Isaiah expected teleportation to feel sharp, like needles in the bloodstream.
Instead, it felt... heavy.
Like gravity itself grabbed him by the shoulders and whispered, "Don't run."
The world reassembled slowly.
Light first.
Then scent.
Then sound, a low hum, deep and ancient, as if the building itself was praying under its breath.
When his vision cleared, he found himself standing before the gates of the Gentleman's Covenant.
They were massive.
Not tall, massive.
Built from blackstone that shimmered like cooled lava.
Every slab carried cracks filled with silver lines of old repair, scars, preserved intentionally.
Isaiah swallowed.
The entire headquarters looked like pain that chose to survive.
Two guards flanked the entrance, neither bothering to look at him. Their armor was minimalist, dark silver with threadlike gold veins. The emblem on their breastplates was simple:
A cane crossing a feather.
Pressure wrapped around Isaiah's chest.
Not suffocating...
Just informing him that he was small.
The woman beside him, the scarred emissary, stepped forward.
"Isaiah Saul," she said, voice steady. "Guest of the Covenant."
The guards didn't move.
Didn't nod.
Didn't blink.
But the gates opened.
Slow.
Deep.
Like an inhaling beast.
Isaiah stepped inside.
The Hall of First Grief
The interior swallowed him instantly, tall corridors lit by soft red lanterns that drifted on invisible currents, each flame shaped like a petal. The air smelled of incense and old books. Somewhere distant, a gong pulsed like a heartbeat.
The emissary walked ahead, her stride calm.
Isaiah jogged a little to keep up.
"Nah, wait, why does everything feel so... heavy?" he whispered.
"Because this place does not pretend," she replied.
"Every emotion ever spilled here left a footprint."
Isaiah's stomach twisted.
He could feel it.
This wasn't a building.
It was a graveyard of past choices.
As they walked, the walls shifted subtly, patterns rearranging, shadows moving like old memories stretching.
Then Isaiah noticed something:
People were watching him.
From balconies.
From open-door rooms.
From the shadows of training halls.
Not curious.
Not hostile.
Just assessing.
Every gaze hit him like a weight test.
"Yo, do they always look at new people like this?" he muttered.
The emissary nodded.
"You are not being judged. You are being measured."
"Measured for what?"
"For whether you'll break loudly or break quietly."
Isaiah stopped walking.
His chest tightened.
"That's-"
He wanted to say toxic, but the word felt too modern, too light for this place.
"-dramatic," he finished weakly.
The emissary smirked for the first time.
"This is not a place for the undramatic."
The Chamber of Set Hearts
They reached a circular chamber framed with carved stone lions curled into sleeping positions. In the center, a platform hovered a few centimeters above the floor, inscribed with swirling patterns.
"The Council will see you," she said.
Isaiah blinked. "Already? Don't I get onboarding or something?"
"No one is ever ready for the Covenant," she murmured. "So we skip preparation and move straight to truth."
"Oh. Corporate."
He wasn't sure why she laughed, but she did, short and bitter.
The platform lowered for him.
Isaiah stepped onto it, heart hammering.
The moment his foot touched the centre rune,
silence fell like a dropped curtain.
The chamber dissolved.
Darkness swallowed everything.
Then...
Light formed around him, twelve floating lanterns, each holding a miniature storm.
They illuminated the Elders.
Old faces.
Weathered eyes.
Shoulders carrying invisible weights.
The Elders did not sit.
They stood, a sign of respect reserved for only two occasions:
welcoming,
and judging.
Isaiah didn't know which this was.
An Elder with deep-amber eyes stepped forward.
"Isaiah Saul," she said.
"Lion-born. Exile-worn. Shadow-carrier."
He winced. "I... didn't choose that."
"No one chooses their shadow," she replied.
"But you live with it. That is what matters."
Her words hit something inside him that hadn't healed yet.
Another Elder, a tall man with a trembling left hand, spoke next.
"You are here because your suffering has ripened."
Isaiah clenched his fists.
"My suffering is not a tool."
"Everything becomes a tool," the man whispered, "when pain refuses to leave."
The lanterns dimmed, and the first Elder raised her hand.
"Isaiah Saul," she said, voice echoing softly.
"The Covenant welcomes you. But we do not offer salvation. We offer truth."
Silence hovered.
"Do you wish to walk this path?
Knowing it requires tearing open the night you fear the most?"
Isaiah's throat tightened.
The murder.
The blood.
The scream.
He felt a pulse in his chest sharp, painful, familiar.
The Elders waited.
Isaiah inhaled slowly, exhaled shakily.
"I don't know if I'm strong," he said.
"But I'm tired of hiding."
The platform vibrated gently, like approval.
The first Elder nodded.
"Then your training begins."
Before Isaiah could breathe
the air shifted.
A ripple.
A distortion.
A smile.
Someone appeared behind him.
Someone barefoot.
Someone humming.
Isaiah turned...
And there he was.
The Smiling Gentleman.
Commander of the Knights of Nightfall.
Vice Leader of the Covenant.
A man who carried joy like a weapon and madness like a dance partner.
He hung upside down from the ceiling like it was nothing.
"Sup, lil Lion," he grinned.
"Welcome to the most emotionally damaging workplace in the galaxy."
Isaiah stared.
Then whispered, "...oh damn."
The Elders groaned in unison.