There was no next day. No night before it. No morning to greet.
There was only light—constant, golden, inescapable. The kind that sank into skin and bone until Noah wasn't sure if he was warm or just being cooked slowly from the inside. It poured from above in wide, unwavering columns, artificial yet omnipresent, bleaching every surface in reverent glow.
And still… it made no sense.
He didn't remember when it started.
When he'd first descended into this nightmare world, there had been no sun. No sky. Only shadows, rot, monsters, and the cold damp breath of the dead. He remembered the temple, the cursed city, the fleshy mountains—none of them ever bathed in daylight. Not truly. There had been torches. Flames. The occasional eerie luminescence from glowing fungi or strange stones. But sunlight?
No.
And yet here, in the Womb, it burned eternal.
When he and Abel had first reached the heights of the mountain and seen the flicker of life, there had been a campfire. A glow. But not this. Not a star hanging impossibly above a cavern's ceiling, pulsing with divine warmth and illusion.
How long had he been here?
A day? Three? Ten?
Without nightfall, there was no measure. Only meals. Only events. Only the rhythm of ritual and the slow suffocation of logic.
Noah's boots pressed against the familiar fleshy path as he made his way toward the sanctum. Alone this time. No Kindled child walked at his side. Just a silent scout who had fetched him without a word—vanishing the moment Noah stepped outside.
He hated how normal this was starting to feel.
The light touched everything. Even his thoughts.
He tried not to think about the blood sacrifice. About the Saint's hand raised high, about the bodies crumpling in reverent silence. About how no one screamed. How no one wept. How they all cheered.
It haunted him.
But worse than that—it distracted him.
He needed clarity. Answers. And if the Saint wanted to play the mentor now, Noah would use that mask for what it was worth.
The sanctum doors opened soundlessly.
The Saint sat as always on his living throne. Robes white and gold, mask pristine. Glowing runes coiled like lazy serpents around his bare arms. The light above poured onto him like a blessing—or a spotlight.
Noah stepped into the cone.
It swallowed him.
"Ah," the Saint said, his voice dipped in warmth. "You came."
"You summoned."
"And you obeyed."
Noah didn't answer. He sat. The sinew-throne adjusted beneath him, damp and warm like muscle. He fought the urge to shift uncomfortably.
They sat in silence for a while. Again.
The Saint seemed in no rush. He poured a cup of the translucent tea again—water flavored with root herbs, bitter and pale—and offered it with both hands. Noah accepted it, because declining would be worse.
The tea tasted like boiled moss.
"You've seen much in a short time," the Saint said, folding his hands. "This world is cruel, yes. But so was the last."
Noah sipped. "Cruelty's different when people cheer for it."
The Saint tilted his head. "Ah. You speak of last night."
"I didn't say that."
"No. But your heart did."
Noah said nothing. He kept his eyes on the tea, waiting for the Saint to move on. He did.
"I know it must seem strange. Brutal, even. But everything has cost. Even miracles."
Noah gave a thin smile. "Miracles fueled by blood. Very poetic."
"It is not the blood that matters. It is the devotion behind it."
"Sure."
The Saint didn't press further.
Instead, he leaned forward. "I want to see you rise, Noah. You are not like the others. That is clear."
Noah's brows twitched. "Others?"
"Candidates. Those sent here by the last breath of the Old Divinity. So many arrived with weapons. Tools. Instincts for war. But you… you arrived with fate."
He touched a finger to his own chest.
"Just like I did."
Noah blinked. Slowly. "So you were a candidate too."
The Saint's smile was hidden, but Noah could hear it in his voice. "Yes. Once."
"What happened?"
"I succeeded."
"But you're not…" Noah paused. "You're not a god."
Something sharp moved under the Saint's calmness. Like a flicker of heat under snow.
"I ascended. But the path does not always end in godhood. Sometimes… it ends in burden."
Noah leaned back. "You make it sound like a curse."
"It is. And it isn't. But let's not speak in riddles today."
The Saint rose slowly and walked toward one of the stone murals carved into the wall behind him. It showed various symbols—some divine, others monstrous. One looked like a blooming flower of eyes. Another, a tarot card impaled by a sword.
He placed his hand on the card.
"Each candidate," he said, "is given a path. A thread. A way to ascend. But the way is not always clear. It is not about strength or speed or skill. It is about consequence."
Noah's throat tightened. He already knew. But hearing it like this...
"You're talking about divine tiers."
"Yes."
"And the way up?"
"Is tied to your domain."
Noah shifted. "My domain is fate."
The Saint turned slightly. "Then your path will be twisted. Unknowable. Full of choices with hidden costs. You will be asked to risk, to believe, to let go. And when you fail—because we all fail—you will pay."
"And if I don't fail?"
"You will still pay."
Noah stared. "That's comforting."
The Saint came closer again, kneeling slightly so they were at eye level.
"There is always a price. But you were chosen. And if I can help you rise, I will."
"Why?"
"Because no one helped me."
For the first time, the Saint's voice cracked. Just faintly. Like an old wound reopened.
Noah looked at him for a long time.
And then, because he couldn't stop himself: "If all the gods are dead, how are you divine?"
The Saint stilled.
Something flickered in the air around him—like a mirage. Heat without fire.
Then it was gone.
"I was given a gift," he said. Too slowly. Too calmly. "A spark. A memory. A wound. Call it what you will. But I carry divinity. Just not the kind that grants thrones."
He stood.
"That is enough for today."
Noah didn't argue.
But as he rose to leave, the Saint added one last thing:
"I expect you to return tomorrow. We have much more to discuss. If you truly wish to rise."
Noah stepped into the hall again, heart pounding, the scent of tea still clinging to his throat.
Divinity.
A wound.
A path built on failure.
And somewhere in his gut, he knew: the next choice he made would not be simple.
And it would not be safe.