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“Because they have to, my dear. They don’t have a choice.”

Creda listened to Calla's words, hanging onto them as if were her lifeline. She tilted her head, her brow furrowed in confusion, but Calla pressed on. “None of it can take hold as long as a person chooses not to allow them.”

“I don’t understand.”

Calla’s lips curled into a faint, almost wistful smile. “You see? Our minds are like fresh fields, waiting to be farmed. But what we let grow in our fields decides their fate.”

Creda nodded, her gaze fixed on Calla’s weathered face, though a small voice inside her whispered that this was childish talk. She wasn’t a story-hungry toddler anymore—she was fifteen.

“And every single time, it’s ignorance that comes first,” Calla continued. “It makes you blind to what’s about to come next. It blurs your ability to choose at its best. At its worst, though, it pushes you to choose the wrong thing every single time, making you more and more vulnerable to the others in line.”

Creda felt a strange pull as Calla spoke, the words tugging at her like the faint memory of a dream.

“Then comes greed,” Calla said, her voice dipping into a somber cadence. “It’s like a slow poison, twisting its way into your mind and body. It’s far too stealthy to notice at first. It starts small—an innocent desire. You might even believe it’s ambition. And then, you’ll justify your growing desires, no matter how absurd they are.”

“Why does that happen?” Creda asked.

“Because you let ignorance take root long before greed arrived,” Calla replied. “And ignorance never rests. He’s always at work, an expert in everything he does. So you won’t notice that your desires are no longer desires but greed—disgusting, malicious greed.”

Creda’s breath hitched at the venom in Calla’s tone.

“And where there’s greed,” Calla went on, her voice almost a growl, “there will always be gluttony. Unlike the others, gluttony thrives by consuming your sense of satiation. It means you’ll crave more and more and more—”

Calla leaned forward, her eyes shadowed and intense. Creda found herself leaning in too, caught in the pull of Calla’s spell.

“—until there’s nothing left to take. But you’ll still crave, even when there’s nothing. And that’s when the decay begins.”

Calla paused, her gnarled fingers wiggling in the air as if pulling something unseen from her chest. “The sins you’ve committed will rot you from the inside—slowly, painfully.”

The words sent a shiver down Creda’s spine.

“The more you rot, the more everything around you begins to collapse,” Calla said. “That’s when injustice takes root. The strong become stronger, and the weak become weaker. Deliberate cruelty becomes the norm. And when the weak can’t bear it anymore—”

Calla’s voice softened, her eyes glistening with something that looked almost like sorrow. “When their hearts crumble from within, when they realize they can no longer be pieced together, the pain of the injustice done to them… it tempts them. It whispers lies, coaxing them to spread that same pain to others. For pain…” Calla hesitated, her eyes brimming with tears and her voice dropping to a near-whisper, “pain is deceptive. She dresses herself as pleasure just to sell herself.”

The room fell into a heavy silence, the only sounds the steady rhythm of Calla and Creda’s breathing.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Creda exhaled shakily, realizing she’d been holding her breath. Her thoughts churned as she replayed Calla’s words, her chest tight with unease. Did Calla really refer to those evils as "he" and "she," or was that her imagination? She decided to let the question pass for now.

“Calla,” she asked after a moment, her voice hesitant, “there must be a way to defend ourselves against them. Isn’t there a way to fight them?”

Calla chuckled. “Choice,” she said.

The word hung in the air, heavy and potent.

“But it’s such a fragile shield,” Calla continued. “Once it breaks, there’s no way to mend it. Once you choose, there’s no going back.”

Her words carried the punch of finality, making Creda’s chest tighten.

“But,” Calla said, her tone melting as if revealing a closely guarded secret, “there’s a weapon—one that can save you, even after the shield of choice shatters.”

Creda leaned forward, her curiosity piqued. “What is it?” she asked.

“We call it guilt,” Calla replied. “It’s not just a weapon; it’s a hidden path. A secret passage that leads you far from ignorance. And where ignorance can’t follow, none of the others can either.”

Creda’s heart constricted uneasily at those words. She reminded herself it was just a story—a theory, really. Still, her fingers found their way to her mouth, and she began nibbling on her nails.

“But,” Calla said, her tone darkening, “that path doesn’t stay open forever. The more the evils take hold of you, the narrower the way becomes. And when pain finds you—”

Calla paused, her gaze sharp and piercing, as though she could see the unease rising in Creda.

“When pain finds you,” Calla continued, her voice dropping, “you’ll know it’s already too late to turn back. Pain disguises herself as pleasure, slipping past your defenses. And once she does, she can even override your guilt, sealing the path shut forever—for what comes after her.”

Creda froze, her nails forgotten. Her brow furrowed deeply as she tried to make sense of Calla’s words. “There’s… more?” she asked hesitantly.

Calla nodded, her expression grave.

“Two more,” she said.

Creda’s eyes widened, both terrified and curious. “Is it… death?” she blurted out, unable to contain herself.

Calla paused, momentarily surprised. Then she let out a hearty laugh, her frail body shaking with the effort as she sat up in her cot. Gently, she ran her weathered hand over Creda’s crown in a gesture of affection.

“Death isn’t evil,” she said simply.

Creda noticed Calla’s gaze shift, almost instinctively, toward the shadows in the room. Her expression changed—a flicker of recognition crossed her face, followed by a sliver of excitement, as though she were greeting an old friend.

Creda’s heart skipped a beat.

What was Calla looking at? Was there something lurking just beyond the reach of the flickering lamplight? Creda recalled the rumors she’d overheard—that old people could see Death when they were near their own end. And wasn’t there a rumor about Calla? A fable about her striking a bargain with Death himself?

Creda turned her head slowly, her eyes scanning the dim corners of the room. But she saw only walls and shadows—nothing more. She forced herself to look back at Calla, exhaling a breathe of relief.

“Calla?” she called, shaking the old woman’s arm.

Calla blinked, her head jerking as if she’d been pulled back from somewhere far away. For a moment, Creda feared Calla had forgotten their conversation entirely. She opened her mouth to remind her, but Calla surprised her by continuing as though nothing had happened.

“Death isn’t evil,” she said. “If anything, Death is kind. Compassionate. Merciful!”

Creda chuckled nervously. “Death is merciful? Only you would say that, Calla.”

Calla smiled, her eyes distant but warm.

“Aren’t you happy with your life, Calla?” Creda teased, trying to mask her unease. “You’re giving Death far more credit than he deserves.”

Calla lifted Creda’s chin with a gentle finger. “Death comes when life ends, yes,” she said. “But Death isn’t the opposite of life.”

Creda frowned, puzzled. “I don’t understand.”

“The opposite of Death,” Calla said, “is undeath.” Her tone wavered with the stains of some distant, painful memory. “A cruel, cruel fate. One I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. Nor should you.”

“Undeath?” Creda asked, incredulous. “Is that even a word?”

Calla ignored the question, her gaze growing sharper as she pressed on. “Death isn’t evil—at least, not until he becomes undeath. That is the seventh evil. Undeath traps your soul—your very consciousness—in a body that is decaying and corrupted. A body that no longer listens to your mind but answers only to a darker force.”

Creda felt a chill ripple through her. “A darker force?” she whispered.

Calla’s face darkened. “The eighth evil.”

Creda leaned forward, unable to take it slow anymore. “What’s the eighth evil?”

“Havoc,” Calla replied, her voice heavy with dread. “Madness. Rage. She goes by many names.”

“What happens,” Creda asked, her throat dry, “when the eighth evil arrives?”

Calla’s lips pressed into a thin line as she stared into the shadows. “No one knows,” she said at last. “Perhaps she marks the end of mankind.”