The Wyrmden church was built in a joint effort by the community. They worked for hours and hours and gave what they had in order to make it as good as any other. Local artists and workers worked in harmony to make it as best they could, and it showed.

"This church, I can feel its sincerity." Bishop Georges remarked, breaking the silence.

Georges panned his neck across the numerous murals scattered along the walls, as Brook flashed a modest smile.

"Your Excellency Delacroix, your words are too kind."

"The Lord smiles upon you Father Brook."

"He smiles upon us all."

"...Indeed."

With that, a pause settled over the two. Brook felt quite anxious, so he quickly tried to move the conversation forward.

"Your Excellency, would you like a seat?" He gestured over to the first row of pews.

"No need. I am merely here to inform you that I will be presiding over this diocese for a little while." Georges vaguely gestured a negative, speaking with a dull tone with his hands behind his back.

"How kind of you, please feel free! We are happy to host you for a time." Brook was not lying, he knew some unsavory people that would completely ignore basic courtesy.

For a person of such high rank, Brook was pleasantly surprised.

"However, surely His Grace the Archbishop would have a dire reason to dispatch someone of your station and... caliber?"

"Correct, Father Brook."

"Has something happened?" Worry filled his tone, and his heart was wrenched with dread.

The Inquisition was the hidden blade of the Orthodoxy, with the Knights Templars being the muscle. Composed entirely of exorcists, they are famed for being demon hunters. Entire cults, organizations, monster hordes, demon infestations, the Inquisition wipe them out regularly, usually within just a night.

If one was sent here, especially one with such standing, well it would make sense why his stomach was riddled with butterflies and his spine shivering like he was suddenly drenched with cold water.

"Just for your safety, I tell you that there is a demon in these forests. I have reason to suspect it is inhabiting a group of Holy Ankou deserters."

"H-how grave is the situation?" Brook was petrified.

He had good reason to be so, for demons weren't just any ordinary monster. They were from another dimension entirely, operating with completely alien behavior. Demons were from the Underworld, where they would usually punish the dead for their past transgressions. However, they were symbiotic creatures, corrupting and terrorizing mortals to grow stronger. They depend on it, you see, evil was hardwired into them, it was their purpose.

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"Have you kept up with the hunters in the village? Any complications?"

The more they were feared, the more the living believed they were nothing more than mindless monsters, the more they kept coming. They just can't help themselves, morality doesn't exist for them, they were without conscience.

They didn't need to eat, pillage, and kill, but they do... and they absolutely love it.

"Oh, I think they mentioned something about there being little to no game to hunt in the forest. They say the forest is usually teeming with life, but these days they are even hesitant to hunt. They say the silence unnerves them. The people have been having a rough week because of it. Wait, are you suggesting..."

"Then, the situation is quite bad, I'd say."

"I had my suspicions, but a demon of all things... I almost can't believe it. What do you think I should do?" Brook asked, concerned.

"Tell the townspeople to stop going out to the forest, enforce a stricter curfew."

"Do you need me to send some guards out with you?"

"No, the more of us the more likely demonic influence can spread. I will be enough."

"Will you be going? Today?"

"Tonight."

- - - - -

The night of Wyrmden was easy-going, men were coming home from work to a homely dinner cooked by their wives and eaten by family. A precious night, yet one just like any other.

Little did they know...

"Step... Step... Chatter! Chatter!" Amidst the banter of departing workers and merchants packing up, silent steps clicked evenly along the road.

Bishop Georges was walking through the town, seemingly taking a stroll just before the carnage would inevitably begin. He had just told the local priest, Brook, to get the townspeople settled in, and to keep them in.

He would not risk the corruption of an entire town.

To ensure this, he had told the local Adventurer's Guild branch —as infantile the establishment was— to deny any requests, to recall any adventurer's that were lingering in the area, and to cease any activity for the time being.

Unfortunately, he had been too late.

They had sent a small party of five, consisting of two bronze and three silver ranked adventurer's.

'They sent a bunch of greenhorns for a situation like this...' But he couldn't exactly blame them.

How could they have known, and in any other scenario, it was a wise decision to dispatch adventurer's to scout out any irregularities.

"In any other scenario..." He whispered darkly to himself.

Those newbies, mere initiates, they were as good as dead, if they were lucky. Georges held onto the small rounded cross emblazoned upon a round silver medallion that was hung loosely around his neck, a mysterious power fueled by belief coursing through his veins.

The insignia of the Elysian Orthodoxy.

"[May the Lord have mercy on thee...]" He chanted, and for a moment one could see what looked to be ephemeral gold flowing through his veins and gleaming past his skin, this was Georges faith. He had used his magic to call for the heavens to look on, and spare those unfortunate souls sent on a suicide mission.

The Prayer, the foundation of all of Elysian mysticism and exorcism.

So very simple, yet there is a reason why so many fear the Elysian Orthodoxy. With their prayers, they could create miracles. With their chants and hymns, they could obliterate legions upon legions of demons.

Having finished his prayer, he had noticed that he had reached the town's gates. He set off swiftly into the night with practiced ease, and no fear present in his heart.

He just hoped he wasn't too late.

- - - - -

Deep into the night, a boy could be seen, sitting by the riverbank. His form was fragile, but his expression was calm, like nothing was wrong. His empty white eyes seemingly pierced through the dark and merged with the moonlight as he stared off into nothing. A mystical sight, if not a bit eerie and unnatural.

It was like he could see everything, what he witnessed, nothing was new to these eyes.

"What is that?" And like a dagger whistling through air, his soft voice rung clearly past the sounds of rushing water, despite his whispering.