Paris pulsed with vitality overhead a sharp contrast to the ceremonial demise beneath. Devon joined by one Europol expert called Costa penetrated a maze of service tunnels absent, from public charts. They advanced guided by touch. Croft's marked schematics, the atmosphere turning chillier heavier. The typical musty quiet of the catacombs felt altered this evening. It bore a tone—a nearly undetectable tremor that resonated in their dental fillings.
They discovered the chamber not through illumination. Through sound. Precisely, by a particular structured lack of it. A deep steady hum, not composed of words but of drawn-out vowels—"Aaaaaaah… Ooooooh…"—held on one unchanging pitch. It was the noise of breath yielding to rhythm of voice giving up language.
Costa motioned to stop. They moved toward a gap, in a deteriorating brick arch looking inside a cavern not filled with piled bones. A natural limestone cave. The cult was assembled. Thirty, forty individuals cloaked in plain grey hoods stood in concentric rings. At the core lit by a circle of blue LED lights (technology harnessed against energy) was the patterned geometric emblem Devon had watched Fronie Felicity refining.
At the heart of the emblem tied not by ropes but by silky strands—more an indication than a hold—rested a man. He appeared middle-aged smartly attired, his expression not fearful but marked by intellectual weariness. Devon identified him from an Interpol missing persons alert: a Belgian epidemiologist known for extensive work, on "pandemic fatigue" and social exhaustion.
This was not a beginner, like Leo. This was an elected capacitor. A powerful intellect.
Flavio Fergal was absent. At the helm stood Hugo Hubert, the Apologist. He faced the man, his tone a calm logical baritone harmonizing with the imposing chant.
"You have recorded the exhaustion Doctor. You have gauged the fever of our era. You have identified the illness. Tonight the remedy is presented to you. Not just for yourself. By your means, for countless others."
The doctor's eyes were open wide locked onto the design, on the floor. He wasn't having trouble. He was interpreting it.
"The pattern acts like a mirror " Hugo went on lowering himself to meet her gaze. "It reveals to your mind its profound logical form. The form of tranquility. No aggression exists here. Just an offer of harmony."
The chanting grew more intense the tone resonating through the stone. Fronie Felicity, positioned at the symbols boundary started to follow its contours with a brass rod. Wherever the rod moved, the grey dust of the symbol emitted a glowing phosphorescent light. The design was coming to life.
Devon was about to act to hurry forward. Costa seized his arm her hold unyielding. Indicated.
It was the doctor's face.
As the emblem shone the acute fear and fatigue marked on his face started to… soften. Not into calmness. Into disintegration. The concentrated look, in his eyes—the gaze of someone accustomed to deciphering information—didn't lessen; it shifted inward tracing the maze of the design. He was unraveling it.. The answer was the obliteration of the one who unravelled it.
It occurred with a gradualness. A loosening of the jaw. A slow complete easing of the shoulders, within his restraints. The glow of alert focused awareness didn't fade; it was drawn into the arrangement. The motif acted as a drain.
The chanting climbed to a high the solitary tone becoming a tangible force within the chamber. The doctor's head fell backward. A gentle concluding breath slipped from his mouth a release profound it was heart-wrenching. Then complete silence. His eyes stayed open fixed on the cavern roof with the empty peaceful consciousness, as Kale Kane.
The chanting stopped. What came next was a quiet. Complete.
Hugo Hubert stood, gazing at his creation with the contentment of a doctor. "A pure deliberate shift. The responsibility is embraced." He faced the assembly his expression serene. "Every yielded will of this caliber advances the Grand Conjunction nearer. He never rests. He sustains. He transforms into a power source, for a calmer world."
The cultists started to exit moving with disciplined respect. They abandoned the doctor sitting, tied up and completely motionless at the center of the emblem—a fresh shrine, within their sanctuary.
Costa was prepared to chase, to capture.. Devon stood motionless not repulsed by the terror itself but by its chilling effectiveness. There was no fight no force used. It was an exchange, offered and agreed upon. The cult wasn't robbing minds; they were receiving gifts.. The giver in his last aware instant appeared… thankful.
It represented the peak of corruption: employing logic to contradict itself harnessing a mind's strength to persuade it to relent.
When they arrived at the doctor the symbols radiance was diminishing. Costa confirmed his signs using a med-scanner, which were steady. It was a case of "Applied Peace." They severed the silk cords—he showed no struggle, his body supple—. Placed him onto a stretcher.
While they moved him back through the passageways the burden of the observed ceremony weighed heavily on Devon. He had observed the device firsthand. It wasn't sorcery. It was a compelling technology targeting the spirit. The Grand Conjunction would resemble this magnified to a scale. Not a ceremony,. The activation of a lever. A landmass subtly coaxed into exhaling one time never to draw breath again.
And the most haunting part? The doctor had not looked like a victim. In his final moment of conscious choice, he had looked like a man who had finally, after a lifetime of frantic analysis, found the correct answer.