Once again draped in his trusty, grey cloak, Claude walked through the silent streets of Littorbourg.

It was leaving behind nothing but empty buildings and deserted alleyways.

"It really is empty..." he muttered, his voice low as his eyes darted across the darkened windows and shuttered doors.

He glanced down at his cloak and sighed in frustration. "I'm supposed to be a mage," he grumbled, tugging at the cloak. "So why am I always sneaking around like a thief in the night?"

But deep down, he knew exactly why.

"Damn cultists," he spat under his breath, his fists clenching instinctively. "Why can't they live like normal people? Now we've got disappearances, deaths, and... a possible subspace summoning." His voice dropped to a whisper, "At this rate, I wouldn't be surprised if I woke up in the middle of a war against a horde of demonic creatures."

His cynical musing was abruptly cut short by a soft, faint glow from his satchel. He paused, a flicker of confusion spinning in his mind as he pulled out the source of the light—a note.

More specifically, it was the note that he had found in the library, inside The Little Knight.

The parchment was old, the edges frayed and worn, but the letters that began to crawl across its surface were as dark as ever, twisting unnervingly into words:

HE IS WATCHING.

Claude barely had time to process the words before the note disintegrated in his hands, crumbling to ash that was quickly carried away by the cold sea breeze. His hand remained frozen midair, the sensation of the ash lingering on his skin.

A nervous chuckle escaped his lips, his left eye twitching. "That... that's not an omen, right?" His eyelid twitched as he glanced around, paranoia gnawing at him. Was something truly watching? Was someone... keeping track of him?

He shook his head forcefully, trying to dispel the creeping unease, but it clung to him like a second skin. A quick glance at his surroundings, caused his senses to flare.

An alley.

Claude had found himself in an alley, but this alley was all too familiar to him. This was the very place where he had fought that strange, cat-like creature just days before.

"Odd," he murmured, the silence unsettling him further. He ran a hand through his hair, lost in thought. "Where was Jacques meeting again? Oh, right... The Blue Heron Tavern." He rubbed his chin. "Isn't that place abandoned?"

His thoughts raced as he turned down a narrow alley that led toward the decrepit tavern. It loomed ahead, its wooden structure barely holding together under the weight of neglect and age.

Just as he was about to approach the tavern, a flicker of movement caught his eye. Two figures, cloaked in shadow, slipped inside the tavern's side entrance.

"Jean and Anne?" he whispered, his pulse quickening. His eyes narrowed as he watched them disappear into the darkened building. What are they doing here?

It didn't unsettle him, though—if anything, their presence confirmed his suspicions. Whatever plot Jacques was involved in, Jean and Anne were in on it too.

This could be his chance to kill two birds with one stone—to uncover the connection between them and the city guard, and finally expose Jacques.

Quietly, he moved forward, his footsteps barely audible as he approached the entrance. His heart raced with anticipation. This was it—the moment he had been waiting for. All the clues, all his suspicions, had led to this.

Claude paused briefly at the door, taking a deep breath. His journey to Elysium could wait. First, he had to deal with this. He had to find out the truth.

"All's well that ends well... right?" he whispered to himself, more for reassurance than anything else, as he slipped inside.

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In a dark, musty room, an altar stood at its centre, illuminated only by the flickering glow of candlelight. Scattered around it lay several collapsed bodies, their twisted forms contorted in unnatural angles, as though drained of life.

At the edge of the chamber, more figures stood cloaked in shadow. Some leaned against the damp, cracked walls, their faces obscured by hoods, while others paced with impatience. The air was thick with dread, and soft murmurs filled the silence as they waited.

Creak!

The door creaked open, pulling all eyes toward the entrance. Two figures entered, their arrival halting the pacing figures and stilling the murmurs. A young adolescent boy and a little girl stepped into the room.

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"Tsk!" One of the figures leaning against the wall clicked their tongue in irritation. "Took you long enough to get here. What's up with the delay, boy? You regret your decision?"

"Shut it, Jacques," the boy replied, his tone flat. "You know we're both too far gone to regret anything now."

He cast a brief glance at the girl beside him. "And it's not like Anne can wait any longer."

"Come on, Jacques, no need to stir up trouble," came a voice from one of the pacing figures—an old man with a weathered face.

"Look," the old man continued, "Sentinel Hughes has been sent by headquarters. He's here to make sure nothing goes wrong this time."

The mention of the Sentinel caused Jacques and Jean, who had remained near the entrance, to exchange tense glances.

Sentinels—individuals blessed by Him, tasked with enforcing the Plague Bearers' will. Known for their bloodlust, they were feared even among the cult's ranks.

The room fell into a deep, uncomfortable silence as they peeked at the Sentinel, a figure standing at the far end of the chamber.

He stood tall and gaunt, wrapped in ragged, blood-stained robes and patchwork armour. His skeletal frame was shrouded in a foul, black miasma, clinging to him like a living shadow.

The presence of the sentinel alone was enough to cow the others into silence.

The old man cleared his throat, breaking the stillness. "The Lord Sentinel isn't much for words. We just need to perform the ritual. Let him observe."

One by one, the figures in the room nodded reluctantly. Their hesitation was palpable, yet none dared oppose the order.

As preparations began, Jean spoke up. "Before we start… has anyone seen Pierre? Do we need to wait?"

The old man scoffed. "Haven't you heard? Wonderboy Jacques over there sent Pierre to settle a gang dispute. The fella's been missing since."

Jacques snorted in response. "He's not missing. We investigated. He fought a mage—a strong one."

Jean's brow furrowed. "The Inquisitors from Elysium? So, they're already here? Seems like starting the ritual early was the right call."

Just as Jean was about to announce the beginning of the ritual, a small hand tugged at his shirt.

Jean glanced down to see Anne, her green eyes wide and shimmering. In her hand, she held a notepad. She scribbled quickly, her hand shaking as she wrote:

You don't need to do this... I don't need this...

The messy, childlike handwriting made Jean pause. His grip on her shoulder tightened as he suppressed a grimace. "Anne… you know very well without this, your illness would end you."

His voice cracked slightly as memories of the past flooded back. His twin sister, once pale and frail, lay bedridden, waiting for death.

Desperate, he had sought any means to save her, and that desperation had led him here—to the Plague Bearers.

"If it wasn't for that ritual I performed, you wouldn't be alive," Jean whispered harshly. "It froze both you and your age for nearly a decade, but its effects are fading. We don't have time."

His voice broke as he continued. "We've already wasted a year. Stop being disobedient... This ritual is different. With His grace, you could be healed—completely. You know how much your death would affect our mother… and me…"

Anne's gaze fell, her hand loosening from his shirt as she resigned herself to his words, her silence more sorrowful than any scream. She stood by his side, her spirit seemingly drained.

Just as Jean prepared to start the ritual, the Sentinel's voice cut through the heavy air. "Have you ensured the effects of previous rituals have been eliminated?"

Jacques pushed off the wall, intrigued. "What do you mean?"

"Headquarters believes past failures were due to lingering interference from previous rituals," the Sentinel explained. "The effects radiated outward, corrupting the environment, both flora and fauna."

"Wait. Those monstrous animals wreaking havoc nearby..." Bertrand, the old man, looked around incredulously. "They weren't planned by any of you?"

The figures around the room shook their heads in dismay.

"Curse it!" Bertrand growled. "If we'd known these rituals would cause problems like that, we could've prepared better! Maybe we wouldn't have attracted the attention of those knowledge-seeking freaks!"

Jean narrowed his eyes. "The Inquisition has been culling the anomalies, but there's no guarantee they've gotten them all. Still, no one here has performed a ritual in over a year."

After a pause, the Sentinel nodded. "If it's been that long, and no major lingering effects remain, then we can proceed."

As the cultists gathered, circling the altar, Jean's voice echoed through the room as he began to chant. The other figures joined him, their voices a haunting chorus as they encircled the glowing altar.

The altar's light intensified, casting eerie shadows on the walls as anticipation filled the air. Bertrand's face twisted with hope, his thoughts desperate: Please! Please come back to me, dear...

Jacques, on the other hand, watched the light with barely contained fervour: Yes, yes. Once He comes, I'll gain His favour! Power, wealth, and fame... They'll all be mine!

Jean's expression was more complicated, a mix of fear, hope, and despair swirling in his eyes. Perhaps… perhaps this time, she'll be healed...

Outside the circle, the Sentinel remained cold and indifferent, his eyes scanning the participants.

Anne stood by his side, her small frame trembling as she watched the tendrils of white light snaking toward the bodies on the altar. There was no joy in her eyes—only a quiet, resigned mourning.

Suddenly, just as the ritual reached its peak, spears of water shot through the room, impaling several of the participants. Screams of shock and pain filled the chamber as the ritual was violently interrupted.

"Who dares?!" The Sentinel's voice thundered, whipping around to face the entrance.

Claude stood in the doorway, his maroon hair dishevelled, his eyes bulging and bloodshot. He scanned the room, taking in the bewildered cultists, the twisted bodies near the altar.

A shadow passed over his face as he looked upon the scene—a shadow darker than mere anger.

"All this time…" he muttered, his voice barely audible. His gaze fixed on Jacques, his eyes narrowed. "I told myself it was an accident."

He took a step forward, fists clenched. "You don't know how many years I've spent believing that lie. Telling myself that no one was to blame—that it was just some cruel twist of fate. But you…" His voice shook. "You're the ones who caused it."

For a moment, his face remained placid, his memory trailing to his past.

The village.

The meadows.

The people.

Then, his expression hardened, replaced by an icy rage.

All of it was gone...

"All of you rats… hiding here in the dark, scheming and taking lives." He took a deep breath in. "Did you think you could keep hiding? That no one would ever know?"

The room fell silent, the cultists staring at him, unnerved. Claude's shoulders tensed as he let out a short, humourless laugh. "Emotions? I thought I had long lost them. All that was left... an empty void in my chest…" His gaze flicked to the twisted bodies strewn around the altar. "Now I see I was wrong..."

He raised his hand skyward.

"Come be my sacrifices!" He spat. "Fuel my apotheosis."

The mental energy that resided in his mind, normally serene and gentle, began to writhe and bubble. "You will help me release the chains of humanity that bind me!"