The doll in Arnold's hand began to twitch.
A drop of red-and-black liquid fell from the ceiling—like the house itself had bled. It splashed across the doll's forehead.
The doll shuddered.
It jerked, spasmed, and flung itself from Arnold's hand. It landed face down. Blood crept toward it like veins, absorbing into its form.
The corpses melted—bones to sludge, flesh to ribbons. All of it converged, merging into a central mass around the doll.
A pillar of flesh rose. Veined, pulsing, wrong.
At its core, the doll was fused—its sad face the sacred heart of a monster.
When it was complete, the mansion screamed.
Windows shattered inward. Winds howled through the hall. The murals cried black tears. Saints blistered and peeled from the walls like burning paper.
And from beneath the veil of flesh, something breathed.