Chapter Nineteen: The Old Ones and The True Crusader
Urca shot up in the suffocating dark of the marital bedroom, not from a dream, but from a psychic shunt of pure, hysterical dread. The Totem wasn't whispering or grumbling; it was shrieking in his mind, and the sound of that terror felt like ancient stone collapsing inside his skull.
Get up, you idiot! Now!
Urca's eyes snapped open. The silk sheets were a mess of expensive fabric around his waist. He blinked, pushing the cotton-dry fatigue out of his eyes, and instantly felt the pressure. The air in the room was heavy, dense, and electrically alive, the kind of stillness that precedes a massive electrical discharge. It felt like standing inside a battery that was about to rupture.
He rolled over, his gaze locking on Kelna. She was deeply asleep, peaceful, her breathing soft and rhythmic, but a terrifying shimmer was radiating off her—not the warm, stabilizing aura he'd known, but a chaotic, aggressive blackness. It was pure, unfiltered Origin energy, leaking from her like steam from a cracked valve. The energy wasn't just spreading; it was pressing, visibly distorting the light from the nearby window and muffling sound.
"Shit," Urca whispered, already scrambling off the bed.
Contain it! the Totem screamed, the mental voice a raw, scraping terror Urca had never heard before. Now! You idiot, use a barrier!
Urca didn't waste time on thought. He focused his will, pushing the chaotic reservoir within him. The obsidian energy flowed out instantly, responding to his command. He shaped it into a thick, shimmering barrier that snapped into place, surrounding the bed and stretching out to the walls.
The energy leak hit the obsidian wall instantly, shoving outward with a force that made the barrier groan and vibrate. Urca braced his feet, hands stretched out, focusing every scrap of attention on reinforcement. The air smelled sharp, like ozone and burnt hair. The shield held, stabilizing the pressure, but it was straining, vibrating with the raw, uncontrolled power surging from Kelna.
I told you! I told you she was unstable! the Totem shrieked, its psychic voice laced with something Urca had never heard from it: naked fear.
"Don't scream in my head, you pathetic worm! I was sleeping," Urca shot back, his teeth gritted from the effort of maintaining the shield. "And for a simple energy leak? You told me she was an anchor, not a walking existential threat! What the hell is this energy?"
Simple? It is the price of our existence! the Totem scoffed, a dry rasp of disdain and desperate reality. You absolute, self-absorbed fool. You think that is a simple problem? That energy is purer than the garbage you were throwing around in the First Plane. If that leak had continued for another minute—if the spatial noise had reached a certain pitch—the Old Ones would have descended, little vessel.
Urca's brow furrowed. "The Old Ones? I thought the Outer Verse was the top tier—the Elder Gods and all that noise."
It is, for the toddlers of eternity. Those… the Totem searched for a word, settling on something less terrifying than the truth, …Old Ones are higher than the concept of the Outer Verse! The Origin energy you command—the chaotic, consuming power—it's not native to this miserable section of reality. It's what I stole, fool! It's the energy of primal creation and destruction, of the ultimate source!
Urca stabilized the barrier with a mental click, letting his muscles relax just slightly. He walked slowly around the shield, examining the density. Kelna was still asleep, totally oblivious, but the air around her was visibly rippling, like heat rising from asphalt on a midsummer highway.
"Wait. So, you stole God's birth certificate," Urca mused, the reality of the stakes finally settling in. "And you're saying a leak of that caliber draws the attention of the actual, high-tier cosmic police?"
Precisely. You are using stolen goods in a low-rent district, the Totem scoffed, a dry, grinding noise. I gained Origin and Prison because when a new divine being is born, its essence is temporarily so pure it can transcend everything—even the laws of your little universe. That purity, that primal chaos, is what the Creation Gods use. I used my own birth essence to gain consciousness early. And the rest… was acquired through necessity. Let's just call it secret skirmishes among the Elder Gods to retrieve certain… artifacts.
Urca hated the way the Totem dodged the word "theft," the way it treated reality like a supply chain. He pressed: "Give me details on the Creation Gods. What are the rules? What is the hierarchy of the 89 Planes of the Outer Verse?"
Enough! The Totem cut him off sharply, its voice laced with finality. You worry about the menu after you escape the kitchen fire. Right now, focus on your Anchor. She is producing it on her own. Look closer, idiot! She's not just leaking; she's molting.
The passionate encounter accelerated the bond, the bond accelerated the awakening, and now she's transforming—shedding her purely human state. The energy she is leaking is purer than mine, truthfully. It's her own, generated naturally. She must be contained until this process is complete.
Urca pinched the bridge of his nose. Cosmic theft and adaptive warfare were one thing; baby-sitting an exploding wife was another. He carefully thickened the barrier, giving it several overlapping layers of complex wards. Then, with an audible sigh, he retreated to the expensive sofa across the room, leaning his forehead against the cold leather. He forced himself to look at Kelna, not as his wife, but as a problem—a necessary, beautifully explosive problem.
The Totem was right. Kelna's skin, where it wasn't covered by the silk shift, had a strange, iridescent quality in the dim light. It was subtle, but the tissue looked like it was shifting, subtly scaling, like she was shedding an old layer for something new. A full-blown, spiritual transformation was underway, all triggered by a single night of intimate resonance.
"Fine," Urca muttered, pulling a thick throw blanket over himself. He didn't bother reinforcing the barrier further; it was stable enough. "I'm taking a nap on the sofa. If she melts the floor, it's your fault for stealing the damn thing in the first place."
He closed his eyes, the scent of expensive linen failing to mask the sharp smell of ozone. He needed sleep, and he needed a plan. The stakes had just multiplied infinitely.
Meanwhile, far away, Father Thomas stood in the lobby of the Church's massive capital complex. It was all glass, steel, and anonymous professionalism—a perfect, modern facade.
The guards who ushered him through the hidden, non-public corridors wore clothing that, to a secular eye, might have looked like elaborate cosplay—full robes, some light chainmail visible beneath their tunics, and actual ceremonial crossfire swords strapped to their belts. People passing by would occasionally stop to snap pictures, thinking it was a cultural display. They had no idea they were looking at true crusaders—powerful, dedicated agents of the Church's deepest, most violent secrets.
Thomas was taken to a small, empty chapel deep inside the building. He sat on a kneeler and began to pray, a quiet, simple request for wisdom, letting the centuries of spiritual quiet calm the noise of the city from his mind. He waited patiently.
After ten minutes, the chapel doors opened, and the Pope entered. He was a man in his mid-fifties, sharp-featured, and dressed in the simple white robes of his office. He didn't carry the heavy, ceremonial air Thomas had expected, but a weariness that looked very, very real.
"Thomas," the Pope said, his voice quiet, waving the priest to stand. "Sit, please. Before we discuss why you are here, tell me… how is the weather in Neckar? I haven't seen a proper thunderstorm in years."
Thomas smiled, shaking his head. "The weather is fine, Holiness. Predictably chaotic, actually. It rained, but it was just the normal city rain—traffic, sirens, the whole mess. Nothing profound."
"Nothing profound," the Pope repeated, settling into the front pew. "I miss the profound. Here, everything is managed, categorized, and filed away. Even the divine seems to follow a protocol." He sighed, a slow release of tension. "But you did not travel all this way to discuss the rain. Tell me, Thomas. What is wrong? You look like you've been chasing demons across three continents again, and this time, you caught something too big for the bag."
The Pope's casual acknowledgment of the esoteric immediately put Thomas at ease. He didn't need to mince words.
"Holiness, I am here because of a soul phenomenon. Something new has manifested, something that consumes souls entirely. It doesn't just torment them or trap them; it consumes them, and the result is the kind of spiritual annihilation that leaves nothing behind. A void."
The Pope frowned, the weariness around his eyes deepening. "Annihilation. That is a word we reserve for very few things. The last time we dealt with true annihilation, the Church lost half its library and most of its senior exorcists. Do you have proof?"
"A police detective saw the remains of a thug. I prayed for him, but his soul was not there. The soul had been violently extracted and consumed. The signature was immense, Holiness. It felt like… a new diety. A hungry one. I believe this being, or the vessel it occupies, is establishing a beachhead."
The Pope listened, his expression grave. He stood slowly, his white robes rustling quietly. "It is not my domain, Thomas, but your testimony is enough. If it is annihilation, we do not waste time. We must alert the true authorities. Come."
He ushered Thomas through a nondescript door and down a sterile, white corridor, stopping at a set of metal doors that resembled a secure bank vault. Behind the vault, however, was a large, modern elevator.
"This is where the façade ends," the Pope said, gesturing for Thomas to enter.
The elevator had no buttons for going up. It only had a button labeled Sub-Level: Sanctum. The Pope pressed it, and the doors hissed shut. The elevator descended at a smooth, unnatural speed, dropping straight down into the earth.
Midway through the descent, the elevator gave a violent shove, as if it had struck something invisible. The lights flickered. Thomas grabbed the railing, his breath catching.
"That was the spiritual barrier," the Pope explained calmly. "The veil between the worlds. We do not make it easy to reach us."
The elevator went still and stopped. The doors opened.
Thomas gasped.
Instead of a concrete basement or high-tech bunker, they had landed in a small, stone-paved square. Surrounding them were structures of rough, dark timber and grey stone—a full-sized, bustling medieval town. Smoke rose from chimneys, the air smelled faintly of woodsmoke and damp earth, and men in genuine chainmail moved across the square, not as re-enactors, but as guards on patrol. The light was dim, supplied by large, magical crystals set high on the walls of the surrounding cavern.
It was an entire, functioning reality hidden beneath the Vatican.
The Pope stepped out, a calm figure in his modern white robes against the backdrop of an eleven-hundred-year-old world.
"Welcome, Father Thomas," the Pope said, his voice echoing slightly in the immense space. "Welcome to the true world of the Sanctum Obscura."