Ding, ding, ding!

The belltower chimed, chasing away the darkness and welcoming the new moon.

Inside the chapel of the cathedral off Kensington and Hobble, an evening mass was in progress.

At the pulpit before the altar stood a young man, fervently preaching his praise.

The pews were full—a strange sight for an evening mass.

Upon closer inspection, however, one would find that most of the patrons belonged to the lower class.

Tramps, street girls, drunkards, and gamblers—a collection of the unfortunate.

The young man wore the traditional attire of a preacher.

In his hand was an open book, his voice soothing and resplendent.

"Our Mother, almighty as she is, protects us all.

In her everlasting embrace, all can find peace.

Cold becomes warmth; hunger becomes satisfaction.

Children of the Night Goddess, rejoice in her grace.

In solitude, we find inspiration; in fear, we find courage.

Praise you, Mother; we are unworthy of your love."

In the comfortable silence that followed his words, the preacher lit a candle in somber reverence.

He then traced a moon on his heart, allowing the momentary silence to linger.

In the pews, the patrons bowed their heads and closed their eyes. Even if it was an act, it felt believable.

The preacher looked up at the chapel, his gaze sweeping from end to end. He smiled, his joy evident for all to see.

"I hope to see you all again come the morrow. May you find peace in solitude, children of the Night."

With that, the preacher descended from the altar and walked through the pews.

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As he departed, several clergy members entered, bringing carts laden with porridge and hard bread.

The patrons lined up, displaying an etiquette rarely seen among their company.

The preacher had removed his mass attire, now donning his evening dress.

As he served porridge to the unfortunate, he took inventory of the participants.

Where are they all going? It’s been weeks since I’ve seen them.

Old Kenny is missing his friends too. Jibril and Ascot as well; I haven't seen them in days. He had asked the patrons if they had been seen, but to no avail.

He knew better than to accept that they were merely absent.

These poor souls rarely found true salvation from their weary lives.

It’s almost twelve of them—Mother Goddess, watch over them.

Click, ahhh...

An old man lit his wooden pipe and inhaled deeply, relief evident in his expression.

Inside the dimly lit room, flames danced across the walls, growing and shrinking the shadows.

On the floor lay a corpse—a young man with reddish-brown hair, reminiscent of autumn maple leaves.

Shockingly, the corpse seemed to stir!

Moving slowly and unnaturally, it stood and began to approach the old man.

Murder glinted in its eyes, perhaps hunger; it wasn’t clear to see.

Step... step... step... crash! The zombie stumbled over its own feet, struggling to regain its balance.

"Pathetic! You couldn't even last a week. Is that head of yours as empty as it looks?"

Asher looked up from the floor weakly, his ardent desire to wring the old man’s neck momentarily doused.

"I'm trying my best, old man! If the student is failing, then it is the teacher who is lacking!"

Henry wasn't impressed or dismayed by his student’s sharp tongue. Instead, he shot back, "Kid, I've been training misbegotten waifs like you since before you were born."

Asher wasn't convinced, but it took all he had just to keep his eyes open.

It had been a week since he began this grueling regimen; each day felt the same.

He would show up to work full of hope and leave utterly broken.

He couldn’t recall what it was like not to feel sore anymore. The aches and pains had settled deeper, even his heart felt it.

It quivered and throbbed, struggling to keep pace with his hellish will.

"I can't do this anymore! Another day of this nonsense, and I might really croak. I need to quit! I'll return the advance pay. No! I’ll sell my body to raise enough money to skip town. I need to get as far away from this human-shaped devil as pos-"

Asher paused for a moment, thinking he had seen something strange.

He knew the very grain of the ceiling by heart now. In fact, he thought he could identify the age of the tree from which its planks were crafted.

But there was something new in his peripheral vision.

Small, tiny black specks, undulating and nebulous, were shaping themselves as they pleased, moving with excitement.

"I've finally lost it, haven't I?" He blinked and rubbed his eyes, yet the motes did not disappear.

Asher roused himself, got up, and walked to his chair.

He drank some water and cast a quizzical glance at Henry. The old man didn’t seem to notice them, or if he did, he wasn’t showing it.

"Old man, can you see those black lights?" Henry met his eyes, paused briefly, then replied.

"I can only see the red ones, child. I guess you aren't so useless after all. Focus on them, do not fall asleep. Remember the feeling of forcing your body to surpass its limits? I want you to go deeper than that; use your will. You must capture those lights, house them. Become a vessel for their weary souls—take your first step towards Descent.