Chapter 1

(𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬)
This story contains dark and potentially distressing themes such as Twisted Religious aspects, Cult indoctrination , Gore, Psychological Horror and Death.

Started: March 29, 2025
Completed: March 12, 2026.

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Corpus putridum sed voluntas aliena  eum regit. Nihil sentit, nihil timet—tantum movetur — The body is rotten, yet a foreign will commands it; it feels nothing, fears nothing—it only moves.

It tried to kill you — they were like persistent crabs who wants to drag you down six feet under with them.

They were dead, that’s for sure; no breath steamed from their mouths, and no warmth pulsed in their chest.

But even so,  they moved as if some malignant grim reaper had placed invisible strings on their spines and bid them to become a marionette and perform its job — except, the stage that they were supposed to perform on, was a dying world.

Blood trickled down in sluggish rivulets, trailing from your temple and down the bridge of your nose, painting your face and lips in a clotted crimson sheen.

Your clothes clung heavily to your body, soaked with blood from your skirmishes while your lungs heaved, sawing air in desperate gulps.

Your arms throbbed with exhaustion, muscles burning from the strain as you struggled to keep hold of the bloody rusty pipe.

But the creatures didn’t stop no matter how much you hit them, and even if you managed to kill some — there will be more to come.

If you kill them, they will just multiply.

Your eyes narrowed as you caught the sight of those things dragging themselves towards your direction.

The thing  lunged with a ferocious snarl – its decaying fingers clawing viciously at your jacket, attempting to tear the fabric open.

But your instincts exploded into action first; the pipe in your hands arced upward, crashing with brutal force into its jaw, sending a shudder up your arms.

“Gck— fuck.. that hurts…” A wince crossed your feature as the impact of the strike caused the creature’s head to jerk backwards, emitting a wheezy noise from its throat.

Its darkened teeth clattering as it faltered, before regaining its composure and then lurched forward again — seemingly impervious by the attack.

“Fucking die already!”

You snarled as you lifted the pipe with both hands, blood-slicked fingers tightening around the corroded metal as you brought it down with everything you had again and again until it dropped dead.

Then, you ran towards the second one, smashing its skull with the rusted pipe brutally.

Fragments of grey matter, blood and shattered bones propelled outward in a gruesome spray as the second one fell down.

Then, you moved on to the third and did the same, until you managed to annihilate them.

Air clogged your throat while your heart pounded erratically in your chest as you stood motionless, gasping for air, staring at the viscous, black blood seep onto the shattered pavement from the lifeless body.   

Your hands are shaking, while your mind is spinning rapidly, but not because of those creatures; but rather, because of the ambiguity of everything.

Because what the fuck — where the hell are you?

You don’t even remember getting here — and to be candid, you don’t remember anything in general

Your memory was a blank space and no matter how hard you try to make sense of your surroundings, of everything — the space in your brain remains unchanging.

Your eyes drifted towards the city around you; it was in ruins—crumbling buildings, rusted-out cars with shattered windows, makeshift barricades long since abandoned.

The air is warm and thick with decay, and the rain only makes it worse, washing the filth into the gutters.

The bodies of the undead lay scattered around you, some still twitching, others crushed beyond recognition.

But your eyes weren’t on them anymore — they were fixated on your hands now.

Your fingers gave an involuntary, violent twitch as a slick mixture of fresh and dried blood coated your skin, seeping into the creases of your knuckles, cascading in thick droplets from your fingernails.

However it wasn’t the blood that unsettled you — it was the hands themselves.

Because what the fuck, these hands weren’t yours.

Your breath hitched as you turned them over, watching the water run in rivulets down the foreign skin.

The fingers were longer than you remembered, the joints more pronounced.

Deep, jagged scars crisscrossed your knuckles, while others lay hidden beneath layers of dirt and grime.

You flexed your fingers, feeling the unfamiliar tendons twisting and shifting beneath the clammy skin of your hands.

Your gaze traveled further down to your arms, down to your legs, then to the puddle beneath you that rippled with the falling rain.

A face you didn’t recognize stared back at you.

Your heart stuttered as cold dread clawed up your spine as you leaned forward, staring at the warped image.

The water twisted the details, but the features were clear enough— It definitely didn’t looked like you.

But the thing is — you didn’t even know what your face should fucking look like.

Who the hell are you?

Your throat tightened, but you swallowed down the lump as realization struck you; something was wrong.

Something was very wrong.

This body—it moved like yours, fought like yours, reacted on instinct, but it wasn’t yours.

It was like you were living on another person’s skin — as if you were a parasite that is living on a dead animal’s body.

But no memories surfaced in your mind no matter how you try — not even a single name, just a hazy, distorted blur in your mind.

Your mind revolves only in the haunting images of blood on your hands, the decaying bodies that surround you, and the relentless downpour of freezing rain from the black sky above.

Your head ached as you struggled to recall anything.

Do you even have a family? Friends? A home?

What had you done before this?

What did you even do in your life?

The harder you tried to remember, the more your thoughts slipped through your fingers like morning mist.

It was like staring into a broken mirror, fragments of something familiar just out of reach—until you realized there was nothing there at all.

There was only a hollow void where your memories should be — hence, a lie has more shape than the nihility in your mind.

Just as you were drowning in your thoughts, a loud groan snapped you out of it.

Your head whipped up just as more of them shuffled through the rain and drag themselves toward you.

These things were really desperate to kill you as if they had some personal vendetta towards you, huh.

You gripped the pipe tighter as you tried to quell the rising tide of anxiety curling in your gut.

Why are there so many…? Fuck, I don’t think I’ll die from them, I’ll probably die because of exhaustion…

You thought as air rushed through your lungs as you took a deep breath and exhaled,  adrenaline rushing through your veins once again.

“Why the fuck are there so many…?”

Incredulity and irritation dripped from your words as your eyebrows creased, your grip tightening around the pipe.

Then, you surged forward towards them and brought it down in a swift, brutal arc.

The impact shattered the thing’s skull with a sickening crunch, splintering bone, spraying bits of rotten flesh until it eventually dropped dead and you did the same to the others, again and again.

When the adrenaline haze diminished, you froze at the realization of what you had just done.

“…What the hell was that?”

You breathed out, pupils dilated, chest heaving and hands shaking.

You barely even thought about the action; your body simply knew what to do like it was just a second nature — as if it was deeply ingrained in your instincts.

But how could it be instinct when you didn’t even remember who you were?

Muscle memory perhaps?

You forced yourself to focus, to shove the panic aside because this is definitely not the time for an identity crisis—not when the undead were still walking and your life is in the line if you even dare to get distracted.

Your strength would slowly diminish soon and exhaustion will caught up to you, hence — you needed to move and you needed to think.

You turned around and walked around the place, scanning the streets for shelter, for a clue, for anything — until a searing pain shot through your body and brought your movements to a standstill.

Your teeth clamped down on your lip to muffle the scream of agony that threatened to slip free.

You glanced down in horror, [e/c] orbs shaking at the sight of your foot trapped in a viciously designed bear trap.

Its jagged metal teeth bit into your flesh, your blood spurting in thick, vivid droplets, painting the cracked earth in a deep, angry crimson.

You hit the ground hard, the pipe slipping from your hand while the rain splashed up around you as the searing pain intensified on your limb, radiating from your ankle, your calf, everywhere.

The pain was unbearable; it burned, as if your foot were being incinerated.

“Shit, shit, get off!”

A choked whimper left your throat as you scrambled for the trap, bloody fingers slipping against the slick metal.

You tried to pry it open, to wrench yourself free, but the more you moved, the deeper it clamped itself to your skin and to your bones.

“Goddamn it— let go—!” 

“Over here! There’s someone!”

Your head snapped up as silhouettes emerged from the darkness, moving through the rain, and only then, did relief crashed through you as you realized that you weren’t alone. 

Finally, another living human.

Dozens of other survivors filled your view, their voices were low, and urgent, their unusually cold hands grip your arms, your shoulders, your hair.

“We found another survivor!” One of them barked.

A sharp breath tore from your lungs as you gripped the metal, the rust flaking under your desperate fingers. “H-help— I need help.” 

“I.. got caught in this trap, I swear I wasn’t bitten or anything.” You explained shakily as you raised your hands and flexed your body to show that you weren’t bitten anywhere.

“Just help me out.. of this.. ngh, thing.” You winced.

A woman holding a skeletal hand clutching an eye shaped staff gasped as she stepped forward.

“He can speak! The Lord must be testing us!”

Uhm.. what the fuck?

Incredulity filled your senses, mingling with the panic and the pain that you were feeling. 

“The hell are you talking about?” You tried to brace yourself, to push upright, but a hot spear of pain lanced through your trapped limb, yanking you back down with a guttural hiss.

An exhausted groan left your lips. “Just—help me out of this thing.. please? I’m clean”

Yet your pleas for help were ignored.

“His face…” A man murmured, dark eyes scanning your figure as if you’re some abomination. “Does he not look like one of them? Goodness me, Zyvarin’eth young man…”

“Wha…?” Confusion clouded your gaze. What were these people talking about? “I don’t know who Zyva-whatever is, okay? I’m not one of them. Just get me out—”

Your voice was sharp now, panic creeping in as your teeth clenched. “I’m just some guy who stepped into a goddamn bear trap—”

“Just—”

A rough hand suddenly seized your chin,  wrenching your head upward.

The sudden movement sent a fresh jolt of pain on your body, but you barely had time to register it before you found yourself staring into dark, yet fever-bright eyes.

“Look at him.”

He was tall, draped in damp, tattered robes, the fabric clinging to his skeletal frame.

His hollowed-out cheeks and sunken eyes gave him the look of someone who had long since forgotten what rest felt like.

He has some wrinkles in his skin, draped around his neck was some huge red beads on his wrists that made him look like a buddhist monk.

His chappy lips parted, then pressed together again, as if swallowing words he wasn’t sure he should speak.

“It’s him! He’s one of the delinquents that ran away on the day of purification!”

What delinquent? Their words confused you; do they know you? If so— then why don’t they help you instead of looking and speaking like lunatics that ran away from a mental hospital?

The words sent a ripple of confusion through the gathered figures.

Some stepped forward, their breath hitching as they muttered prayers under their breath, fingers twitching in the shape of some unknown sigil.

Others recoiled, gripping weapons—knives, rusted blades, makeshift clubs— and guns as if you carried a sickness that could seep into their flesh.

Dread and anxiety drenches the flame of the agony while a knot grew in your throat as the man’s bony fingers dug deeper into your flesh.

“Who—” Your voice came out as a rasp, pupils shaking in disquietude. “Who the hell—?” 

“The trap,” someone had murmured. “It’s a sign that he cannot accept the Lord’s wrath.”

“A test,” 

“The Lord brought him back.”

“Should we anoint him?”

“He should suffer for his sins.”

The words churned together, overlapping in eerie reverence, making your chest tighten, a sinking, clawing dread digging into your gut.

These people.. looked like deranged psychopaths .

Were you about to meet your doom? 

You weren’t  sure about what their words meant, yet you knew that these people aren’t exactly quite normal, hence it made you perturbed even more.

“No.“

A woman suddenly stepped forward, her dark hood casting a shadow over sharp, gaunt features as rain dripped from the frayed edges of her cloak.

“He was delivered to us,” she murmured. “His suffering is the Lord’s will—he must endure it.”

“Or he should just burn for escaping the purification rite.” a voice hissed.

The word burn slammed into your skull and  your thoughts scrambled, grasping at anything, any explanation that made sense of this.

What the fuck kind of nightmare was this?

A pulse of irritation sliced through the fog of bewilderment in your mind, prompting you to speak.

“The fuck— ‘Scuse me—”

The fingers gripping your chin tightened, nails biting deeper into flesh, halting the words on your tongue.

The free hand of the man holding you clutched something hard against his chest—a book, bound in worn, cracked leather.

“Everybody, this is the man who escaped the purification rite and one of the reasons why the Lord has punished people!” His voice cracked with wild certainty, eyes gleaming fever-bright. “Vaelix!”

What the fuck was he talking about?

Befuddled, you gawked at the man, trying to make sense of his words.

Did he just call you… Vaelix? The name rattled through your skull, hollow and foreign.

Who the fuck is Vaelix?

For inexplicable  reasons, the name that they claimed to be your name meant nothing to you — as if you had only heard of it the first time.

Your confusion must have been plain on your face because his grip only hardened, shaking you slightly.

“That… that’s not my name. You’ve got the wrong person.” you rasped, shaking your head while man’s smile widened, grotesque in its intensity.

“No, no, you are Vaelix.” His voice was steady, and resolute, completely convinced.

“You are a delinquent cast into the church for redemption. A heretic; a sinner, a filthy creature. I know your face—I have seen you before. You were sent here for atonement, for purification until you escaped and the purging had began.”

He spoke as if reciting scripture, his tone drenched in righteous conviction.

“HUH?!” Your eyes bulged, a mixture of shock and frustration boiling over as you felt both bewilderment and ire war within you.

Even if your mind was devoid of memories, yet a gut  feeling told you that never in your life had you met this crazy man.

So.. what is up with these people?

Had you not been suffering from the searing pain on your ankle, then you would’ve think that you are in a comedy horror shit or something.

Gritting your teeth, you mustered the courage to speak, yet your the words came out of your mouth as an exclamation.

“What the hell are you even talking about, man?!” Your arms trembled from strain, the pain in your ankle pulsing with every movement.

“I—I just asked for help! Why am I suddenly the villain?!”

The air thickened with hostility as the crowd sent you viscious glares, murmuring insults and fueling the trepidation that you were feeling even more.

“He is Filth?” someone spat.

“A traitor to the Lord.”

“Sinners do not return,” a gruff voice muttered.

A woman hesitated, her voice barely audible over the murmurs. “Then why is he here?”

Her question was swiftly trampled by the growing frenzy. “He’s not supposed to be!”

These people are definitely cultists, you noted as their words grew louder.

“He should suffer for what he’s done!”

“He should be cleansed!”

“Burn him.”

“Burn him! Let the flames purify him!”

Their words buzzed louder as they argued over what to do to you until you finally snapped.

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

The command cracked through the air like a whip, silencing the group in an instant.

Breathless, pulse hammering, you wrenched your face from the man’s grip, your teeth bared in a viscious snarl.

“If you’re not going to help me—then fuck it, leave me alone! But stop talking like I’m some kid overhearing adults gossip at the damn dinner table! I can hear you, you lunatics!”

“And for your information, I don’t know what the hell you are talking about!” you blurted, the words tearing through your constricted throat as your heart pounded erratically against your ribs.

“I’m not—whoever the fuck you think I am! I don’t even remember how I got here!”

“Liar, that is blasphemy!”

“Look at him!” A woman steps closer, closing the distance between the two of you, and you raised your fists in a warning.

The woman recoiled at the sight of your defiance, as if it was the most disgusting thing that she had ever witnessed in her life.

“He dares to interrupts us — that’s a doing of a devil! He doesn’t even remember his own sins!” She barked.

“It was wiped from him,” someone agrees.

“The Lord took his memories.”

“You’re all a bunch of fucking hypocrites!” You spat, voice raw with fury.

They recoiled as if struck, eyes widening, lips curling in disgust as the rain beat down harder, mixing with the blood seeping from your leg.

Your whole body throbbed in pain, but the adrenaline and the sheer disbelief, kept you upright.

“You talk about sins, about redemption, about some ‘holy purpose’ like you actually know what the fuck it means! You just want an excuse to kill someone, don’t you?!”

“Blasphemy!” a woman gasped, gripping her skeletal hand clutching an eye shaped staff as if it would protect her from your words.

A man stepped forward, fists clenched, veins bulging in his neck. “You dare speak such filth?! You, a marked sinner—”

A bewildered laugh bubbled from your throat.

“A what?! I don’t even know who the hell I am! I don’t remember any of this, don’t remember you—and yet you stand there, pointing fingers like you’re some holy fucking judges?!”

Murmurs rippled through the group; some looked uncertain, shifting where they stood.

Others, though—others gripped their weapons like they were itching to use them on you, which made you grab the pipe from the ground.

You weren’t really going to go down without a fight — if you were going to die, then you’ll definitely take someone else on the grave with you.

“You are Vaelix,” the robed man said again, his voice calm, earning a snort from you.

“You were cast into the church for your sins. The Lord saw fit to return you.”

“I’m not whoever the fuck you think I am.” You rasped out, eyes burning with irritation as you tightened the grip on the pipe.

“And even if I was, what the hell gives you the right to decide who deserves to live?” You questioned, head tipping to the side as you stared at them intensely.

“The Lord’s will—”

“Oh, fuck off with that!” Your voice was a snarl now as you pointed a finger at them, making them flinch.

“If your god is so righteous, then why the hell are you the ones playing executioner? If I’m a sinner, then what the hell do you call the people who murder in his name, huh?”

It was a challenge, and you knew it — but you were past caring at this point. You’re already exhausted, and raging — so you really don’t give a fuck about what’s going on their twisted little minds.

A viscious snarl suddenly tore from the crowd. “Fuck you! You filthy bastard! How dare you question and insult our goddamn god?!”

“Hahhh? Fuck you too!” You raised your middle finger, and a man suddenly lunged.

It was a bald man, broad-shouldered and thick-necked, his face twisted with fury.

His teeth was bared, a spray of spittle launching from his lips disgustingly enough as he charged, as if his sheer rage could shatter your very bones.

Shit, shit, shit. You winced in disgust as the spit hit you, but you steeled yourself nonetheless.

But then— a hand suddenly shot out, clamping onto the man’s collar, and with a brutal yank, he was pulled back, his feet skidding in the mud.

“No.”

The bald man halted mid-motion, his ferocity flickering, uncertainty flooding the whites of his eyes. “B-But he—”

“You cursed.” The voice was low and cold as the robed man stood motionless.

The bald man stiffened. “I—I was angry! He provoked me—”

“You let a sinner’s words taint your soul?” The robed man and the other figures began to advance and the bald man tried to shake his head desperately. “No—no, I didn’t mean—”

The bald man’s throat bobbed. “No—no, I didn’t mean—”

“You let rage control you?”

“You used the lord’s name as a curse word.”

The bald man’s expression cracked, his bravado crumbling. “Wait—!” He thrashed, eyes darting wildly between the faces around him.

“WAIT! I—!” He turned to you suddenly, desperation clawing into his voice. “He cursed too! Why am I the only one—”

“I say that we commence a Zyval’korr for this blasphemous man.” The robed man declared.

Murmurs of agreement echoed in the air as the group moved like a single entity, guided by invisible strings, shifting in perfect, unnatural synchronization.

Something in your gut twisted violently as you saw them raise their weapon.

They were going to kill him.

They were really going to fucking kill him.

Your breath caught in your throat, your heart hammering so fast it made you nauseous. 

You wanted to look away and run, because you knew that you were probably going to be next — but instead, you just sat there pathetically, frozen in fear.

The bald man thrashed harder. “No—no, please, I—!”

CRACK.

The first hit came fast, and the sound was sickening. The impact sent him sprawling forward, his head snapping to the side, blood spraying onto the wet ground.

A choked noise slipped from his throat, and then the second blow came; this one didn’t just knock him down — it drove him into the mud.

The staff cracked against his skull with the force of a hammer, and a sick, wet thunk echoed into the air, followed by the dull squelch of flesh splitting open.

They relentlessly continued and each swing drove him further into the dirt, into the sludge, until he was nothing more than a mangled, blood-soaked wreck.

You felt a wave of nausea crash over you, your stomach twisting in agony, as bile scorched its way up your throat, threatening to spill over.

What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck. Your breathing grew more faster as your whole body started to shake at the thought of being killed that way.

They looked quite giddy and doing it too, and god, did that creeped you out.

You’ve killed before—you had to, for your survival—but not like this.

Not with such glee.

The man’s body convulsed violently, fingers clawing helplessly at the slick pavement, lips shaping desperate, soundless prayers.

But then, another brutal strike from their weapons descended, and it extinguished his last breath.

The group then retreated, gasping for air, their weapons slick with blood that mingled with the relentless rain, while you just sat there frozen, eyes wide with horror, your chest heaving as you struggled to comprehend the brutality before you.

“What,” you rasped shakily, voice barely above a whisper.

“What the fuck did you just do?”

The robed man turned to you, completely calm. “He sinned.”

Your breath shuddered out of you. “He—he just—he just said fuck—”

“And in doing so, he defied the Lord.” The man tilted his head. “Would you have preferred we let corruption fester?”

A hand grabbed your hair, yanking your head back, and then, a fist slammed into your temple and your vision went black.

[ 宗教精神病; 𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐏𝐒𝐘𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐒 ]

Warmth was the first thing you noticed when consciousness wrapped itself around you.

Something wet and clammy trickled down your chest and arms, meandering over the landscape of fresh bruises and the jagged canyon that split across your thigh.

“Ack— what—”

A wince crossed your features, your skin prickling with an intense sensitivity, each droplet of water that was being wiped on your skin igniting a searing sensation akin to salt being rubbed on a wound.

Oh, someone was treating your wounds.

“Gentler…” You grit out.

The rough fabric scraped against your skin methodically, it dragged across your collarbone, traced your ribs, and swept over the dip of your stomach, meticulously removing the dirt and dried blood with surgical precision.

“You shouldn’t be awake yet.”

Your eyes snapped open, confusion churning in your gut.

“…What.. where am I?”

You murmured as you took note of the place — the ceiling was all stone, cracked, and lined with moss as it crawled through fracture lines like desperate green veins.

Wooden beams—waterlogged and warped stretched overhead — like some of the houses in the medieval era.

You gaze dropped lower and you saw a woman who was kneeling beside you, sleeves rolled to her elbows.

Her hands move with practiced precision, the blood-stained cloth dipping rhythmically into a water basin where pink-tinged water ripples with each careful stroke.

Where the fuck am I and why the hell am I half-naked?

Panic surged through you, but your body was heavy, unwilling to move just yet.

Your head pounded in time with your pulse, and then the dull ache in your leg—oh. Right. The bear trap.

You stepped into a freaking bear trap.

Your gaze dropped down, chapped lips parting to speak, but before you could utter a word, her sharp eyes met yours and you froze.

Her cheeks were so hollowed — not the attractive type — but rather, the malnourished kind of type hollowed cheeks.

She looked exhausted like someone who hadn’t known rest in years and had stopped expecting it altogether.

Yet, her expression was unreadable and she tilted her head curiously. “You’re looking at me like you think I’ll slit your throat.”

A slow, deliberate swallow scraped down your dry throat, but the stiffness in your neck and the churning feeling of dread in your gut didn’t ease.

“Should I be worried about that?”

Her lips quirked into an amused smile. “Depends on how much you struggle.”

Your muscles coiled but before you could so much as shift, her hand pressed firmly against your shoulder, shoving you back down.

“Don’t,” she warned, voice firm. “You’ll tear your stitches.”

You stiffened, every muscle locking instinctively as you let your head drop. “Then at least be a little gentler,” You pointed a finger towards the bandages.

“These are too tight, it’s like you want to cut my blood circulation off”

You pointed at the bandage on your ribs, then down to your waist.

Your breathing was compressed , making the pain beneath them feel distant and dull, but still there, while another set wound around your leg—neatly secured, pristine white, despite the agony that still throbbed beneath.

“It’s to dull the pain, you foolish boy.” She chided, and you huffed softly. “Right..” you mumbled before licking your lips and looking at her and asked the obvious.

“…You patched me up?”

She huffed softly, something like irritation flickering in her expression. “I’d rather not waste good cloth.” she admitted. “But they ordered me to.”

“Huh? who— oh.. they.”

They didn’t kill you then?

You did not know whether you should be glad that you were spared, or feel horrible about the fact that you just got taken in by a literal cult.

“The people outside…” you murmured, voice rough. “The ones who—”

Your stomach lurched as you remembered the sight of a man, screaming as people beat him to death — and the weight of hands dragging you down.

A tremor ran through your fingers before you clenched them into the sheets, trying to anchor yourself.

The woman must’ve seen the shift in your expression, the way your breath caught, because she let out a sharp sigh and dropped the cloth back into the basin with a soft splash.

Her voice was quieter when she spoke again. “They were going to let you leave there to die” she admitted. “But then the High Priest changed his mind.”

Your head jerked slightly as you forced yourself to focus.

“The High Priest?” You questioned. “The guy in the robe?”

She nodded. “He believes you’re Vaelix.”

That fucking name again.

Who the hell is Vaelix and why do they kept calling you that?

“And what do you believe?” you asked carefully, eyes narrowing.

She simply watched you, eyes dark and unreadable, before shifting slightly, rolling her shoulders as she wringed the clothes out between her hands.

“I believe,” she spoke slowly, “that if you were Vaelix, you wouldn’t be so confused right now.”

“But,” she added, wringing out the cloth between her hands again, “that doesn’t matter here; what they believe is more important — what they believe, i must believe it too.”

“Like a domino, huh…” You pursed your lips.

“What do they believe?”

“That you are one of the delinquents who escaped the purification rite.”

Delinquent, huh.

Perhaps that’s the reason why your hands are so calloused and all — and that your body seemed to be so used at fighting.

“They also believe that the Lord chose to wipe your memory and give you another chance.”

Ah, so they gave you a second chance because it would be convenient then; because you were a  clean slate, and they probably expected that it would be easy to turn you into whatever they want because you don’t have any memories.

“What is the purification rite though?” You asked in confusion.

“It’ a ceremony for those deemed impure, sinners, mostly.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Hm? that’s not an explanation. What do you do to them?”

“Why of course, we burn them; we let the fire purify them and cleanse the impurity out of them so that their soul could be reborn as something more pure and deserving of the Lord’s grace.”

Those words made unease ripple through you. If that is the case — that means that they attempted to immolate you in the past; they said that you escaped after all.

Who the hell wouldn’t? 

“I see..” you murmured, trying to decipher her tone if there was a hint of satire, remorse, or even fear, but you found none.

But still, she didn’t sound like the others—those fanatics who threw around words like ’sin’ and ’redemption’ like they were weapons.

Still, you weren’t sure if that made her an ally or just another piece of whatever twisted game was happening here.

She shifted again before you could push further, reaching for something behind her.

Your muscles tensed, but she didn’t grab a weapon. Instead, her fingers closed around a wooden bowl, pulling it into view — and you saw that there was a thick, dark paste inside.

You stared at it, suspicion creeping in.

The fuck is that? You wondered internally.

“Lie still,” she murmured, dipping her fingers into the mixture. “This will help with the pain.”

“And if I don’t want it?”

“Then I’ll pour it down your throat instead.”

…Great.

Your jaw tightened, but you knew you didn’t have much of a choice.

Your body wasn’t ready to fight yet. 

At least not like this; not when every attempt at movement sent pain lancing through your limbs.

So, for now—

For now, you’d play along.

Your head fell back against the pillow, exhaustion pressing against your skull like a vice.

You let out a slow breath, jaw clenched, forcing yourself to stop resisting.

But the second you got your strength back…

You were definitely getting the hell out of here.

Because who knows? They will probably attempt to incinerate you again.

[ 宗教精神病; 𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐏𝐒𝐘𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐒 ]

A subtle and earthy aroma like roasted grains and something vaguely sweet assaulted your senses.

Your body felt heavy, your limbs stiff as you stirred against the coarse fabric beneath you, and gor a long moment, you lay still, just listening to the sounds of the faint crackling of fire.

You noticed that the pain in your leg was duller now; only a lingering throb rather than the searing agony from before.

Your eyes then flickered open, and you saw that the room around you was small and dimly lit,  the flickering candlelight casting shapes against the crude symbols carved into the stone symbols you didn’t recognize.

A thick, tattered and course blanket had been draped over you, and beside you, a simple wooden tray rested on the ground; on it sat a bowl of porridge, steam curling lazily from its surface.

Across the room, a woman sat on a rocking chair, watching you with keen eyes.

She was the same one that treated your wounds from before.

The skeletal hand clutching an eye was carved into the metal of the staff she rested against her knee, its hollow gaze locked onto you even in stillness — but something about it really creeped you out, but before you could dwell on that thought further, she spoke.

“You’re awake,” she murmured. “Good.“

You swallowed against the dryness in your throat, forcing your voice to work. “So.. are you finally going to tell me where the fuck am I now?”

The woman pinched her nose, as if she’d expected the crudeness. “You are in one of our sanctuaries.”

“Eat.”

Your fingers twitched toward the tray beside you; you didn’t  really trust them, because who knows? It might be pousobed; but the hunger gnawing at you  didn’t care about suspicions.

You hesitated only a second before gripping the bowl, dipping the spoon in, and bringing it to your lips.

The texture was thick, grainy against your tongue, the flavor bland but warm.

The woman watched, her expression unreadable, but she nodded slightly in approval. “Your strength will return soon.”

You swallowed another spoonful, eyes sharp on her. “Is that why you’re keeping me alive? Want me strong before you throw me back to the undead?”

Your entire body was coiled with a rigid tension, muscles screaming in protest tilted her head slightly. “The Lord’s trials are not so crude.”

You scowled. “Yeah? ’Cause beating a guy to death for swearing seemed pretty damn crude to me.”

Both irritation and amusement simultaneously flickered in her face. “You’re lucky that they’re not here, otherwise, you would’ve been dead because you cursed.”

A frisson of dread crawled up your spine, but you tried to not look affected and glared at her.

“Why not snitch on me then?” You questioned, watching her shrug her shoulders indifferently.

She  then reached beside her, lifting a thick, leather-bound book onto her lap.

Its cover was embossed with a familiar image—the skeletal hand grasping an unblinking eye — the same one that she had on her stick or whatsoever.

“The Codex of Yzrivis,” she inrroduced, running her fingers over the cover reverently. “The sacred scripture of the Lord Yzrivis, He Who Watches.”

Yzrivis.

That name stirred nothing in you — and you raised an eyebrow.

Yzrivis…? Is that their cult leader who brainwashed them or something?

She opened the book, flipping through aged pages covered in tight, inked script; some passages were underlined, others annotated with precise markings.

“Our faith is not cruel,” she stated, her voice measured. “It is just.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms to your chest. “Just? You people were about to set me on fire. Do you not care about the fact that you were killing your fellow humans in the name of fate?” You questioned. 

“I do not.” She replied coldly, making your eye twitch, irritation flaring within you once again.

“Does it have to happen to you, your family, your friends, and the people you care about for you to take it personal?” 

She paused mid-turn of a page, her fingers resting lightly against the parchment like your words had grazed something beneath the surface.

“You were returned to us. That alone proves the Lord’s will is at work.”

“That’s not my question, is it?” Your jaw tightened as you glared at her. “Besides.. I don’t even know who the hell I am.”

The woman studied you for a moment, then turned the book toward you, tapping a passage written in bold, heavy ink.

“The sinner, stripped of memory, shall return. Marked by death, yet not claimed by it. The Lord’s gaze shall fall upon him, and his path shall be decided by faith or by fire.”

A chill ran through you… That passage sounded like it was personally meant for you somehow. Your fingers curled into fists. “This is bullshit.”

“The Lord Yzrivis does not lie.”

You exhaled sharply, trying to still your fraying nerves as you raked a hand through your hair in exasperation.

“And this Lord of yours,” you muttered, eyeing the symbol on the book, “why does he need an eyeball in a skeleton hand?”

For the first time, the woman smiled. “The hand represents judgment,” she smiled eerily. “The eye is knowledge. Yzrivis watches all, sees all, and his hand delivers justice.”

“Now rest. You will read after you have regained your strength.” She turned, leaving you alone with the firelight and the book.

Your eyes flicked back to the passage, mouth contorted into a scowl, cold beads of sweat forming in your brow. “The sinner, stripped of memory, shall return, huh…”

You clenched your hands in your lap, the fabric of your clothes bunching between shaking fingers.

What the fuck have i just gotten yourself into? You wondered as you looked at the book; the woman had left you alone with it, expecting you to read.

So you did.

At first, it seemed like any other religious text.

The pages were old, thick with the scent of ink and dust, the parchment brittle beneath your fingertips.

The words were etched in deep black strokes, stark against the yellowed paper, recounting hymns, parables, and divine decrees—the kind you’d seen in holy books before.

At first, nothing about it stood out.

But the deeper you read, the stranger it became.

“Trust in Yzrivis alone, for He sees all that you cannot. If you doubt, you are blind. If you question, you are lost.”

Most religious texts preached faith, but this… This demanded it.

It’s not about trust nor devotion — instead, it’s about  obligation.

Doubt was not merely discouraged—it was blindness, a sickness, and a flaw to be corrected.

You had read scripture before—countless variations, from gentle parables to harsh commandments—but faith, in those, was a choice.

Here, it was a cage.

“A servant’s will is weak. Only through submission to the Hand may you walk the path of truth.”

Where other religions spoke of free will, of moral choices, of a path walked with uncertainty and hope, this text offered no such freedom.

It didn’t ask for understanding, it didn’t encourage learning; It demanded absolute surrender.

You thought of other scriptures you had read—some called for obedience, but even then, there was room for questions.

To other religions, their prophets doubted, their disciples faltered and even saints wrestled with belief.

But here, to question was to be lost, and to resist was to be broken.

“Those who stray shall be tested. Those who resist shall be unmade.”

You stopped reading as a slow chill crawled up your spine. Unmade? Not punished? Not corrected? Erased?

Is that why they killed that man back then? Because it’s a rule in here?

You had seen faith wielded as a weapon before; entire histories were drenched in blood spilled in the name of gods, in holy wars fought over lines in a book.

But this wasn’t war nor conquest; it seemed to be more like purging.

Faith, in this text, was not a path — It was a collar, a chain, and a shackle disguised as salvation.

It reminded you of those cults that worships a devil to be honest, but this… is kind of more extreme than them.

Your eyes flicked across the pages again, tracing the patterns of the words, piecing together their weight.

There were no talk of compassion, and there was no room for missteps; here was only obedience, only punishment, and only judgment, and god, did it make your stomach churn.

You flipped through more pages, looking for stories—parables, accounts of past events for something that would make this seem less like a thinly veiled threat.

But unfortunately, you found more of the same.

A story about a man who questioned the teachings of Yzrivis and was struck blind.

Another about a woman who tried to leave and was “purified” in the flames.

A tale of a child who had spoken against the Hand and had been “reborn” through suffering.

However, you noticed something — Reborn — because that word came up a lot.

Sometimes it meant death, but other times, it implied something worse. You turned another page and nearly dropped the book.

Scrawled in the margins, in shaky, desperate handwriting, was something that hadn’t been printed in the original text.

“It’s a lie. Don’t let them take your eyes.”

Your stomach lurched as you stared at the words, fingers ghosting over the ink.

Whoever had written this had probably done it in secret, and the script was uneven, hurried, as if they’d been afraid of getting caught.

Which to be honest, was kind of expectable because of how crazy this cult is.

Take your eyes? What the hell did that mean?

The ambiguity of it confused you, and you tried to find other writings, but the only one you got was that cryptic message.

You had been reading for what felt like hours now, sifting through the doctrine of a god you had never known, and the deeper you delved, the heavier your chest became.

Then— the door creaked open, and your head snapped up and saw the woman standing in the doorway, watching you.

It was the same woman from before — the one who had stitched you back together.

The dim light made her look almost spectral—gaunt, sharp-eyed, wrapped in dark robes that blended into the gloom as she took a step forward.

“You’re reading.” Her voice was quiet and even, as if she was pleased by the sight of you reading their so called sacred text.

You lifted the book slightly, tilting it toward her. “Your holy text.”

She inclined her head, a smile curved on her lips. “Yes.”

“What have you learned?”

You let the book fall shut in your lap, fingers still gripping the worn edges of the cover.

“That your god doesn’t tolerate doubt,” you replied, feeling a lump form in your throat.

She sighed dreamily and placed a hand on her chest. “Doubt is a disease,” she began. “It weakens the spirit.”

I take it back, she sounds exactly like them.

You thought as you ran your tongue over your teeth, debating your words as you pressed the pads of your finger in your forehead.

“Most faiths allow doubt, some even encourage it.”

“And where are they now?” she asked, tilting her head. “Scattered? Divided? Faith splintered by mortal weakness?” She pressed on, a shadow washing over her features, darkening them in an instance.

You exhaled slowly, barely restraining a grimace as indignation flared in your chest, because what the fuck is that perspective? “

“You don’t believe doubt makes faith stronger?”

“I believe doubt leads to decay.” She stepped closer, her gaze narrowed slightly, lips pressed tightly together in disapproval.

“Yzrivis is not a god of uncertainty. He sees all, judges all. To question Him is to claim you know better than the one who sees all things.”

“Then what of free will?”

You replied, pressing your lips into a tight line to restrain the irritation simmering just beneath the surface.

She looked almost amused. “Free will?”

“Yes.” You straightened slightly, ignoring the ache in your limbs. “If your god sees all, if he knows all outcomes, then why grant choice at all? Why not make his followers inherently loyal?”

“Because choice reveals the truth of a person.”

She told you as she reached out, fingers barely grazing the cover of the book in your lap.

“That,” she murmured, placing a hand on your shoulder. “is why you’re here now.”

“Hm… you’re saying i was given a choice.” You noted, trying not to flinch at her cold hands.

“You were given an opportunity.”

Your fingers curled against the book’s spine as you questioned tonelessly, brows knitting together. “An opportunity for what?”

“To see,” she spoke simply, folding her arms.

“There is little point in prolonging this conversation,”

“You are recovering. You are being fed, you are being given the knowledge you need.” She gestured toward the book.

“But you must decide what to do with it.”

You could already feel the direction this was heading and she confirmed it with her next words.

“You will convert,“ she began cryptically. “Or you will die.”

The words were said without malice, without threat — simply a statement of fact.

Your fingers curled tightly into tense fists, jaw locking slightly, brows drawing together as her words began to seep in. “And if I refuse?” At length, a deep exhalation escaped your tightening chest.

“Then Yzrivis has no use for you.”

𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐏𝐒𝐘𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐒 𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐃𝐄 ! !

Transmigration

—In this world, transmigration refers to the belief that souls do not simply die but are reborn into new forms, guided by the will of Yzrivis. The faithful believe that the worthy are granted rebirth within the settlement, while the sinful are cast out—either to wander as the undead or to suffer in a realm beyond human comprehension. However, there are whispers that some souls are placed into new bodies with no recollection of their past, as if something or someone has intentionally erased their memories and reshaped their existence — which is what exactly happened to the reader.

The Codex of Yzrivis

—The book preaches absolute obedience, stating that faith and servitude to Yzrivis bring divine protection. However, as the reader reads deeper, he noticed the contradictions—manipulative wording that forces unquestioning devotion. The text rewrites history, subtly discourages independent thought, and enforces punishment for those who doubt.

The Zombie Apocalypse: “The Great Purge”

—The settlement refers to the zombie apocalypse as The Great Purge, a divine event sent by Yzrivis to rid the world of the unworthy. They believe that the undead are sinners who refused to repent, cursed to walk the earth in torment. According to their teachings, the only way to prevent the spread of sin is through purification—burning the corpses or executing the infected before they turn. Yet, there are inconsistencies in their stories. Some claim the Purge was sudden and unstoppable, while others speak of a slow decay of civilization. The undead themselves are strange—some move mindlessly, but others seem to hesitate, watching, almost as if something is still alive within them.

The Religion of Yzrivis: The Faith of Xelvarith

—The dominant religion in the settlement is known as The Faith of Xelvarith. It is a theocratic belief system centered around the worship of Yzrivis, an all-seeing, all-knowing god of judgment, rebirth, and fate. His followers believe that he alone determines who is worthy of life and who must be condemned to an endless suffering. The deity’s name is pronounced as Ee-zreveez

Zyval’korr

—A brutal form of execution where a sinner is beaten to death with iron rods, staffs, clubs, or stones.
This punishment is reserved for traitors, heretics, and those who commit grave blasphemy. The faithful gather to witness and participate, believing that with each strike, Yzrivis’ judgment is being carried out. It is said that the longer the sinner survives, the greater their sin, as Yzrivis refuses to grant them a quick death. Their body is then left out in the open to be consumed by the undead as further punishment.

Zyvarin’eth

—This phrase is commonly used as a blessing or parting phrase among the faithful of Xelvarith. It carries the meaning of “May Yzrivis forgive you” or “May Yzrivis watch over you.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 !! 

𝐈.  𝐈 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 //  Death Cab for Cutie
𝐈𝐈. 𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐘𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃 // Jutes 
𝐈𝐈𝐈. 𝐒𝐀𝐂𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐄 // Jazmin Bean
𝐈𝐕. 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐌𝐄 // Baby Bugs
𝐕. 𝐗𝐏𝐔𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐒 𝐀 𝐋𝐀𝐌𝐁 // Baby Bugs
𝐕𝐈. 𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐒 // Banshee
𝐕𝐈𝐈. 𝐁𝐎𝐃𝐘 // Mother Mother
𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈. 𝐃𝐎𝐔𝐁𝐓 // Twenty One Pilots
𝐈𝐗. 𝐖𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐒 // The Neighborhood
𝐗. 𝐂𝐇𝐔𝐑𝐂𝐇 // Chase Atlantic
𝐗𝐈. 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇 // The Neighborhood 
𝐗𝐈𝐈. 𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐑 // Nine Inch Nails
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
The reader will just be called “Vaelix” because that’s what the name the cult has given to him — and he have yet to regain his memories
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

a/n: For those interested in updates or sneak peeks or theory shit abt this book, then feel free to join my discord server—the link is on my profile.