Akame explains calmly how the hierarchy within the order works.
The first level is that of the Neophyte—one who has not yet been formally initiated but has already begun walking the path. That is my case. I have already overcome the first tunnel, but true initiation can only happen after the age of twelve, through a ritual that, according to her, carries the power to cause a psychic and magical shock. Until then, I will remain a Neophyte, even having already crossed my first tunnel.
After that come the Arcane Mages and Swordsmen of the Fourth Hierarchy, known as Soldiers of Apollyon. They are initiates who have conquered up to the third tunnel of the Qliphoth. Even within that rank, there is a clear order of prestige: one who has defeated only a single tunnel stands below one who has conquered two, and so on. They are, in a way, the equivalent of enlisted ranks in a military structure.
The next level is that of the Knights of Astaroth—the Third Hierarchy. Those who have conquered five tunnels. Stronger, and responsible for commanding all beneath them.
Iolanda is of the Third Hierarchy.
Then come the Commanders of Beelzebub. These are magi and swordsmen who have crossed seven tunnels. At this point, the word elite is insufficient. They are few, but each holds influence not only within the order but throughout the kingdom itself. Being a Commander is equivalent to the prestige of a Count.
I do not know how the other orders structure themselves, but I cannot forget that Elise belongs to the Second Hierarchy. That small reminder soothes my chest: Emanuelle is not alone; she is protected by someone strong enough to guide her.
Above them stand the Elders of Asmodeus—magi or swordsmen who have endured up to nine tunnels of the Qliphoth. A nearly unattainable level. Not because it is forbidden, but because the risks are immense, often fatal. To reach that point is to have survived trials both internal and external of almost superhuman scale. They are idolized figures, revered, comparable in influence to Archdukes.
And still, even among Elders, divisions exist. To bear the title does not make them equal. Power, knowledge, mastery of the Mana Gate, and in the case of the Dark Throne, even destructive capacity—all of it defines position within the title. To measure this, an ancestral magical item is used, crafted before the founding of the kingdom itself, in conjunction with a specific ritual—reserved only for those who have completed the ninth tunnel. Such figures are classified as Potencies.
When Akame finishes explaining, the weight of her words presses on me. To know that Elder Marduk is a Second Potency Elder only deepens the magnitude of what awaits me. More than that: it sharpens the anxiety I already carry as his disciple.
And at last, there are those who achieved the impossible: those who mastered all ten tunnels of the Qliphoth. They are known as the Children of Lucifer.
If nine tunnels are already considered a sacrifice that few could endure, imagine crossing all ten. A feat beyond the limits of the human, bordering the divine—or the profane.
I ask Akame if there is anyone in the order with such a classification. Her answer is immediate: there is not. In the entire history of the Dark Throne, only one magus has ever reached that height.
His name was Epheutos. He lived during the war between Elveron and Alexandria, when the Dark Throne still fought to shed the label of sect and claim its place as one of the three great orders.
Legend says Epheutos destroyed five cities in less than two days, alone. A feat so devastating it changed the course of the war and sealed Elveron's victory.
It is also said that when the Dark Throne separated from the Tower of Wisdom, its very founder dreamed of the Qliphoth. And in that dream, the voice of the Abyss revealed that one day someone would arise to raise the order to a divine level.
Perhaps it is nothing more than a myth, crafted to exalt the order during its darkest years, when it was hunted and branded heresy. But it could also be true. After all, there was once a man who walked among them with the title of Child of Lucifer.
And that man was Epheutos.
Akame tells me all this as we eat lunch. The dish is venison, accompanied by a grain resembling rice but darker in color and harder in texture. There are also salads—leaves unknown to me but reminiscent of kale and cabbage—as well as fruits like apples.
As I chew the grain, memories of Earth flood back. I remember lunches with my mother, my father, and Luciana. The ache in my chest arrives without warning, a sensation of loneliness creeping in slowly.
I try to hide it from myself, but it is impossible. By the time I realize, tears are already running down my face.
"Why are you crying, Elian?" Akame asks from across the table.
What can I answer, if I don't even fully know? No… I do know, but I don't want to admit it. The truth is that the loneliness that consumed me after losing my parents and Luana is returning, tearing at me from the inside.
But why now? Why, when I have a new family, a new life? I have a mother who loves me above all, siblings who have always stood by me, who gave up what little they had so I could survive as an infant. So why does this emptiness insist on returning? Why does loneliness corrode me as if nothing has changed?
The memories I thought I'd left behind—but never truly forgot—now return heavier than ever. And with them comes the vision during my meditation: Emanuelle telling me I would die alone.
"It's nothing, Magus Akame," I lie, trying to steady myself. "I think I'm just tired… emotions too close to the surface." I set down the utensils and wipe my face with trembling hands. After a few seconds, I add: "Could you take me to my room? I'd like to rest. Sorry for the trouble."
"No problem, Elian," she answers, rising with her usual calm. "I'll show you to your chamber."
We leave the refectory and walk in silence. The corridors are long, cold, until at last we leave the building behind.
We pass by some magi who stare at me, but it isn't judgment in their eyes—it is more like they are weighing who I am. I realize, from all the walks we've taken today, that there truly are no children in this fortress.
On Earth, someone of twelve would still be called an adolescent; here, they are already treated nearly as adults. That contrast only highlights my condition: I am an anomaly, a child's body carrying a mind far too weathered.
As we walk, the old feeling of loneliness coils again in my chest like a strand of cold iron, but I try to push the memories away before they devour me.
We arrive at the building Akame says is my dormitory. It stands a little more than a hundred meters from the one we just left.
Its façade stirs distant memories: it resembles the Soviet buildings I had seen in images on Earth—stern and functional, with three or four stories. But instead of reaching upward, it stretches wide, horizontal, almost endless. Something in it also reminds me of American university dormitories—places full of young people trying to prove themselves, yet to me, it evokes only a strange silence.
"This will be your dormitory," Akame says as we approach the building. "Few members live here."
"Why?" I ask.
"Most bought their own houses in the city of Cainã," she replies, lifting her eyes to the sky.
The clouds that once covered everything have thinned, allowing a clear, soft light to shine through. The temperature is mild, and the wind that blows between us lifts our hair, carrying an almost intimate sensation, as if the very air wanted to break the weight of silence.
"And you, Magus Akame? Where do you live?" I ask.
"Well… I live here too," she answers with a faint smile on her lips. "I thought it best to stay and save some more money."
"That's good," I say as we step inside the building.
"Besides," she continues as we climb the stairs to the second floor, "I don't know if I'll remain here in Cainã, or if I'll transfer to another branch of the Dark Throne."
"I see," I reply as we reach the landing.
We walk along the narrow corridor until we reach my room, about twenty meters left of the staircase. The floor creaks faintly beneath our steps, and the air here feels different—denser, heavy with the scent of damp stone and the faint residue of mana seeping through the walls.
"This is your room," Akame says, pointing to a door marked 9x74. "For you to understand: 9 is the block and 74 is the room number," she explains, anticipating the silent question I hadn't yet voiced.
I push the door open and we step inside. The room is exactly as I imagined it would be from seeing the building outside: functional, yet carrying a subtle weight of authority. It measures about fifteen square meters, with a single bed pressed against the window, covered by a heavy velvet curtain that seems to have seen better days.
Beside the door, there's a small bathroom. In the opposite corner, a dark wooden desk holds a few grimoires, each marked with the Dark Throne's sigil. Above us, a modest chandelier hangs from the ceiling, its magic stones emitting a cold, steady light. A small enchanted fireplace—built from fire stones—warms the room with a constant glow, pulsing as if it breathes.
Next to the bed, a smaller door catches my eye.
"That's where you'll set your altar," Akame says, walking toward it.
When she opens it, I find a chamber almost identical to the one Iolanda once showed me in Brumaria. A narrow space, no more than three square meters, with black walls etched with glowing runes like living scars. To the right of the entrance, a simple table waits—its purpose clear: the altar.
"Well, that's it for today," she says, already moving toward the exit.
At the doorway, though, she seems to remember something. She turns slightly, her face still serene.
"Just so you know… I live in this same building, on the fourth floor, room 9x200," she says, and adds with simple ease, "If you need anything, you can come find me."
The moment she finishes, she closes the door behind her. I don't even have time to thank her for today. "Tomorrow," I think, letting out a sigh.
I walk to the bed and lie down. The pillow is soft as goose down, and the mattress firm yet welcoming—better even than the one back home. There's an almost painful contrast in feeling so much comfort in a place that isn't yet my home.
I stare at the ceiling, letting my thoughts wander. What will my future be? Will this feeling of loneliness ease when I return home in six months? Or will it grow even heavier?
I turn my hand and gaze at the ring on my finger and the golden ribbon tied around the same wrist. I channel a little mana and pull from the ring the small pouch of wheat grains Anthony gave me on my birthday. I hold it carefully, as though it's too fragile to belong in my hands.
Looking at the ring, the ribbon, and the pouch, I feel as if each carries the presence of those I love most. It's as if my whole family is here with me, condensed into these three symbols. For a moment, the weight of loneliness seems lighter.
I close my eyes. Before sleep takes me, I make a silent request: that when I wake, my family—even if only through these small objects—will help me endure what lies ahead.
Sleep claims me slowly, and the symbols I hold—the ring, the ribbon, the wheat—burn faintly against my skin, pulsing in rhythm with my heart. They are my anchor. And yet, the deeper I sink into sleep, the farther away they feel.
Darkness wraps around me like a heavy veil, smothering sound, memory, even warmth. Lying there in my new chamber within the fortress, I realize loneliness doesn't need silence or distance. It is born the moment the heart fears losing forever what it loves.
And so, between memories and shadows, I fall asleep… not knowing I am already stepping into the next tunnel. The Tunnel of Loneliness.