Flavio Fergal's message was no menace; it was a summons, to a ritual. Devon remained in his hotel room the ouroboros blazing on his display. He realized he ought to alert Interpol Geneva authorities and SWAT squads.. A cooler more rational aspect of him—the side that viewed burnout as an inevitable outcome—murmured that such hasty moves were precisely what the ceremony would thrive upon. It would create chaos validating the cult's argument.
His Europol direct line buzzed. Pamela Pauline's tone was unusually tense. "Duncan. Amsterdam. Another case. Put it on a screen."
He changed to the video stream. Pamela's expression was tense. In the background on a shared screen was a streamlined penthouse design. A man dressed in casual clothes reclined on a spotless white couch eyes open, breathing calm. His face was recognizable—Mikael Van Dort, founder and CEO of a project-management software giant a figure recently highlighted on magazine covers for his "revolutionary" company-wide transition to a four-day workweek, without any salary cuts.
"This morning his assistant discovered it " Pamela declared. "No evidence of a fight. And just so you don't inquire…" She switched the image. The camera moved to a floor-to-ceiling window facing the Amsterdam canals. On the glass sketched in what seemed to be breath condensation was the recognized, swirling pattern of the Lethargic Calculus. It was fleeting, already vanishing.. Next, to it one word, dotted in moisture:
BELPHEGOR.
"He didn't merely compose a critique of culture Duncan. He put forward an approach " Pamela stated, her doubt now completely replaced by fear. "He aimed to reform the system. Yet they still caught him. Why?"
Devon grasped it immediately. It was the incriminating hire of all. "Because his approach was still a kind of action " he stated, his tone emotionless. "A softer compassionate machine. They don't seek change. They want surrender. Van Dort demonstrated a four-day week could work, which only emphasized how ridiculous the fifth day was. He made others' exhaustion appear optional. He was the perilous critic there was—an effective one. They needed to quiet him."
The trend was eerily evident. The cult wasn't aiming at the vanquished; they were focusing on the enlighteners. Those who cast the light on the illness be it, through criticism (Kane) creativity (Vogel) pragmatic evaluation (Mercier) or change (Van Dort). They were gathering the forefront of consciousness.
"There's information " Pamela remarked, bringing up a financial record. "Van Dort's corporate charitable fund. He authorized a anonymous donation recently. The beneficiary is an organization. We followed the money. It concludes at a nonprofit located in Geneva. The 'Institut pour l'Étude de la Quietude.' Their listed address is a P.O. Box. However their sole public occasion is a symposium… this evening. At the Palais des Forces Motrices."
The ancient pumping station. Thea Tove's grave, for aspiration. Van Dort's finances were supporting his metaphysical decay.
"This is the circuit, Pamela. This evening. They're utilizing his funds—the proceeds of his changed game—to fuel the ceremony. It's the irony. He finances the portal to which he'll be offered as a sacrifice."
For once his manager offered no excuse. "What do you require?"
"A silent lockdown. No alarms, no action. They will exploit the rush, the fear. It's all intentional. I require a squad that can operate like shadows.. A medical crew. Not for him " Devon indicated at the screen ". For the rest. There will be casualties there connected to this… power source. We must disconnect them without knowing the method."
Pamela responded with a nod. "You've got two hours.. Duncan?" Her gaze locked with his on the screen. "Your 'seat is reserved.' Don't accept it."
The Palais des Forces Motrices appeared as a neo-classical stronghold perched beside the Rhône. During the daytime it hosted exhibitions. Currently its enormous doors were shut, its windows unlit. The sole sign of life was a shimmering light escaping from the vents, on its lower floors—the former engine rooms.
Europol's " containment" unit consisted of three experts in tactical breaches and psychological tactics clad in dark matte attire. They advanced silently expertly deactivating alarms, with icy precision. Devon trailed behind his heartbeat a heavy pulse. He sensed himself as a contaminant, his fatigue a Trojan horse he bore into the core of the ceremony.
They came in via a service entrance into a sanctuary of ruin. The atmosphere was chilly carrying scents of stone and aged oil. The immense area was ruled by the massive silhouettes of 19th-century water pumps enormous iron wheels and pistons locked in stillness.. At the heart of the stone floor amidst these relics of exhausted power lay the ouroboros.
The actual size exceeded what the picture implied thirty feet wide created from a blend of salt and ground marble that shimmered with a subtle glowing faintness. Encircling its perimeter on plain meditation cushions was a circle of fifteen individuals. Within them Devon identified faces from the employee pictures. They remained in flawless quietude eyes shut, expressions peaceful. They were not frozen like Kane; rather they were immersed in aware submission. Cables extended from clasps on their fingers to a central intricate hub, inside the ouroboros—a mechanism made of gleaming brass and quartz that emitted a faint hum just beyond audible range.
Flavio Fergal occupied a wooden chair at the front of the circle.
He appeared younger than Devon had anticipated likely in his mid-forties possessing a aged attractiveness. He donned a grey sweater and dark pants. He resembled a professor. On his right was a expressionless man—Rex Ralph, the lieutenant observing the darkness. To his left stood a woman, with defined features—Fronie Felicity, the ritualist, her gaze tenderly following the contours of the magnificent pattern.
Flavio glanced up when Devon and the tactical squad stepped out from the darkness. He displayed no shock, a subtle acknowledgment.
"Analyst Duncan. You are, on time. Kindly refrain from interrupting the circle. Their concentration is fragile." The voice came through the phone—steady neutral sensible.
"It's finished Fergal " Devon stated, his voice rough and broken breaking the silence.
"Over?" Flavio said with a smile. "It's just starting. You have witnessed the Sleeper's Tithe. You comprehend it. These kind souls are not casualties. They are benefactors. They are contributing their valuable asset—their tired awareness—to a shared mission. The mission, for peace."
A member of the squad advanced to sever a wire. Rex Ralph shifted forward by one step silently delivering a caution.
"Van Dort, in Amsterdam " Devon stated, hesitating, pacing, his gaze sweeping over the route. "He had been your sponsor."
"Mikael was our envoy " Flavio gently amended. "He recognized that even his kind system was a prison. His last noble deed was to sponsor this junction. His own calmness, in Amsterdam marks the tip of our loop. Kane, the north. Vogel, the east. Mercier, the south.. Here at the core the tired souls of Geneva magnified by this location… we contribute the tithe. We allow a profound soothing quietness to come into our lives.
"You're unlocking a gate to emptiness. To disorder."
"To take a break " Flavio urged, his gaze shining with certainty. "The world is a shout, Duncan. You feel it. I perceive it in you distinctly than, in any of my followers. You are someone who examines strife. You are flawless. Will you not rest? The last seat is meant for you. Not to become a token. To become the key. The enlightened mind that opens the lock."
He motioned toward a mat, positioned right across from him. The drone of the core apparatus appeared to intensify, tugging at the fringes of Devon's resolve. It would be incredibly simple. To quit. To allow the evaluation to cease. To, at experience the calm he had sought for years.
From the darkness beside an iron piston a fresh presence appeared. It was Hugo Hubert, known as the Apologist. He spoke with a convincing baritone. "He is not demanding your capitulation, Analyst. He is presenting you with an enhancement. From a skeptic, to a custodian. From one who endures the clamor to one who controls the quiet."
Devon sensed the tug. It was a pain a longing more profound, than any desire. It was the essence of his exhaustion, manifested presented to him as a present. He moved forward toward the mat.
Then emerging from a neglected service balcony overhead a figure appeared unsteadily. It was Javier Jeffrey. His attire was untidy his eyes filled with terror, not calm. He held a tablet tightly.
"Devon! Stop! The circuit—it's not an exit! It's an inlet!" Javiers shout resonated through the cavern. "The ' pause'… it isn't an entity! It's a void! It will draw in not their will but the will of everything, around it. A concentrated entropy zone! It will expand!"
Flavio glanced at Javier with a hint of sympathy. "The Don. You figured out the 'what'. Missed the 'why.' Indeed it's a drain. On suffering. On conflict. On the wasted force of a world. We're not calling forth a demon. We're embedding a sedative."
Javier gazed intently his mind, at last confronting a dreadful revelation. Rex Ralph advanced toward a staircase to block his path.
In that instant of focus Devon shattered the enchantment. He refrained from assaulting Flavio. Instead he spun around. With a rapid forceful strike struck the central brass-and-quartz apparatus at the core of the ouroboros.
A silent surge of energy burst forth. It wasn't a blast. Rather a collapse of sound inward. The radiant lines of the design blazed white before disappearing, drawn into the core. The fifteen people seated gasped together collapsing forward simultaneously freed from their trance and blinking into stunned awareness.
Flavio Fergal didn't explode in anger. Instead he shut his eyes, a sadness etched across his features. "So desperate to maintain the world's cries " he murmured.
The tactical squad advanced. Rex Ralph was restrained following a swift altercation. Fronie Felicity simply knelt, her shaking finger following the empty stone floor. Hugo Hubert lifted his hands in capitulation his face marked by dismay.
Devon stood among the victims the quiet buzzing now filled with their gentle bewildered sobs. His gaze turned to Flavio, who was being taken away. The man's calm was unwavering. Though he had failed this evening his point lingered, resonating within the depths of Devon's thoughts.
The Sleeper's Tithe had been interrupted, not invalidated. And as the medical teams flooded in to attend to the living, Devon knew the true battle was not in stone vaults, but in the weary hearts of a world that might yet find Flavio's offer… reasonable. The most dangerous doors, he realized, were not made of stone or energy, but of quiet, undeniable despair.