The hideout lay beneath the capital.
Far beneath it.
Not in the sewers. Not in abandoned tunnels or forgotten catacombs like the stories poor people whispered to frighten children. No—this place had once been beautiful.
A forgotten underground cathedral stretched beneath layers of stone and history, hidden beneath the rotting bones, its name long lost to time. It was an ancient district buried centuries ago after the a great disaster. Massive pillars cracked with age supported a ceiling painted with faded murals of saints whose faces had long since peeled away. Once-white marble had darkened with moisture and time until the entire structure resembled a corpse left too long underwater.
Water dripped constantly somewhere in the darkness.
Slow.
Rhythmic.
Like a clock counting down toward something inevitable.
The surviving Revolutionists gathered near the center of the ruined cathedral beneath hundreds of candles wedged into broken alcoves and shattered statues. Their numbers were fewer now.
Far fewer but in no way insignificant. They still numbered in the thousands, like a small town.
Bandages wrapped arms and heads. Burn scars remained fresh. Blood still stained clothing and armor. Some sat slumped against pillars while others stared blankly at the ground.
Those who had managed to escape that daysoperation were gathered in front of the gathering, seperate from the rest of thier comerades.
Bandages wrapped arms and heads. Burn scars remained fresh. Blood still stained clothing and armor. Some sat slumped against pillars while others stared blankly at the ground.
The mood was miserable.
The attack on the Central Market had failed. Their glorious act of revolution had lasted less than a day. They felt it in their bones, in the weight of their silence, in the way they avoided each other's eyes. The operation had been meticulously planned. The barricades had been positioned. The explosives had been planted. The Votaries had been positioned to neutralize any significant resistance.
And then—
Children.
Children had stopped them.
One man slammed his fist against a cracked bench.
"Damn it!"
Another flinched at the outburst.
"We should've retreated earlier."
"How were we supposed to know a Royal Enforcer would appear?!" someone snapped back.
"Its not even him. The children butchered us…"
"No."
The voice came from the center of the cathedral.
Calm.
Amused.
Almost cheerful.
"Not butchered."
The gathered Revolutionists immediately stiffened.
Their leader sat atop the broken remains of an ancient altar, legs crossed casually as if attending a theatrical performance instead of a failed insurgency.
The Revolutionary wore a smooth porcelain mask painted with a permanent smiling expression. Crimson lines curved upward beneath the eyes while gold paint framed the lips into an eternal grin. The mask should have looked festive.
Instead it felt deeply wrong.
Because he never removed it.
Not even while eating.
Not even while speaking.
Long dark robes spilled around him in chaotic layers stitched together from fragments of military uniforms, noble fabrics, priestly garments, and executioner cloth. It looked less like clothing and more like he had wrapped himself in the discarded identities of dead people.
His fingers drummed happily against his knee.
"Not butchered," he repeated softly.
"Transformed."
Nobody spoke.
The Revolutionary tilted his head slightly.
"Well?" he asked brightly. "Tell me how our wonderful performance ended."
The surviving members exchanged uneasy glances before one man finally stepped forward nervously.
"We… failed, Revolutionary."
"Mmhm."
"The operation encountered unforeseen variables."
"Mmhm."
"The children present knew how to fight."
That made the Revolutionary pause.
Then slowly tilt his head the other direction.
"The children?"
The man swallowed.
"Lord Dukker's wards. And another girl. They were awakened."
"Awakened children fighting Awakened adults…" the Revolutionary mused.
"How humorous."
The surviving Revolutionists looked uncomfortable.
Another quickly added:
"There was also the Time Storm."
That drew a ripple through the room.
Fear.
Even now the name alone unsettled people. One wounded man spoke shakily.
"We couldn't even perceive his movements properly."
"He cut down the Votaries instantly."
"It wasn't human."
The Revolutionary listened quietly.
Then—
He began laughing.
Not politely.
Not softly.
Wild laughter exploded through the cathedral, echoing violently against ancient stone while the gathered Revolutionists stared in confusion.
"How marvelous!" he exclaimed.
"How absolutely marvelous!"
The survivors looked even more confused.
"We disrupted the Central Market. We spread fear through the capital. We forced the Kingdom to react publicly! The attack on the market served its purpose. The people saw us. They saw that the nobles are not untouchable. They saw that the Knights cannot protect them. The seed of Revolution has been planted."
His voice rose.
"They will water it with their fear. They will tend it with their anger. And when the time is right—"
He clenched his fist.
"—it will bloom."
He spread his arms dramatically.
"And now the people know the Revolution exists!"
The mood shifted slightly.
Confusion becoming uncertainty.
Uncertainty becoming hope.
Then another voice interrupted from the shadows.
"Hope is wasted on incompetence."
he temperature of the room seemed to drop instantly.
Black smoke drifted from the far corners of the cathedral. It glittered strangely beneath candlelight as it slithered across the floor like living mist. The Revolutionists immediately lowered their heads as a figure emerged from the darkness wearing a smooth black half-mask.
The mask distorted perception itself.
The man's face refused to settle properly in the mind. Features blurred subtly whenever anyone tried focusing too hard. Only his eyes remained clear.
Cold.
Sharp.
Calculating.
Lord Rivas Oberoi stepped forward calmly.
Though only the Revolutionary recognized him openly. The others knew him merely as one of their benefactors. One of the "Hidden Patrons."
The surviving Revolutionists immediately bowed lower. Rivas observed them silently before speaking.
"You failed to capture civilians."
Silence.
"You failed to secure hostages."
More silence.
"You failed to kill priority targets."
One wounded Revolutionary clenched his fists.
Rivas' voice remained smooth.
"And apparently," he added, "you were unable to overpower children."
The insult landed hard. Several Revolutionists visibly stiffened in humiliation. Then one of them snapped.
"You told us Lady Araba and Dukker's children would be present!"
Rivas slowly looked toward him. The man continued anyway.
"You never mentioned the Head Hunter's daughter would also be there!"
"Does that change anything?" Rivas asked.
"Dukker's children weren't normal!" another added quickly.
"They fought like trained soldiers!"
"They were awakened!"
"They—"
Rivas suddenly raised a hand.
Silence returned instantly.
"…Interesting."
For the first time genuine curiosity entered his voice.
"So Alaric wasn't exaggerating after all."
His eyes narrowed slightly behind the mask.
"How strange."
Then he chuckled softly.
"Though perhaps not surprising."
His gaze drifted somewhere distant.
"It would be stranger if the Crimson Plague's offspring were not monsters."
The title caused several Revolutionists to glance uneasily at one another.
The Crimson Plague.
Even among commoners that name carried discomfort. Rivas folded his hands behind his back.
"And the Head Hunter's daughter…"
His voice became thoughtful.
The wounded Revolutionist straightened slightly.
"So the failure wasn't entirely our fault."
Rivas looked at him. Then smiled faintly.
"No."
Hope flickered across the man's face.
Rivas continued:
"It was entirely your fault."
The hope died instantly. Before anyone could respond—
The Revolutionary suddenly stood. The movement startled everyone. His robes spilled downward like dark water as he stepped off the broken altar.
"No no no no no…" he said cheerfully.
"You misunderstand the beauty of failure."
The surviving Revolutionists turned toward him nervously. The Revolutionary walked slowly among them.
Bare feet against cold marble.
Soft.
Quiet.
Almost gentle.
The Revolutionary tilted his masked face slightly.
"Failure nourishes the soil."
The man looked confused. Then terrified.
Because fingers had suddenly sunk into his shoulder far too deeply.
CRACK.
The man screamed.
Before anyone reacted, the Revolutionary extracted his hand and sent it directly through the man's chest. Blood exploded across the cathedral floor.
Silence.
Absolute silence.
The Revolutionary slowly pulled his arm free while the corpse collapsed twitching beside him. Several Revolutionists recoiled in horror. The Revolutionary looked down at the body thoughtfully.
"You played your role beautifully."
Another survivor stumbled backward.
"R-Revolutionary?"
The masked man turned.
Then moved. Fast.
Another neck snapped instantly.
Another body dropped.
Panic erupted.
But it didn't matter.
The Revolutionary moved through them smiling beneath that terrible porcelain mask while bodies collapsed one after another.
Crushed throats.
Crushed spines.
Crushed hearts.
The killings were horrifying not because they were brutal or deliberatly slow—
But because he remained cheerful the entire time.
Then suddenly—
Blood pooled between ancient stone tiles. The remaining Revolutionists trembled. The Revolutionary spread his arms joyfully.
"See?"
His voice echoed through the cathedral.
"Even their deaths serve the cause!"
Silence returned.
"Even their deaths serve the cause!"
He laughed softly.
"Their failure will become the stepping stone upon which we climb toward greater heights!"
The surviving escapees lay dead across the cathedral floor. Nobody dared respond. Then black smoke suddenly burst from hidden vents throughout the cathedral.
Glittering particles filled the air.
The remaining Revolutionists inhaled instinctively and their pupils dilated immediately.
Breathing deepened.
Bodies relaxed.
Smiles appeared.
Rivas watched the transformation coldly from above.
The Revolutionary climbed back atop the ruined altar while the corrupted smoke curled around him like worshipping spirits.
"My beloved people!" he declared.
The Revolutionists looked upward with glassy eyes.
"Today we shook a Kingdom!"
Cheers erupted instantly.
"Today we forced the powerful to remember fear!"
More cheers.
"The nobles believe themselves eternal! They believe the poor exist merely to suffer quietly beneath their boots!"
The crowd roared louder.
"But our rise has already begun!"
The Revolutionary's voice rose higher.
"The people saw us! They heard us!They now know resistance exists!"
The glittering smoke thickened. Several Revolutionists were openly crying now. Others trembled euphorically.
"All revolutions begin as whispers!" the Revolutionary shouted.
"Then whispers become voices! Voices become movements!Movements become storms! The storms of Revolution!"
The crowd began chanting.
"REVOLUTION!"
"REVOLUTION!"
"REVOLUTION!"
The Revolutionary spread his arms wide beneath the drifting corruption.
"And now…"
His voice became softer, more dangerous.
"The Kingdom rots from within! The nobles devour each other! The people starve while parasites feast!"
The Revolutionists screamed agreement.
"So let the old world tremble! Let Kings fear sleep! Let Nations choke upon the ashes of their own corruption!"
The cathedral practically shook from the chanting.
Then the Revolutionary raised one hand toward the ceiling.
And screamed:
"THE TIME FOR CHANGE IS NIGH!"
The crowd erupted into hysterical worship.
"REVOLUTION!"
"REVOLUTION!"
"REVOLUTION!"
Rivas watched all of it with quiet disgust.
'Fools.'
Every single one of them.
'They are fighting for nothing.'
He had no interest in the Revolution.
He had no interest in the suffering of the common people, or the tyranny of the nobles, or any of the grandiose ideals that the Revolutionary spewed with such theatrical conviction.His interest was simpler.
The throne. One of the King's twelve children would sit on it. And that child would be his puppet. Handpicked. Groomed. Controlled.
Rivas slowly caught one of the glittering black particles drifting through the air between his fingers.
Black Dandy.
Or rather—
A refined version of the narcotic.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
The Inquisitors' discovery earlier had genuinely surprised him. He hadn't expected them to connect the corruption residue from Blackhaven to the narcotic trade so quickly. That was…
Inconvenient.
'Have I been discovered somehow?'
The thought lingered unpleasantly but after a moment he dismissed it.
'No.'
If the Inquisition possessed even the faintest evidence linking him to Black Dandy distribution, they would already be tearing through his estates with warrants and execution orders.
Still…
He would need to become more careful.
Rivas looked downward again toward the chanting Revolutionists below. Honestly, it was almost insulting how easy people were to manipulate.
A little desperation.
A little anger.
A little corruption.
And suddenly ordinary civilians transformed into zealous fanatics willing to die for illusions. The drug accelerated emotional dependency beautifully. Though repeated exposure remained necessary to maintain ideological intensity.
A flaw.
But manageable.
Rivas turned slightly toward the Revolutionary.
"We should proceed to the next stage."
The Revolutionary hopped down from the altar again.
"Of course of course!" he replied happily.
Then he tilted his head.
"But what about the Church?"
Rivas laughed quietly and turned away slowly.
And for a brief moment—
His thoughts drifted backward.He had been sickly then—bedridden, feverish, his body failing him despite all the wealth and power at his command. The physicians had offered no hope. The priests had offered only prayers.
And then—
It had appeared. A presence. A voice. A shape that existed at the edge of perception, neither fully seen nor fully hidden. A Deity.
Rivas remembered the voice clearly even now.
A voice older than thought itself. And when he recalled it—
A smile slowly spread beneath his mask.
"How could the Church oppose me," he murmured softly.
"When this mandate was given to me by God?"