Geneva's night resembled velvet, sliced by the far-off ethereal spray of the Jet d'Eau now merely a faint wraith against the shadowy lake. Devon lingered afar observing the walkway. No secret gatherings, no individuals. Only tourists snapping pictures their flashes powerless against the expansive darkness. Flavio wasn't being literal. "The base of the Jet d'Eau" was symbolic. A rendezvous spot, for those who viewed spouting water as exertion.
He went back to his hotel room Nathania Nora's anguish resonating in his thoughts. A reflection, for a mind. The cult's method of recruiting was cunningly sophisticated. They didn't preach; they affirmed. They transformed breakdown into a philosophical stance.
His Europol credentials seemed dull ineffective. He required ancient unfamiliar instruments. The archival memo, from the Royal Library came to mind: "The Conjunction approaches." Was it a phrase? A planetary configuration? It seemed spiritual. A merging of fatigue.
Recalling Javier Jeffrey's reference to " Quietist sects " Devon embarked on a fresh investigation steering clear of formal databases. He delved into archives of little-known religious communities, 17th-century heresies rejected by both Rome and the Reformation. His weary eyes combed through Latin manuscripts, on acedia—the sin of laziness though a spiritual laziness, a grief of the world that distanced one from God.
Eventually he discovered it. A snippet, a note in a digitized manuscript originating from a Cistercian abbey in the Vosges mountains, which was subsequently dissolved due to "melancholic and quietistic heresies." The document, De Soporis Tributo ("On the Sleeper's Tithe") was mentioned to be denounced. The marginal note contained a citation, from the vanished text itself:
Just as the body requires rest to recover from the toils of daylight the Soul, exhausted beyond measure by the effort of Existence also longs for its rest. This is the Sleeper's Offering: not laziness, but a holy repayment. When a gathering of souls yields their resolve their combined reprieve unlocks a portal. Not, for demons but for a tranquility that absorbs the clamor of the earth. A vast silence is purchased with quiet tokens.
Devon went over it thrice. An entrance. Gathered relief. A significant break.
This concerned more, than awakening. It was a shared ceremony. The sufferers weren't merely achieving tranquility; they were turning into currency. Their immobility was a "quiet token" used to unlock a portal for… what? A "grand halt." Belphegor. The being wasn't a demon that initiated action; it was a void that devoured.
The "Conjunction" didn't involve planets. It was an accumulation of willpower. Geneva, home, to organizations focused on urgent management served as the ideal altar. The cult wasn't simply producing victims; they were assembling a power source. A power source fueled by indifference.
His phone buzzed—Javier more yet his tone was altered. Empty, lacking its scholarly fervor.
"Duncan. A parcel arrived for me. There was no sender's address."
"What was in it?"
"A sheet. Parchment. It held… the Third Axiom, detailed. 'To think is to strive; to cease is to know.'. Beneath it a diagram. A complex circuit. It includes … sources." Javier's breathing was shallow. "It's a blueprint, Devon.. It's signed. With a name. Flavio Fergal."
The name lingered in the air, between them. Flavio. The health expert. Fergal.
"Who might he be?" Devon inquired.
"I searched. Flavio Fergal. An ex-humanitarian logistics expert. Employed by NGOs. Relief worker, in conflict areas. An exceptional intellect. He… he dropped out of that field four years back. Released one little-known article before fading away. 'The Moral Necessity of Doing Nothing in an Overactive World.'" Javier stopped. "He isn't insane. He's a scholar of fatigue. He thinks he's rescuing lives."
"He's employing them like currency, Javier. For a 'Sleeper's Tithe.' To unlock a portal."
An extended pause. When Javier finally spoke his tone was a whisper of fear. "That's the purpose of the diagram. It's a blueprint, for a tithe. The three casualties… Kane, Vogel, Mercier… serve as anchors. Key conduits. Their potent clear fatigue formed the design.. The diagram depicts them as nodes linked to… a broader system. Numerous minor points. The OptiMind staff. Others. They form the chorus enhancing the transmission. Everything converging on one central point. A foundation. In Geneva."
"Where?" Devon's hand gripped the phone tightly until it turned pale.
The diagram provides no explanation. It merely depicts the locus as a symbol. An ouroboros—a serpent consuming its tail—but the serpent consists of that identical sluggish geometry. It remains flawlessly endlessly motionless.
Devon remained standing gazing into the night. The buzzing city. The flawless motionless ouroboros. A cycle, without an end. A circuit where power flowed in and simply… vanished.
"He has to finish the circuit, Javier. The Conjunction. He requires his element. Perhaps his main sacrifice.. A ceremonial deed."
"Or " Javier stated, the reality becoming horrifyingly clear "he requires the circuit to be observed. Grasped. For the stillness to be mentally grasped to reach its flawless state. My curiosity… your inquiry… we aren't obstructing him. We are elements of the ceremony. The consciousness that perceives the pattern and experiences its allure finishes the cycle."
The call ended quietly not with a snap. As though consumed by stillness.
Devon sensed the rooms walls tightening around him. His deep exhaustion, his grasp of the cult's attraction, his pursuit—was it merely the energy driving everything? Was he Europol analyst Devon Duncan, the crucial connection required to complete this dreadful calm circuit?
He needed to act. Not in the role of an analyst. As a man battling an alluring emptiness. He required knowledge, a person familiar, with Geneva's secret patterns. The archive referenced a connection: Thea Tove, a hotel custodian. Quite a gamble.
He discovered her in a aged hotel close to the Plainpalais district carefully cleaning brass fixtures with deliberate steady movements. She was a lady, her eyes resembling the hue of fog, over a lake.
"The Jet d'Eau " he stated, bypassing introductions. "You catch whispers. Folks mentioning calmness. About halting."
Thea Tove kept her eyes on the item she was polishing. "A lot want to quit. This city thrives on panic. Gleaming panic." Her rag moved steadily in motions.
"A gentleman called Flavio. He talks about relaxation."
Her hand halted. She glanced at him then evaluating. "Your eyes show fatigue. He would appreciate you." She continued her task. "They don't gather by the water. They gather where water once was. The former pumping station. Beneath the ground. Where the power that raised the water originated. Now it is quiet. A relic of labor." She handed him an address, her eyes wise and mournful. "A gate requires a threshold. What better threshold than a tomb for ambition?"
The former Palais des Forces Motrices. A retired water pumping facility, a place for cultural events. An immense hall that previously contained the machines that controlled the lake. A shrine, to power.
Devon's phone vibrated with one notification from an unfamiliar number. It contained an image. A shadowy arched subterranean chamber. At its center outlined in what appeared to be salt or light dust on the stone ground was a extensive ouroboros of the Lethargic Calculus. Surrounding its border small mats were positioned. A few were taken by seated individuals, in everyday clothing—the absent OptiMind staff. The remainder were unoccupied.
The passage, below states: "The Conjunction is near. The tithe is nearly fulfilled.. Witness.. Stop. Your place is saved."
It carried one initial as a signature: F.
Flavio Fergal was not hiding. He was inviting Devon to the final act. To witness the great pause. To become, willingly or not, the last silent coin in the Sleeper's Tithe.