"Some gods wear skin. Others wear the silence between screams."
The flies came first.
Black. Heavy. Too large for the season. Too many for the road.
Aren brushed them off his shoulders as he walked, but they returned.
Buzzing. Watching. Waiting.
Yin swatted one that landed near her mouth, grimacing. "Why are there so many? We've seen no corpses."
"There will be," Aren said, not looking back. "Soon."
They were descending into the Dred Hollow—a once-sacred marshland, now known only in whispers. Years ago, it had been the burial ground of Divine Generals and Skyward Kings.
Now, it was rotting.
The trees wept pus. The water stank of blood and incense. The air itself felt sick.
And at the center of the Hollow stood a monastery wrapped in dead vines and paper talismans.
Its bell tower leaned like a drunk begging for forgiveness.
Carved above its crumbling gate were the words:
"Life through rot. Divinity through decay."
Yin held a sleeve to her face. "This isn't a temple. It's a tomb."
Aren said nothing. But the scroll in his hand pulsed with fresh heat.
The next sigil had appeared:
-- II – The Crown of Flies --
And just beneath it, written in broken strokes:
-- "The Second death. The one I begged for." --
They entered the temple grounds at dusk.
Every surface was covered in fly corpses.
Some still twitched.
Statues of robed monks lined the inner court. Their eyes had been carved out and replaced with eggs. Fat white larvae writhed behind the stone sockets.
Aren knelt near one and whispered, "I remember you."
Yin frowned. "That's a statue."
"No," Aren said. "It used to be a man."
They passed deeper into the temple.
Everything inside was made of bone.
Altar. Stools. Rails. Even the prayer bells had been hollowed from skulls.
At the heart of the rot, a throne sat in darkness.
Not gold. Not jade.
Just a slab of stitched skin.
And upon it—
A corpse.
Smiling.
The flies parted as Aren approached.
And when he stood before the throne, the corpse spoke.
Not with lips. With buzzing.
A thousand wings vibrating at once, spelling words in sound.
"Welcome back, Disciple of Pain."
Yin stepped back, drawing her blade.
But Aren raised a hand. "Don't."
"I remember now," he said quietly. "You were the Second."
The corpse didn't move.
But the flies answered for it.
"I am the priest of rot. The one who showed you how to bless your curse."
"You died here, not from blades. Not from poison."
"You died from hope."
He staggered.
A flash of memory—
The temple alive. Worshipers chanting. A god of decay wrapped in robes of pus. And himself, younger, desperate, kneeling before the Second, begging:
"Can you fix me?"
And the Second had smiled.
"I can make you holy."
"Why did I come here?" Aren asked, shaking.
The buzzing answered.
"Because you were tired of being broken."
"And I offered to make you sacred."
"A god that bleeds. A saint that cannot rot. A death that walks."
The throne shifted.
The corpse raised a hand.
Its skin broke open at the wrist, releasing a swarm.
Aren didn't flinch.
He remembered now.
The crown.
It had been made of bone. Carved from skulls of nameless martyrs. Placed on his head by the Second during a ritual where flies replaced incense.
And in that moment—
**Aren had believed. **
He believed he could ascend.
Become something divine.
But divinity is cruel.
And faith without power is rot.
"You said I died from hope," Aren said, voice hoarse. "But I think I died from something worse."
He stepped forward.
"I trusted you."
The corpse raised its face.
And Aren saw his own features beneath the rot.
Younger.
Weaker.
Smiling.
Yin moved to protect him—but Aren raised his hand again.
"No. This one's mine."
He walked to the throne.
The corpse didn't resist.
Instead, it whispered in fly-song:
"I am the death that you needed."
"The death that broke you."
"The one that rebuilt you."
Aren touched the crown of flies resting on the corpse's lap.
It disintegrated in his hand.
The swarm burst into the air, swirled around his head—
And entered his mouth.
He choked.
Collapsed.
The room disappeared.
He was there again.
On the floor of the rotting temple.
Alone.
Crying.
Crowned.
Dozens of worshipers around him whispered his name like a prayer.
"Aren."
"Aren."
"Holy is the wound that cannot heal."
"Sacred is the one who always suffers."
He begged them to stop.
But they bowed.
They prayed.
They believed.
And he… almost did too.
Until the rot reached his lungs.
Until the flies nested in his spine.
Until the Second said:
"If you want salvation, you must carry the crown."
He stood.
Back in the present.
Breath ragged. Face wet.
The corpse on the throne was gone.
The temple was silent.
But the buzzing never left.
Not completely.
Yin knelt beside him. "You remembered."
"I did."
She studied him. "What did he make you do?"
Aren didn't answer.
Instead, he opened the scroll.
Another line had appeared.
[ 🩸 The Second Vow
Hope is a lie, but it is a beautiful one
I will not wear crowns made of corpses.
I will suffer. But I will not kneel again.
]
As they left the temple, Yin asked, "Why is this one the Second? He didn't seem strong."
Aren gave a bitter smile.
"He was second because he taught me faith."
"And that nearly killed me forever."
They walked in silence for a long time.
Until the flies were gone.
And the world felt real again.
But the scroll had one final whisper.
Etched in blood, almost playful:
Next: The Sixth – "A Mouth Full of Strings"