Iris stuck to the group leader, Caneria, who looked at her with tender eyes as she walked through a corridor where other hooded cultists hung around. Their murmurs blended into meaningless noises, fragmented sentences, and incoherent stories. She quietly listened while following her leader.

A pair of pale-faced men blocked the door at the end of the corridor. Their serpentine eyes locked on the group leader’s serene expression and her forehead tattoo. She showed them her invitation.

“The rest must stay here,” the taller guard said.

Caneria frowned, her serenity disrupted by a persisting irritation. She turned to Iris, whose countenance lightened her mood, whose aura instilled her with joy.

“She’ll enter with me.” She pointed at Iris. “She’s . . . a disciple of our Agents.”

The guards harrumphed. “Our lord will keep an eye on her.”

“Eternal damnation for those coveting our master’s possession.”

After a few silent seconds, the guards relented and opened the door. Iris and Caneria entered the meeting room, which resembled a church hall more than a room.

Cultists of various beliefs scattered in small groups, each keeping a distance from everyone else. They watched the rest of the world with eyes full of suspicion and hearts full of doubt.

Caneria joined her acquaintances and she introduced Iris as a favoured child of Gentle Crown. Iris herself merely wordlessly smiled. Like a little sister, she let her big sister do the talking while surveying the perimeter.

At the end of the hall lay an altar filled with undecipherable documents written in arcane scribbles. Countless candles entrenched themselves on the ancient altar, permeating their wax roots in everything from the wooden surface to the metallic beams and the yellowish papers. Everything fused as one, yet they remained distinct in their shade as if imbued with irreconcilable traits.

That altar, whose shape imitated an entrance into the ravenous mouth, exuded a strong stench of evil, the same scent that provoked Iris a while ago. All these cultists had this stench, even if almost undetectable.

“Shall we take a look at the manuscript?” Caneria said. “The Agent must’ve sent you for a purpose.”

“No one knows what Teacher is thinking.”

“The Agent of Healed Heart has always been mysterious.”

Iris went to the altar with her big sister. With her power, a Grandmaster wouldn’t be able to keep her. If her disguise failed, she could escape unharmed. The unseen Grand Formation would prevent any prolonged conflict.

Others who came before Iris had already examined the altar, but none could decipher anything. These words, imbued with wicked energy, eluded them in meaning. The secret engraved upon the fused manuscript was beyond their capability, and they didn’t want to embarrass themselves.

Once she paid respect to the altar, Caneria made way for Iris, who too bowed before getting close to the incomprehensible writing. The unpleasant odour intensified, yet she revealed nothing except her devotion.

Winding characters morphed into an unending, self-referencing maze. It trapped her within the misty confine of dark inks and old course paper. She traversed the path to comprehend the meaning on the wall, though the changing structure, whose denotation blinked in and out, stopped her.

She drew a formation and plunged her fingers through it. It enveloped her arm, bursting in dark blue sparks. The maze slowed; words gradually appeared, words that Iris could read, could understand.

Her eyes flickered, her pupils turning slit-like. A wicked aura fused with her scent. The altar quivered as if joyously celebrating its new friend. The candles glowed crimson, preparing to blaze with infernal radiance.

Caneria’s eyes contracted. She gasped when Iris closed her eyes and pulled back her power. The candles extinguished their embers, the altar their trembling, and the papers their maze.

Iris turned around and smiled. “Let’s return, Big Sis.”

Caneria absentmindedly returned to the group with Iris. The illusory moment replayed in her mind; was it merely her imagination?

She peeked at her adorable friend, whose disposition exposed nothing but serenity, with doubt filling her mind. This girl . . . had she always been like this? When they were at the cult . . . at the cult . . . how was she?

“The Grand Priest is entering!” a cultist clapped his hand.

The churning winds chilled. The flickering light dimmed. The gate at the back of the hall, behind the altar, creaked open. Accompanied by a group of hooded men whose pale expressions radiated death, the Grand Priest of Confusion entered the hall.

His yellow-green eyes snapped at each cultist in the hall, who lowered their head, unable to meet his mystifying gaze. He leisurely switched between each cowering cultist until he found a particular woman, who, with her head lowered, wore a mild smile.

Caneria shuddered. An irrefutable whisper echoed in her mind. Sweats soaked her cloak as weakness seized her legs. She was about to fall when Iris caught her. A sweet, flowery scent enveloped her, and the heaviness vanished.

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The Grand Priest narrowed his eyes but didn’t exert more of his power. He raised his cane. The skull on its head shone, sealing this space with the eldritch magic of his patron god.

Rays of light torrented above the hall, tainting tinted glasses and swinging chandeliers with mystique characters of unknown origin. Anything that touched this field of mystery became subsumed, devoured and disintegrated into white noise.

“I apologise for my delay. Some false believers tried to infiltrate this place. But fret not; I’ve already dealt with them,” the Grand Priest said. “They’ve already entered the fog of mystery and will never return.”

The Grand Priest briefly stated the opening line for the meeting before he retreated to a seat prepared for him. The cultists accompanying him took over the procedure by summarizing the previous meeting and the objective of this meeting.

Iris leaned on her big sister while listening to the discussion. Whatever she asked, her big sister gladly answered. Her praise and words of admiration fell on Caneria like petals on a still lake. Their lovely ripple spread on her bashful expression. No matter what offer Iris suggested, she would accept it.

All this for that deceptive allure, that cursed charm mixed with authentic elegance.

The meeting was about a raid on Prime Archive, to divert attention for another secret operation to take place. They would also take this opportunity to try to find a scroll rumoured to contain the clue to an ancient treasure realm.

Iris naturally didn’t believe it. A True Master would’ve already gotten the scroll if it existed, and if they hadn’t, then she would have to worry about the reason it remained untouched.

“What would be our part in all this?” she said.

“The third entrance, the first floor, specifically the mushroom kingdom section.” Caneria beamed. “Will you . . . come with me?”

“No promise, Sister. Teacher sent me here to look at the manuscript; I can’t know if I’d have another chance to come out.”

“Come, if you could. I’ll be waiting.”

The organiser gave out papers detailing the plan. Iris memorised everything. She then listened to her cultist friends, who often let crucial information slip into the conversation. These individually negligible snippets added up into a coherent narrative of the operation.

The Grand Priest of Confusion was the only Grandmaster anchoring this plan. Behind him was Skull of Mystery, an Evil Cult worshipping Archangel of Mystery. Eye of Masolis, Gentle Crown, and Chained Corpse Vessel also supported this operation, though they didn’t send anyone of Grandmaster Tier.

“Lastly, our intel indicated that at least one Archbishop of the Orthodoxy has been dispatched to watch over the recent disturbance.” The atmosphere muffled. “However, our Grand Priest will ensure that the operation goes smoothly. He’ll make his move if they intend to interfere.”

The Grand Priest lightly nodded. His abysmal eyes remained indifferent. Infected by his confidence, the mood reverted to the prior agitated devotion and madness.

The meeting came to a close after the organiser spoke his concluding statement, announcing the next date and location for the next meeting. The staff handed out a proof of invitation before they revealed the after-meeting gathering for those wishing to trade information and items.

With hushed suggestions from Iris, Caneria decided not to attend. They left the main hall, but a dull-eyed cultist approached them.

“The Grand Priest wishes to talk to you all,” the man said. “Please allow us to attend to your needs.”

Caneria reluctantly nodded. She couldn’t refuse this offer. More fanatics led them deep inside the building, where people of various attires and backgrounds stood motionless.

Their cloudy, soulless eyes fixated on random parts of the walls, lost in their mental labyrinth. Only when the cultists passed by would clarity return to their eyes. They resisted the urge to lose themselves, but they never won. Their sanity always receded under the tide of unending murk.

“This is the fate of those who opposed us,” the guide said. “Condemned to an eternity of hopeless voyage.”

Iris merely observed the flow of this wicked magic, in which a hint of unholy filth pervaded. This revolting power and its intense odour, which only she could sense, appalled her. The wickedness it contained sought to contaminate, tarnish, and consume everything.

Only the power of this nature could reject the mystical scent she exuded. Only the power of a transcendent could suppress Nupian’s curse.

Unfortunately, she lacked the opportunity to carefully study it. Her group entered the private suite, where a few ladies in clothes made from tattered fabrics of various materials served the Grand Priest.

Their terror-filled eyes violently wrestled against their bodies, the bodies that no longer listened to them. Specks of bewilderment occasionally muddled their minds, dragging them back to the misty ocean.

The Grand Priest whispered chants to these women who, hearing his words, mumbled doubts, their identities evaporating. They gradually forgot their past, morphing into soulless slaves. Their resistance lessened until they became still, waiting for a command from the Grand Priest.

“A disciple of an Agent,” the Grand Priest said. “You’ve done well resisting my gaze.”

All eyes turned to Iris. She gave a humble bow. “Teacher has taught me well.”

“Yet he failed to notify me of your arrival?”

The Grand Priest narrowed his eyes. The slaves froze in their places, trembling. Their murky eyes glared at Iris, veins popping on their sclera.

Caneria, tensing up, stepped in front of Iris and, her hands shaking, bowed until her back became parallel to the ground. “Please forgive our mistakes. We mean no offence.”

The Grand Priest tapped his finger on the armrest. Only this wooden sound echoed during this suffocating period.

He then laughed, his voice dispersing the stiff atmosphere. The slaves regained their liveliness.

“Has your teacher not told you about me?” The Grand Priest got up from his seat. “Although we now have our responsibility, we remain amiable friends.”

“I’ll send him your regard,” Iris said.

“It’s rather strange, however.” The Grand Priest knocked his cane on the ground. A wave of mist blasted out, and he vanished.

The cultists gasped, but their voices faltered. Their eyes blurred, their senses distorted. Time stopped flowing, trapping their perception in stasis.

Only Iris was unaffected; she lifted her head. The Grand Priest towered over her, his mighty aura encircling her awareness.

“He never told me of a disciple with your appearance.”

“Teacher might want to surprise you.”

“How?”

“By revealing his most brilliant pupil at the right moment.”

Iris smirked. The rose-shaped tattoo on her forehead lit up. Veins of her face darkened and crawled to the tattoo, which devoured the blood offering. Mad whispers instilled the surroundings with viscous dread, dread that toppled all orders. The sea of mist parted for this wicked dread, which manifested as a swarm of infernal hands.

These hands grabbed everyone in the suite, their fingers slipped past the material plane and seized at the fragile souls. The confusion plaguing their hearts shattered in a scream as a mind-devouring horror descended in its place.

The slaves shrieked and collapsed while the cultists quivered. The crown on Caneria’s head stabbed tightened, stabbing her. It drained her blood and shocked her soul, pulling her back from the illusion.

The rest soon regained their senses. Suffocating discomfort lingered in her chest. They could only pant while looking at their feet.

Only Iris stared at the Grand Priest.