"In battle, the blade kills the body.
But the lie kills the soul.
Tell me—which death is crueler?"
— Fragment found in the Watchers' Lodge.
---
The warehouse burned with screams and chanting.
Flames from Elias' chains lashed across the floor, binding cultists, searing flesh. Yet for every one that fell, two more rose, their eyes shining with madness. Blood spattered across sigils, and the basin trembled harder—its surface cracking like glass about to shatter.
The leader bellowed, his knife raised high. "You dare mock the Choir?! Foolish intruder—you will sing with us!"
The corpse's mouth gaped open. Black smoke poured out, filling the air with whispers that scraped against Elias' skull. For an instant, the world tilted, the floor warped, and he stood in two realities at once—warehouse and void.
In the void, hands reached for him. Twisted, broken, eager.
---
Elias exhaled slowly. His lips curled in faint amusement.
"So dramatic," he murmured, tightening his grip on the torn book. "But if it's a stage you want…"
He snapped his fingers.
---
The flames shifted. No longer chains—they bloomed into illusions.
Cultists screamed as they looked down and saw themselves aflame, flesh blistering, bones cracking. They clawed at their own skin, shrieking, though Elias had never touched them.
Observer sight fed him every weakness, every fear. All he had to do was tilt the thread—and their minds filled in the rest.
Jonas' words echoed in memory: "The greatest trick isn't hiding the truth. It's showing people what they already fear."
---
But the leader did not falter.
He cut his palm, blood dripping into the basin. The corpse spasmed violently, black veins crawling across its skin. Its head twisted at an impossible angle to stare directly at Elias.
"Observer," it rasped, a dozen voices layered as one. "We know your gaze. We welcome you."
The basin cracked. Something pressed from the other side—massive, shapeless, hungering. The warehouse shook.
---
Elias' pulse quickened. If that thing broke through, the district would drown in madness.
His eyes darted to the leader's thread. It was unlike the others—frayed, but not bound to this world. It pulsed like a tether leading into the abyss itself.
If I cut it…
He reached out. The fire in his veins surged, twisting into his fingertips. He tugged the thread.
The leader screamed. His knife slipped, blood spilling wildly. His body convulsed, shadows tearing out of his flesh.
The tether snapped.
The cultists collapsed as if strings had been cut. The corpse shuddered violently, then crumbled into ash, the basin collapsing in on itself with a hiss.
The warehouse fell silent.
---
Elias staggered, breath ragged. His hands trembled, heat crawling under his skin. For a heartbeat, he felt the whispers clawing to take hold—fire begging to combust.
But the book glowed faintly, its torn pages fluttering as though in approval.
The whispers receded.
He straightened, brushing soot from his coat, his faint smile returning.
"Well. That was entertaining."
---
But as he turned to leave, the ashes stirred.
From the ruined basin, a single shard remained—black, pulsing faintly, humming with the Choir's whispers.
Elias' gaze lingered. His lips curved. "…An artifact."
He slipped it into his coat. Dangerous or not, every actor needed props.
---
Outside, the fog swallowed him.
But in the silence, a thought lingered:
If this is what lurks at Sequence 9… what horrors wait further up the Path?
---
"The stage is endless.
The audience is blind.
But the play never stops."